#and then the rest of the quilt is lit up

[phierecycled]

earlier this week i made a post about how hartford stage’s 1991 production of falsettos ended with whizzer on the aids memorial quilt. i’ve actually managed to find the clip of the scene itself and it’s beautiful

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; könig guides you to a hidden safehouse at the city’s edge, its modest facade masking your preparations for a dangerous encounter. shadows flicker as a familiar presence reaches you through a dream.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

König guided the car through a maze of city streets, passing faded storefronts and quiet intersections lit by buzzing neon. The coven owned many properties, and this one was tucked discreetly into an old neighborhood at the city’s edge. It wasn’t grand or imposing, just a modest apartment on the third floor of a building that looked unremarkable from the outside—exactly what you wanted. This close to Makarov’s territory, subtlety mattered.

König parked in front of the building, and stepped out first, his imposing frame blending with the night as he moved around the car.

Coming to your side, he opened the door for you and extended a hand. You took it without hesitation, and he helped you down, his grip steady and firm. Sybil hopped out gracefully after you, her nose twitching as she took in the scents of the city. König lingered close, his presence a quiet reassurance as his sharp eyes flicked over the street, scanning for anything out of place.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his tone low but commanding.

You nodded, Sybil pressing at your side as König moved ahead, stepping up the worn wooden steps first. His boots creaked softly against the aged boards. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pushed the door open, the hinges groaning softly in protest. He then stepped inside, his broad shoulders filling the narrow entry as he swept the space with his gaze, checking each corner and shadow. Only after he was satisfied did he step aside, gesturing for you to follow.

The apartment was simple, almost impersonal: one main room with a tiny kitchenette, a single bed with a plain quilt, a threadbare sofa opposite a low table, and a small window overlooking the quiet street below. The muted hum of city life seeped through the glass, mingling with the faint scent of dust and varnish that lingered in the air.

Sybil padded inside, sniffing cautiously as she explored the room. You shrugged off your satchel and placed it on the table, glancing around. König closed the door behind him with a soft click and leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning the apartment one last time.

“Clear,” he said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the silence.

You exhaled softly, your shoulders relaxing. “Thanks,” you murmured, running a hand through Sybil’s fur as she settled at your feet.

“There’s only one bed,” König noted quietly, glancing from the mattress to the sofa. He approached the worn couch, pressing a hand down on its arm. “I’ll stay here. You should rest,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll review our preparations and keep watch.”

You considered protesting, but the drive, the planning, the tension—it all pressed down on you. “Alright,” you conceded, voice low. “Wake me if something happens.”

König nodded and began to unpack your equipment with a practiced, silent efficiency. He laid out your enchanted dagger first, positioning it so the blade caught the dim lamplight. Next came the vials of oils, small pouches of herbs, and folded notes scrawled with the plan’s details. It was all arranged methodically, as if every placement had significance.

Satisfied, König then reached into his own bag, retrieving weapons of a more terrestrial nature. He placed a serrated knife beside the dagger, its steel teeth gleaming wickedly. Next came a knuckle duster, all blunt force and brute promise. Finally, with a careful deliberation, he slid a compact handgun onto the table, its matte finish stark against the old wood.

You raised an eyebrow, knowing full well he possessed abilities that could outstrip most enemies. Still, he preferred to carry these conventional tools. In a world of spells and curses, sorcerers and shape-shifters, a bullet or a blade without enchantment could startle a magical adversary into making a fatal mistake. It was a strategy born of pragmatism—surprise them with something they’d never expect from one of their own.

König settled fully on the sofa, his posture alert yet calm. All was ready, and tomorrow’s darkness promised a decisive encounter. For now, silence and preparation would rule the night.

Sybil hopped onto the bed, settling at the foot. You slipped off your shoes, shrugging out of your outer layers until you were comfortable enough to rest. Stretching out on the bed, you pulled the thin sheet over yourself. Sybil sighed contentedly, and König remained by the sofa, quiet but vigilant. Outside, faint city noises ebbed and flowed: a distant siren, muffled laughter from a nearby bar, the gentle hum of traffic. You closed your eyes and let these sounds wash over you, soft reminders of the world you would soon step into, dagger in hand.

. . .

The dream was warm, a rare and fleeting comfort that wrapped around you like the mountain of blankets piled on top of you. You were nestled deep into the pack’s massive sofa, the one so big it seemed designed specifically for the broad-shouldered men who owned it.

Winter’s chill pressed faintly against the windows, but inside, the crackling fire and the snug cocoon of fabric Simon and Johnny had built around you kept it at bay. Every time they passed through the room, they’d toss another blanket over you, each heavier and softer than the last.

Your head rested on Gaz’s lap, his warmth a balm against the icy season. He wriggled you around a little, playfully shifting you in his lap as you giggled and burrowed deeper, the laughter bubbling up from a place you hadn’t visited in so long.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, his voice soft but teasing.

You smiled, tilting your head up slightly, only to freeze when you caught his expression. He looked… sad. Unusually so. His dark eyes, usually filled with an easy light, seemed shadowed with something heavy. It unsettled you, that look—so out of place in this cozy scene.

“Gaz?” you asked, your voice tinged with concern. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated, his thumb brushing your temple as though he were stalling for time. “Just... wanted to know how you’re doing,” he said, his tone forcedly casual. “How you’re really feeling.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “You’ve been sitting here with me for hours. You already know?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he glanced away for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, “but it’s not the same.”

A strange, creeping unease settled in your chest as you shifted slightly to face him better. “What do you mean?”

He held your gaze, his fingers stilling in your hair. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, the weight in his tone making your heart twist. “I don't want to upset you, but... where are you?”

The question made your blood run cold. A fissure cracked through the dream’s comforting warmth, and you sat up abruptly, the blankets tumbling off you. The cozy room around you flickered, the firelight dimming, and the edges of the world wavered like a mirage.

“Gaz,” you said, your voice trembling, “what’s going on?”

He stood, his form faintly transparent now, the realization hitting you like a blow. “You’re astral projecting,” you whispered, staring at him with wide eyes.

His expression softened with something like regret. “I had to,” he said, almost pleading. “We miss you—so much. I miss you. We just... we need to reach you. To end this.”

You staggered to your feet, the remnants of the blankets pooling around your ankles. “No,” you said, shaking your head, panic rising in your throat. “You’re not supposed to—”

Before you could finish, you were thrust back into reality, sitting up in your borrowed room, the faint light of morning seeping through the window.

Sybil was at your side instantly, her wet nose nudging your arm as if sensing your sudden distress. Across the room, König paused mid-motion, a rag in one hand and his serrated knife in the other. He’d been polishing his weapons under the dim light of the room’s single table lamp, but now his sharp eyes tracked your every movement.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, his voice low and measured, his accent softening the blunt edge of his words.

You shook your head as if trying to shake off the lingering haze of the dream, the phantom warmth of Gaz’s lap still heavy on your skin. “I’m fine,” you muttered, not meeting König’s gaze as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed.

He didn’t look convinced. His broad shoulders stiffened slightly, and his eyes darted toward Sybil, who was staring up at you with an expression that was almost accusatory. She nudged your arm again, her tail wagging faintly in concern.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, sharper this time, not bothering to mask the irritation that masked your confusion. You pushed off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cool floor with a muffled thud. “I’m going to take a shower.”

König’s head tilted slightly, his mask obscuring his expression, but you could feel the weight of his stare. He didn’t press, though, only grunted softly and returned to his work, his movements slower, more deliberate than before.

Sybil lingered, her gaze bouncing between you and König as though weighing her options. She let out a soft huff, then turned and padded to the sofa, her sharp eyes locking onto König like she was waiting for him to make sense of something she couldn’t.

König glanced at her as you disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the silence. He leaned back slightly, setting the knife and rag down as he regarded the Borzoi. “You know something’s wrong too, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice almost too quiet to be audible.

Sybil didn’t respond, of course, but her stare didn’t waver, and her tail flicked once, slow and deliberate. It was as if she were telling him yeah but you figure it out without saying a word.

König sighed, leaning forward to pick up the gun again, his large hands working methodically as he polished the metal. “She’s stubborn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Too stubborn for her own good.”

Sybil huffed softly, her ears flicking in agreement, before settling on her haunches to wait, the two of them locked in an unspoken truce as the sounds of water and the faint hum of morning traffic filtered through the room.

You swallowed hard, your chest still heaving slightly. “Yeah,” you muttered, running a shaky hand through your hair. “Just a dream.”

But as you leaned back against the headboard, your heart still racing, you couldn’t shake the image of Gaz’s sad, imploring eyes. His voice echoed in your mind, heavy with longing and regret.

We miss you. We need to reach you.

. . .

Gaz woke with a soft, shuddering breath, his head resting against the worn leather of the sofa. One hand lifted to his temple, rubbing at the faint ache that lingered behind his eyes. His breathing was steady, his lips slightly parted as though he was catching his bearings.

Ghost sat at the other end of the sofa, his imposing frame angled slightly toward Gaz, every shift in his posture calculated and deliberate. His arms rested loosely on his thighs, hands clasped together, but his sharp eyes tracked every subtle movement Gaz made as he came to. The tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease, though his mask kept his expression unreadable.

“Gaz?” Price’s voice cut softly through the silence from where he stood nearby, but Ghost didn’t take his eyes off the young wizard, watching as he rubbed at his temples and blinked against the dim light of the room.

When Gaz finally murmured, “Yeah, I’m alright,” Ghost didn’t relax. His attention remained fixed, his body coiled like a spring, ready to act should something go amiss.

“You found her?” Price asked, stepping closer, his tone even but laced with quiet urgency.

Ghost’s gaze flicked briefly to Price before returning to Gaz, monitoring every breath, every flicker of emotion on his face. It was as though he was searching for signs of strain, for anything that might indicate the younger man had pushed too far.

Gaz sat up, still pale but steadier now. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I found her.”

Price’s brows knitted slightly, and Ghost straightened, his full attention snapping to Gaz. “And?” Price pressed, his tone measured but insistent. “What did you see?”

Gaz sat up a little straighter, his fingers massaging his temple as he spoke. “It was her, definitely her. I felt...a city. Sybil was there too, no doubt about it.”

Ghost’s gaze sharpened, but he remained silent.

“There was someone else,” Gaz continued, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “A man. I didn’t see much, but his presence... it felt familiar. Not human, but—” He paused, searching for the words. “I couldn’t place him exactly, but I know I’ve felt it before.”

Price’s jaw tightened, his mind already churning through possibilities. He straightened, his arms crossing again as he glanced toward Ghost. “What’s our angle now?” he asked, his tone sharp but even.

Ghost pushed off the sofa, stepping closer to the table where Leah’s notes and Laswell’s reports were spread out. “Two cities,” he said, his voice calm and deliberate. “The one Leah’s from, and another just outside it. Both fit the details we’ve got.”

Price nodded, his gaze narrowing on the documents as he processed the options. “We’ll focus on narrowing that down. Cross-reference everything—we’re not moving without something solid.”

Gaz stayed silent for a moment, his head tilted slightly as though listening to something only he could hear. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his trousers, and when he finally spoke, his voice was distant, tinged with a soft wistfulness. “She was right there,” he murmured. “I could hear her, feel her... even just for a moment.”

Ghost glanced at him, his mask hiding his expression, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. “Was she…okay?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Gaz shook his head slowly. “No. She was... guarded. But I think she’s alright. At least, physically.”

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. “That man you mentioned—do you think he’s a threat?”

Gaz hesitated, his brows furrowing. “I don’t know. Maybe. But he didn’t feel hostile—just... familiar.” He rubbed at his temple again, his shoulders slumping slightly. “She ended the connection before I could make sense of it.”

The room settled into a tense silence, the weight of your absence hanging heavy in the air. Price turned his attention back to the notes, his movements deliberate as he began sifting through them again.

Gaz leaned back against the couch, his eyes slipping closed for a moment. Despite the headache lingering from his projection, there was a faint sense of peace in his demeanor. He’d found you, even if only for a fleeting moment. It wasn’t enough, not by far—but it was something.

banner credit

[villainbait]

Collective Warmth

Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: T | Teen Tags: fluff, kissing, whimsy, flirting, playful sylus, playful mc, date, picnic, yearning if you squint Summary: It's been weeks and finally you and Sylus are able to steal a moment for an afternoon rendezvous. Word Count: 550~

The two of you had made plans to have a small rendezvous in the park. It had been weeks since you had laid eyes on Sylus, work keeping you busy as usual and Sylus was off doing whatever it is he wanted. When you spotted him already sprawled out on a comfortable looking quilt in the grass, your heart leapt into your throat and your steps quickened to meet him. You’d never sacrifice honesty at the cost of your pride, but you had missed him. 

It was an easygoing afternoon, the waning sun bouncing to each one of the clouds above the two of you. What you chatted about was a secret kept only by the two of you, and both of your heads were bowed together intimately as Sylus feeds you the confections he had brought back from his latest trip. You forced him to eat one and he obliged you, his lips twisting when it was sour. 

“You know I dislike sour things,” he replied tartly, but he noted the way your eyes were full of mischief. You had done it on purpose and he scooped a dollop of the lemon icing from another treat, trying to smudge it on the tip of your nose. Yet he was too lazy and you were too quick, dodging his attack with a playful outcry.

“Hey!” You protested, popping to your feet with ease. “I’ll pay you back for that.”

“I didn’t even do anything, sweetie. Why are you so nervous?” Sylus drawled indolently, and he sat up straight as a sudden idea occurred to him; his lips curling with deceptive warmth. 

“Shall we play a game?” 

“Sure,” you replied, your eyes already sparkling with mischief. Before he could propose the game or state any rules, you smudged the lemon icing onto his cheek instead, your expression lit up with childish delight. "You're it!" You sprinted in the opposite direction across the greenery of the park towards the shade of a nearby tree. It wasn’t quite the game Sylus had had in mind, but he played along. Of course, you didn't make it far and you felt the tug of his evol dragging you back. Sylus’s echoing laughter was lost to the wind and distant rustling of trees dancing in the wind as he swept you up into his arms. Your stumbling protests are interrupted by the press of his warm lips against yours, claiming his prize for winning your little game. His kiss is playful, his lips grazing across yours in a way that leaves you breathless, but greedy for more.

You whine softly when he doesn’t immediately kiss you again and he chuckles against your lips at your impatience, but Sylus gives in, kissing you deeply as he urges you to wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you back to your blanket and sits down with you in his lap, pulling your bodies flush against one another. It was like you were the only two people in the park, the rest of the world drowned out by the collective pounding of your heartbeats and his lips against yours. Sylus’s expression is lazy with desire when he pulls back and he stares at you quietly; waiting. You realize he's waiting for you and that whatever you want from him is yours.

Will you take what he’s so willing to offer?

When your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for another kiss, the lingering smirk on his lips says you’ve made the correct choice. 

[lumberrobot]

Holiday Havoc

pham hanni x fem!reader

notes: took another break from writing so this will be my peace offering hdiowhd; happy new year guys!

warning/s: none

genre: fluff

The snow blanketed the sprawling university campus like a soft quilt, muting the usual bustle of student life. Under the warm glow of fairy lights strung across dorm windows, Y/N sat at her small wooden desk, chin resting on her palm as she stared out at the wintry scene. Her room was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the radiator and the muffled footsteps of students in the hallway.

Her desk was cluttered with notes and open textbooks, but her focus had long since drifted. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched, the rich scent of chamomile mingling faintly with the woody aroma of her favorite cinnamon candle. She reached out, absentmindedly twirling the edge of the worn scarf she always draped over her chair. It had been a gift from Hanni.

Pinned to her corkboard was a picture of them from one of their summer adventures. Y/N had been mid-laugh, caught off guard by one of Hanni’s jokes, while Hanni grinned like she owned the world. The golden hour sunlight had bathed the scene, casting everything in a warm, nostalgic glow. That photo was her anchor. That picture had been her lifeline. On long nights like this, when the homesickness clawed too hard and her classes seemed like an insurmountable mountain, it reminded her of what awaited her back home.

Her phone vibrated, pulling her from her reverie. She grabbed it eagerly, her heart lifting at the sight of Hanni’s name. A FaceTime call. Without hesitation, she swiped to accept.

“Hey!” Y/N greeted, a wide smile breaking across her face.

The screen flickered, and Hanni appeared, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, a faint flush of pink on her cheeks. She was nestled in her bed back home, the familiar lavender walls of her room in the background.

“Y/N!” Hanni’s voice was bright and full of warmth, though her brow furrowed slightly. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping. Have you been pulling all-nighters again?”

“Who, me?” Y/N feigned innocence, glancing at the pile of notes and textbooks strewn across her desk. “Never.”

Hanni raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Liar.”

“Gee, thanks,” Y/N retorted, rolling her eyes. “You look cozy, though. Rub it in, why don’t you.”

They laughed, the sound filling the void of silence that had hung heavy in Y/N’s room just moments ago. It was like a salve, soothing the ache in her chest.

“How’s life back home?” Y/N asked, leaning back in her chair.

“Quiet,” Hanni admitted, her gaze softening. “It’s not the same without you here. My little cousins were at the house earlier, and they were asking when you’d be back. I think they miss having you around to team up against me in Monopoly.”

“They’re smart kids,” Y/N quipped, a fond smile tugging at her lips.

“Smarter than you, maybe,” Hanni shot back, her grin widening.

Y/N chuckled, though the mention of home made her heart twist. “I miss them too. And you.”

Hanni’s teasing smile faltered, replaced by something gentler. “I miss you more.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Hanni’s eyes lingered on Y/N as she absentmindedly fiddled with the pen in her hand, her face lit by the warm glow of her desk lamp.

“God, you’re so….” Hanni trailed off, her cheeks tinting pink.

Y/N looked up, confused. “What?”

“Nothing!” Hanni blurted out, her voice a pitch higher. “Anyway, what’s the plan for the holidays? Are you going to stay there?”

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing. She couldn’t spoil the surprise. “Yeah, probably. Flights are expensive, you know?”

Hanni pouted. “That sucks. It’s not the same without you.”

Y/N bit her lip, guilt gnawing at her. “It’ll go by fast,” she offered weakly.

“I hope so,” Hanni murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands.

They fell into an easy rhythm, the call stretching on as they talked about everything and nothing. Hanni told her about the new café that opened down the street, the one they had always joked about visiting together. She described the neighborhood Christmas decorations, which sounded more elaborate than ever this year.

Y/N found herself laughing at Hanni’s animated retelling of a failed baking experiment. “I swear, I followed the recipe! But instead of cookies, I ended up with… bricks.”

“Sounds like user error,” Y/N teased, earning a dramatic gasp from Hanni.

“Oh, you’re so lucky I’m not there to throw one of those ‘bricks’ at you,” Hanni threatened, though her laugh gave her away.

There were quiet moments too, where Hanni would simply watch Y/N as she flipped through her notes or sipped her tea. Y/N felt her gaze but didn’t call her out on it. It felt… nice. Comfortable.

“I should let you sleep,” Hanni said finally, though she didn’t sound eager to end the call.

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed, but neither of them moved to hang up.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” Hanni said softly.

“Goodnight, Hanni.”

Even after the call ended, Y/N stared at the screen for a moment before snapping out of it. She grabbed her laptop and opened a travel booking website.

=====

Later that evening, Hanni’s phone buzzed with a message, the vibration breaking the cozy silence in her room. She had been wrapped up in her favorite blanket, sipping hot cocoa, and binge-watching a show she and Y/N used to watch together.

She picked up her phone, her brows furrowing when she saw the text from Y/N’s roommate.

“Y/N's acting pretty suspicious,” the message read.

Hanni frowned, quickly typing back. “What do you mean?”

There was a short pause before the reply came through.

“I think she’s planning something," the roommate wrote. "She’s been extra secretive lately.”

Hanni’s heart skipped a beat. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Secretive?” she typed back, trying to sound casual, though her mind was already racing.

“Yeah, but she won’t tell me anything. Maybe it’s something for you?”

Hanni stared at the message, a blush creeping up her cheeks. The thought of Y/N planning something, something for her, made her heart ache in the best way.

“She’s been homesick, hasn’t she?” Hanni typed trying to change the topic.

“Super homesick,” the roommate replied. “She talks about you all the time, by the way. Like, all the time.”

Hanni’s cheeks burned. “She does not.”

“Okay, sure,” the roommate texted back, followed by a winking emoji. “Anyway, you’re really flying out here to surprise her?”

“Yeah,” Hanni replied, her heart pounding. “I just… I need to see her.”

“She’s gonna lose her mind,” the roommate assured her. “Let me know your flight details!”

=====

A few days later, Y/N stood on Hanni’s front porch, her breath visible in the frosty air as she stared nervously at the door. She adjusted the scarf around her neck, trying to calm the nervous flutter in her stomach. The scarf was hers, yes, but it carried faint traces of Hanni’s perfume from the last time they had been together.

Her hands trembled—not from the cold, but from the weight of the moment. She had played this scenario out in her mind a thousand times during the long plane ride, but now that she was here, she wasn’t sure how Hanni would react. Still, there was no turning back now.

She knocked twice, the sound echoing in the quiet street. The door opened moments later to reveal Hanni’s mom, her expression shifting from mild confusion to delighted surprise.

“Y/N? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hi, Mrs. Pham,” Y/N said sheepishly, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to surprise Hanni.”

Hanni’s mom chuckled, stepping aside to let her in. “Sweetheart, she’s not here. She flew out this morning. Said something about how she couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”

Y/N froze, the words hanging in the air like a punchline she hadn’t been expecting.

“Wait. What?”

“She left this morning,” Hanni’s mom repeated with a laugh. “She was so excited, practically bouncing out the door.”

For a moment, Y/N stood there, processing. Then she burst out laughing, the sound so genuine and heartfelt that Hanni’s mom couldn’t help but join in.

“Of course she did,” Y/N muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

Hanni’s mom smiled, warmth in her eyes. “You two are something else. Come in and warm up while I try calling her. Maybe we can figure out where she is.”

=====

Hours later, after a chaotic string of messages, missed calls, and another round of teasing, Y/N and Hanni finally coordinated their plans. Hanni had to rebook her flight, a process that involved groaning at hold music and glaring at her phone whenever the airline placed her on hold. Meanwhile, Y/N paced in Hanni’s living room, chatting with her on video call.

“You’re such a dork,” Y/N teased, her voice laced with affection.

Hanni, lounging at her gate with a cup of overpriced airport coffee, smirked. “Says the girl who flew across the world without checking if I’d be here. Bold move, Y/N.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I didn’t think you’d have the audacity to fly off when you knew I wasn't coming. You couldn’t even wait a couple of days?”

Hanni laughed softly, the sound warming Y/N through the screen. “I guess we’re just two impatient idiots.”

“Maybe,” Y/N replied, grinning. “But at least we’re idiots together.”

The hours crawled by, but they stayed on the call, filling the time with stories, laughter, and the occasional silence that spoke volumes on its own. Hanni kept the camera angled to show the departures board, and every time an announcement came through, Y/N held her breath, half-afraid something else would delay their reunion.

When Hanni’s flight finally landed back home, Y/N was already at the airport, her heart pounding as she scanned the crowd for a familiar figure. The world seemed to blur around her, the muffled hum of conversations and the steady rhythm of announcements fading into the background.

Then she saw her.

Hanni stepped out from the arrival gate, her eyes darting through the sea of travelers. When their gazes locked, everything else fell away.

Y/N dropped her bag in an instant, her breath catching in her throat. She took a hesitant step forward, her chest tightening with a mix of anticipation and overwhelming relief.

Hanni’s suitcase clattered to the ground, forgotten, as she broke into a full sprint. Her boots echoed against the tiled floor, drawing curious glances, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was the person standing at the edge of the crowd, waiting for her.

“Y/N!”

The moment they collided, Y/N’s arms came around Hanni, pulling her close as if she might vanish again if she let go. Hanni wrapped herself tightly around Y/N’s neck, burying her face into the crook of her shoulder.

“I missed you,” Hanni whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of Hanni’s heartbeat against her chest. She tightened her hold, her own voice trembling as she replied, “I missed you more.”

They stood there, locked in each other’s arms, as the world moved on around them. Travelers hurried by, some casting amused glances their way, but neither of them noticed. In that moment, nothing else mattered—no frantic messages, no missed flights, no long weeks spent apart.

Hanni finally pulled back just enough to look at Y/N, her hands still clutching the back of her coat. Her eyes glistened, a smile tugging at her lips. “You didn’t have to fly all this way, you know.”

Y/N brushed a stray strand of hair from Hanni’s face, her thumb grazing her cheek. “I couldn’t wait anymore, Hanni. I needed to see you.”

Hanni’s smile widened, her cheeks turning pink—not from the cold, but from the overwhelming joy bubbling up inside her. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Y/N shot back, her voice light but her gaze soft and steady.

Hanni laughed, “Yeah, I really do.”

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt right again.

=====

The rest of the holidays unfolded like a dream, a blur of warmth, laughter, and fleeting moments that Y/N and Hanni wished they could stretch into forever.

One afternoon, they found themselves in the kitchen with Hanni’s younger cousins, determined to bake cookies despite the chaos that came with having little hands eager to “help.” The counters were a mess of spilled flour, scattered chocolate chips, and sticky bowls of batter. Y/N, with a determined expression, tried to keep things under control, but Hanni had other plans.

“Hold still,” Hanni said, her voice suspiciously sweet as she dusted her hands off on her apron. Before Y/N could react, Hanni swiped a handful of flour and smeared it across her nose.

Y/N gasped, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face her. “Oh, you’re asking for it now.”

Grabbing a fistful of flour, Y/N retaliated, throwing it at Hanni’s face. A cloud of white exploded in the air, and the younger cousins squealed with laughter, quickly joining in on the fun.

Within minutes, the kitchen descended into total mayhem. Flour filled the air like snow, sticking to their hair and clothes. Y/N managed to corner Hanni, smearing batter onto her cheek triumphantly. Hanni shrieked, laughing so hard she had to brace herself against the counter to keep from doubling over.

By the time they were done, they were a mess—faces dusted white, aprons streaked with chocolate, and cheeks flushed from laughter. Hanni’s mom walked in, stopping short at the sight of the disaster. She shook her head with a sigh, but her fond smile betrayed her true feelings. “I leave you two alone for an hour, and this is what happens?”

“Totally worth it,” Hanni quipped, nudging Y/N, who grinned back, her eyes sparkling.

The teasing didn’t stop in the kitchen. During one family dinner, Y/N’s family, always quick to tease, took every opportunity to comment on their closeness.

“So, when’s the wedding?” one of Y/N’s aunts asked, her voice brimming with mischief. The question earned a chorus of laughter from the table.

Hanni, caught mid-drink, nearly choked on her water, coughing as her cheeks flushed a deep pink. Y/N wasn’t much better, her face turning bright red as she stammered, “We’re just friends!”

“Sure,” her aunt replied with a knowing smile, raising her eyebrows.

Even the younger kids got in on the teasing, whispering loudly about how “cool” it would be if Hanni became part of the family. “Imagine Hanni at all the family reunions!” one of them exclaimed, making both Y/N and Hanni groan.

Despite their embarrassment, neither could deny the warmth of being surrounded by such a loving, if slightly meddlesome, family.

=====

One evening, they headed to the ice skating rink. The frosty air bit at their cheeks as they laced up their skates, their breath forming little puffs in the cold. Y/N looked warily at the ice, her grip on the railing tight.

“I told you I can’t skate,” she said, her tone a mix of panic and exasperation as her legs wobbled.

“You’re doing fine!” Hanni laughed, gliding effortlessly beside her. “Come on, trust me.”

Hanni extended a hand, her smile so reassuring that Y/N hesitated only for a moment before taking it. Slowly, Hanni guided her away from the safety of the edge.

“You’re a liar. This is not fine!” Y/N yelped as her feet slid uncontrollably.

Hanni grinned. “Just relax! You—”

Before she could finish, Y/N’s skate caught, and she toppled forward, dragging Hanni down with her. They landed in an ungraceful heap, a tangle of limbs and muffled exclamations. For a moment, they just lay there, stunned by the impact.

Then Hanni started laughing—a deep, unrestrained laugh that echoed across the rink. Y/N propped herself up on her elbows, glaring half-heartedly before the ridiculousness of the situation got to her. She joined in, their laughter mingling as snowflakes drifted down around them.

“You’re terrible at this,” Y/N said between giggles.

“And you’re terrible at listening,” Hanni shot back, still grinning.

As they lay on the ice, the cool surface biting through their jackets, Y/N groaned jokingly. “This is your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one who panicked!” Hanni shot back, but her words were punctuated with laughter.

When Y/N finally dared to look over, she found Hanni staring at her, cheeks pink from the cold—or maybe something else. Y/N felt her own face heat up as she quickly glanced away, pretending to focus on getting up.

Hanni sat up, brushing snow off her coat, her grin softening as she reached out a hand to help Y/N. “Come on, let’s try again.”

Y/N hesitated, the lingering blush on her cheeks betraying her nerves. “If I fall again, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Deal,” Hanni said, her voice warm and teasing as she pulled Y/N to her feet.

They spent the rest of the session cautiously skating around the rink, Hanni holding Y/N’s hand tightly, her touch sending a pleasant warmth through the cold air. Their laughter echoed, mingling with the faint music playing in the background.

Later that night, they curled up on the couch for a movie marathon, their hair still damp from hot showers. The glow of the TV illuminated the room as the two lounged in a pile of blankets. Hanni had picked an old rom-com, one she’d seen a dozen times, but the familiarity of it made the moment feel even cozier.

Y/N’s head eventually found its way to Hanni’s shoulder, her breaths evening out as she drifted off. Hanni glanced down, her heart swelling at the sight of Y/N’s peaceful expression. Her arm began to tingle with the first signs of numbness, but she didn’t dare move.

Instead, she leaned her head lightly against Y/N’s, a small smile playing on her lips. In that quiet moment, with the world outside blanketed in snow and the soft hum of the TV in the background, Hanni felt an overwhelming sense of contentment.

Her chest felt impossibly full, like her heart might burst from all the emotions swirling inside her. She didn’t need anything else—just this, just Y/N, and the perfect simplicity of being together.

Unbeknownst to them, Hanni’s mom stood in the doorway, her phone poised as she captured the moment. Snap after snap, she immortalized the sight of her daughter and Y/N, cocooned in blankets and lost in their own little world.

======

On New Year’s Eve, the streets were alive with the buzz of celebration, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Laughter and chatter spilled from houses, and the crisp night air carried the faint scent of sparklers and roasting chestnuts. Yet, amidst the revelry, Y/N and Hanni found themselves drawn to a quieter place—their old playground.

It looked almost the same as it had in their childhood, the swings slightly rusted, the paint on the jungle gym peeling. The creaking of the swings echoed softly in the stillness, a nostalgic lullaby that brought a bittersweet warmth to Y/N’s chest.

They settled onto the swings side by side, the cold metal chains biting against their hands. Above them, the sky exploded with bursts of sparkles, the stars painting the night in vivid hues of gold. The light reflected in Hanni’s eyes, making them shine.

Y/N’s swing swayed gently, her legs scuffing against the ground as she gripped the chains. Her heart was pounding, each beat louder than the creaks from the swings. A thousand unsaid words swirled in her mind, but every time she tried to form them into sentences, her courage wavered.

Hanni sat on the swing beside her, her boots dragging lazily through the gravel. She tilted her head back to watch the stars, her profile glowing in the light of the moon. She looked ethereal, Y/N thought, like a scene straight out of a dream.

But this wasn’t a dream.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the chains, her palms slightly damp despite the chill. She felt the weight of all the unsaid words between them pressing against her chest, threatening to spill out. This wasn’t the first time she’d thought about it—about crossing that fragile line between friendship and something more. But tonight, under the canopy of a million stars, it felt like the right moment.

Hanni, oblivious to the storm in Y/N’s chest, leaned back slightly on her swing, her smile soft and content as she gazed at the sky. “This is nice,” she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, her voice quieter than she intended. She glanced at Hanni, taking in the way the cool breeze tousled her hair, the way her scarf framed her face. The sight made Y/N’s heart ache in the best possible way.

“Hanni,” she said finally, her voice trembling as she broke the silence.

Hanni turned to her, her expression curious. “Hmm?”

Y/N hesitated, the weight of her emotions threatening to swallow her words. But as a firework lit up the sky, illuminating Hanni’s face in a wash of gold, she realized there was no better moment than this.

“I…” Y/N took a shaky breath, her hands tightening on the chains. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw, like the last leaf clinging to a winter branch.

The words hung in the air between them, fragile yet electric.

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

Hanni’s eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, and Y/N felt her pulse quicken, fear mingling with hope. But then Hanni’s lips curved into the faintest smile, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, but her gaze never wavered. Instead, her eyes softened, and a small, almost shy smile curved her lips.

“Then kiss me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant crackle of fireworks.

Y/N felt a wave of warmth rush through her, chasing away the winter chill. Slowly, she leaned in, her heart hammering as the distance between them melted away. The world seemed to blur, the fireworks fading into the background as their lips met.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if they were both afraid to break the spell. But as the seconds passed, it deepened, filled with the unspoken feelings they had both carried for so long. It was warm, sweet, and everything Y/N had imagined���and so much more.

Y/N’s hands slipped from the chains, finding their way to Hanni’s cheeks. Hanni’s fingers curled around Y/N’s scarf, pulling her closer as if afraid to let go.

When they finally pulled away, the sound of fireworks returned, louder and brighter than before. Hanni rested her forehead against Y/N’s, their breaths mingling as they tried to steady their racing hearts.

“Welcome home,” Hanni said softly, her voice tinged with quiet certainty.

Y/N’s lips curved into a smile, her eyes closing as she let the moment wash over her. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt at peace—like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

They stayed like that for a while, the swings swaying gently under them. Above, the sky exploded in a cascade of golds and reds, ushering in the new year. But neither of them paid much attention. In that quiet corner of the world, under the glow of fireworks and starlight, everything they needed was right there in each other.

Around them, the world continued to celebrate, but for Y/N and Hanni, the night had become something far more intimate. For the first time in a long while, Y/N felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be—in Hanni’s arms, with the promise of a new year stretching out before them, bright and full of possibilities.

Eventually, Y/N broke the silence with a soft laugh. “So… was that everything you expected?”

Hanni grinned, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Better. Definitely better.”

Y/N chuckled, her fingers brushing against Hanni’s. “Happy New Year, Hanni.”

“Happy New Year, Y/N,” Hanni replied, her smile softening. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.”

[sobbingscripter]

DAY 5: Five Golden Rings

☃️Snow☃️

Tags: [mlw][mdni][squirting][praise][make love not war][mating press]

❄️☃️❄️

"I like snow."

Alucard's voice is quiet, and you stir, eyes wide, and you clutch your covers to your chest, watching as he stands at your window, crimson jacket tossed over the backrest of the chair of your vanity, bloody gaze locked on the tumbling snowflakes outside the glass.

"So... Pure. Untouched by any—"

"Why are you in my room in the middle of the night?"

Your question rips Alucard away from his reverie, but he simply narrows his eyes, gaze hardening just a bit but he keeps his gaze on the tundra storm.

"Everything seems so far away during these winters. They're nothing like the winters before my Master. These ones.... They're..."

He pauses, searching for a word.

"Warmer."

Shaggy black hair cascades down his back, unkempt, and wild, bangs hiding portions of his face, everything else only being lit by the faint moonlight that pours through your now open window.

And he turns to you, eyes glowing like the embers of a dying flame, shadows playing on his features in the most joyful way ever. Like children in a schoolyard.

"These winters—"

"Alucard, I'd really love for you to continue your soliloquy but it's 2 in the morning and it's cold outside. This is prime time sleeping weather." You huff, pulling the quilt higher up, covering your chin in the promising warmth. "Plus, I've already got my special socks on."

Alucard raises a perfect brow, a twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth. "Special socks?" He repeats and watches, as you poke your woolen toes out from under the thick blankets. Blue wool with white snowflakes knitted sparsely, very clear winter themed, especially when he catches a glimpse of those puffball tassels attached to the socks.

Alucard's mouth forms an 'o' shape, his head tilting and he takes a seat at the end of your bed, frosty fingers creeping up the leg of your sweatpants, wrapping around your calf and jerking you roughly towards him.

You yelp, when you find yourself straddling Alucard's lap, broad thighs still clad in tailored suit pants, keeping your legs spread and his nose brushes against muscles of your neck, stopping to inhale the scent at your pulse point.

Strong hands bracket your hips, thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of your hips and Alucard forced you to sit down, a silent order that you knew better to obey.

He could suck you dry, faster than you could him.

"You smell..." Alucard trails off, and your lips part in offense.

"The fuck you mean I smell?" You scoff, brows knitting into a frown but all that aggression melts away when he lets out that melodious chuckle.

It pairs with the dim moonlight so well, each bubbly change of cadence accompanying the dappling moonlight.

"I was going to say, you smell like cinnamon and sunshine." Alucard hums lowly. "But you had to go and be the impatient little thing you are."

Cool hands move to rest on the small of your back, and Alucard tilts his head back, meeting your gaze with a look that could almost be mistaken for a lovesick puppy.

"Can I have my Christmas present early?"

Alucard's got you locked into place, knees spread, face pressed against the unruly covers. One arm is pinned to the small of your back, the other tucked beneath your cheek, causing you to drool mindlessly as he coaxes the next orgasm from your already sensitive body.

"Alucard... Please.." Your plea is desperate, your ass pressing against him because once more, he's teasing you with the rosy and flushed crown of his cock, ridged head brushing and wading between your slippery folds, nudging at your needy clit.

"Still so impatient, aren't you?"

He teases, notching his cock at your fluttering entrance, pushing in just halfway before pulling back, tutting you playfully while his free hand rests on one fat globe of your ass.

"Not wet enough." Alucard feigns disappointment, as he pushes your fat apart, leaning a bit lower and spitting. Cool saliva travels down the cleft of your ass, joining the mass of wetness between your thighs and your legs nearly shake at the sensation.

Alucard roughly reaches for your ankle, shifting your position until you're on your back, eyes wide and bleary, your chest heaving and nipples pebbled from the frosty air and body flushed.

And he looks down at your slippery cunt, slick and glistening with spit and your cum, and he shakes his head.

"Not nearly wet enough."

He shifts, lowering himself until Alucard's broad shoulders are pressed against your thighs, one thigh tossed over his shoulder and the other laying to his side.

A long tongue slivers from between his lips, sweeping up the fluids that make a puddle against your hole, before spitting them back, and your back arches at the sensation.

Fingers find their way into his hair but you're not sure if it's to push him away, or pull him closer, but when his lips latch around your sloppy clit, your eyes roll back in your head and you claw at his scalp.

You shake your head, hair messy and eyes watering as his hand creeps up your thigh, gloved and he tugs the fabric off with his teeth, spitting it across the room before his palm presses to your swollen folds.

And he rubs his hand fast, side to side, like he's trying to give you a friction burn in the best way possible.

And you gasp, nails digging into his flesh and your legs shake, eyes glazing over as droplets start to splatter, against your inner thighs, against his awaiting tongue and his face.

Alucard makes you squirt with ease. A fact that's almost scary.

But you don't have time to dwell on it, not when he's sinking into you while your body's still pliable and easy.

"So perfect."

Alucard shifts your body beneath him, your toes touching the wall above your head, his face hovering over yours and his hair falls forward, an obsidian curtain hiding the stolen kisses Alucard snatches while you're too overstimulated each time he bottoms out.

Alucard's hands rest above your head, his forearms supporting his weight as he makes you take the deepest and slowest thrusts known to man. Each movement made to have you feel every single inch, forcing your insides to commit his shape to memory, and he groans, low in your ear.

"You take me so well, pretty." He praises, pressing a kiss to your temple as he shifts, angling his hips until his cock head brushes against that spongy spot that only he seems to be able to hit.

Your voice is a mess of moans and mewls, a cacophony of lewd sounds accompanied by the sound of sticky flesh hitting sticky flesh, and Alucard rolls his hips, his tip grinding against the plug of your cervix and you gasp.

"I'm so deep, aren't I?" He teases you. And you merely nod your head, fat tears rolling down your cheeks because it's just so fucking good.

"You're such a perfect thing." Alucard whispers. "Bathed in moonlight, crying because of how good it feels."

His tongue laps up your tears and if you were any more coherent, you'd whine about the fact that he's getting pussy juice on your face but you can't.

Not when he's kissing you so softly (internally and externally) and he's coaching you through another orgasm.

"One more."

Alucard coos softly, hips rocking into you with such a sweet gentleness, dragging against your inside over and over, as his pelvis bone presses against your needy clit. And your eyes are watering before you know it.

Your cum leaking out around Alucard, drool running down your cheek but not for long before he laps it up like a greedy mutt, crooning praises into your ear.

They've started to meld together. The "so pretty"s, the "good girl"s, the "that's it". All of them.

All you can really focus on is when Alucard pulls out of you, his cock resting on your lower belly to give you a visual of just how deep he was.

And scientifically speaking, you shouldn't even be alive. But then again, should any of us?

No.

But you survive it, because like Gloria Gaynor said, 'I will survive', because as long as you know how to love, you know you'll stay alive.

And if you didn't know how to love, you knew how to take it because Alucard wasn't fucking. He was making thorough love and by God, were you taking it like a champ.

"Alucard..."

You breathe out shakily, eyes rolling back in your head as he slips back inside, pulling out all the way, before slowly sinking in once more.

"Hm?" He hums, crimson gaze locked on where you take him so easily, amused and enchanted by the sight.

"You don't— have to pull out... Like... When you need to finish.."

You mutter softly, eyes barely open but your legs are open enough for the both.

You've never let Alucard finish inside. Always forcing him to pull out because of the fear of pregnancy and the worry that vampire cum may not adhere to the laws of a NuvaRing, an IUD or even a condom.

Alucard's shoulders stiffen when you speak, head tilting and you almost wish you didn't catch that glinting smile through the teariness of your eyes and the shadows of your lashes.

"Oh really?"

[daydreams-after-dark]

Blindfolds | Chan x Reader x mystery man (Minho)

chan x fem reader x minho.

Chan helps you fulfil your fantasy of having a "stranger" sleep with you

Word count: I think about 3k?

MDNI . Content warning below.

————- WARNINGS: unsafe sex, threesome, oral sex, vaginal sex, anal fingering, blowjob, orgasm, slight choking, cum eating, mystery sex, blindfold—————-

You walk down the dimly lit hallway towards one of the unused bedrooms in the holiday house you and your friends were staying at. You and your best friend, Chan decided the scenario will take place in a space that no one is using, to really maximize the mysteriousness of it the whole thing.

Butterflies are going crazy in your stomach, and you tug your satin robe tighter around your waist to try to settle them down. You feel rather sexy and feminine in the robe, the cream floral print against a gold background makes you feel like a queen.

You approach the designated door and knock.

“Come in.” Chan's voice calls from the inside. You swallow hard and push open the door.

You're immediately taken aback. The room is stunning. The decor is dark and moody, with the walls painted a dark grey blue, and the furniture looks as though it’s antique. Paintings of abstract naked women have been hung around the room.

There are various stained-glass lamps, emanating a seductive glow, and there is music playing low in the background. It sounds like French music. A woman’s voice seductively fills the room.

Then there’s the bed. Huge, King sized, so plush and high set. Chan is laying propped up against the dark timber headboard, he almost looks lost leaning amongst the generous number of over sized plush pillows. He’s wearing black tracksuit pants and a muscle tee. It looks out of place in such a sensually styled room.

“What do you think?” Chan gestures around the room.

“Th- this,” you stammer. “It’s amazing Chan.” You move towards the bed, stretching out your hand to touch the dark green quilt. It’s luxurious on your fingertips as you run your hand along the fabric and move closer to the head of the bed. The only thought going through your head is: Someone’s going to fuck you on this.

You perch on the side of the bed facing away from Chan, your feet barely reaching the floor. That's when you notice the black blindfold laid out neatly on the bedside table. Next to it is a bottle of coconut oil.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” Chan reaches out to touch your hand that’s resting beside you on the bed.

You inhale deeply and then slowly release the breath. How are you feeling?  It’s a mixture of feelings really. You're so very nervous. That you already know. But, you're also… excited. The idea of what’s about to happen is truly thrilling to you.

You can't believe your best friend Chan agreed to help you fulfil this fantasy. Of being blindfolded and fucked by a mystery person.

Chan smiles “We gotta get you ready!” He practically jumps off the bed and moves around to the side of the bed, taking your hand and helping you slide off the bed.

You've already discussed the details of how you're going to do this, covering safe words and safe gestures, what positions we are going to be in. These had been relayed to the mystery person who was going to be participating. The man coming to fuck you wouldn't be a stranger though. It was one of seven other men, that Chan knows extremely well. You've met them all too, and to be fair, you'd be thrilled to have any of them fuck you.

You stand in front of Chan facing away from him. There is tension in the air and your breath feels wobbly. He steps closer to you, and you can feel his breath on your neck and a pang in your chest. You'd really wish he'd kiss you. Chan doesn't know how much you actually want him. But he's never shown any signs of wanting you as more than a friend. He slowly reaches around, careful not to touch you too much, you wish he would, and pulls at your robe’s rope-tie.

It comes loose easily allowing your robe to fall open. Chan delicately pulls your robe off your shoulders letting it drop to the floor. You hadn’t put any underwear on, and now you're standing completely naked in front of Chan. And only Chan.

It feels extremely intimate and you're feeling self conscious. He hasn’t been this close to your naked body before. Goosebumps form on your skin. It isn’t cold in the room. Chan had thought of that too and had made the room a comfortable temperature. He’s so fucking considerate. You smile to myself.

You close your eyes and compose yourself. Fuck. You're really doing this.

Chan takes your hand again and grabs the blindfold in the other. He steadies you as you climb onto the bed where he resumes the position of laying down and propped up against a pillow and headboard. He directs you to sit between his legs facing away from him, and carefully he places the blindfold over your eyes and securing it at the back of your head. Your senses immediately heighten. This feels so erotic.

“Lean back on me.” He whispers as he guides you to lean back onto his fully clothed body. You can feel his hard, toned muscles flexing underneath you and his breathing is strained. Is he nervous? You can feel an erection beginning to dig into your back. Is this turning him on?

You imagine what this must look like, your exposed, naked body with Chan’s strong legs on either side of yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands so you rest them on your stomach. You don’t know where Chan’s arms and hands are, only that they aren’t touching you. You wish he’d wraps his arms around you. You wish he’d caress your body.

For a moment you try to imagine what it would be like if he did touch you. The sensation of him cupping your breasts, pinching a nipple, sliding his hands over your body. Then you remember why you're here, for a mystery fuck. A small moan escapes you. Did he hear you?

Chan nuzzles his face into your neck, resting his chin on your left shoulder. He's so close. “You already imagining a stranger inside you, hmm?” he whispers. You whimper. His voice turns you on beyond belief.

You don’t have chance to answer because there is a knock on the door. You suck in a breath. This is actually happening.

“Come in.” Chan calls out. You hear the door creak open and then close.

“Are you ready to begin?” whispers Chan in your ear.

“Mmm hmm, yes.” you reply.

“Good, because I think you are going to really enjoy this.”

He takes hold of your hands and places them on the bed either side of your body, using his hands to hold them down out of the way so you can’t go ahead and touch your anonymous lover. You had requested this. It makes you feel like you're being forcefully held in place, although you know you can change things if you want.

You feel the mattress dip slightly. Someone is climbing onto the bed near your feet. Who can it be? Is it Changbin? Or could it be Minho? Felix? Could it be Jisung?

A hand touches your ankle. You shudder, then very slowly and delicately it makes it way up to the side of your knee. Their touch is light and feathery. You swallow.

Then you feel a mouth, a moist, plush mouth just above your knee. You think he is about to take the kisses up your leg, but instead takes his kisses back down, making his way down to your ankle. It feels so sensual. Who do these lips belong to?

Chan releases your arms for just a moment so he can lift your legs over each of his legs, which are spread out wide on the bed. Then he goes back to gently pinning your hands to the mattress.

You sense the other man moving closer and a mouth reappears on your skin. This time it’s your inner right thigh. He drags his tongue from inside your leg near your knee all the way up your inner thigh, sending tingles through your body, but he stops before he gets anywhere near your pussy. He does this again, and then mirrors the action with your other leg.

His hands try to push your legs a little wider and Chan assists by moving his own legs wider again, forcing your legs to part just a little more. You're ready, wide open for whatever you're about to receive.

The touching stops, but you can feel him kneeling in front of you. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly in anticipation.

You're pleasantly startled when you feel a warm liquid landing on your breasts. The oil. Chan must have warmed it up somehow in preparation. You moan at the sensation of the oil dripping down around and between your breasts. You suck your breath between your teeth when you feel a pair of hands cupping your breasts, then squeezing and massaging the flesh in slow, but firm circles.

His hands slide easily over your oiled skin, and you squeal slightly when he squeezes your nipples. As the pinches and flicks become more aggressive you can’t help but arch your back and rock your hips at the sensation.

Chan shushes you. “We need to stay still and take it, remember what we agreed to?” That’s right, part of this was you needed to stay as still as possible, it was all part of being restrained. You compose yourself and stop moving. It’s so difficult but you're determined to play the part properly.

“Good girl.” Chan growls low. Good girl? You love those words.

More warm oil is applied to your stomach. There is so much that it coats your entire abdomen and runs down towards your core, and trickles down where your pussy lips meet. You feel bad for the bedding, it’s probably going to be a mess.

It feels so fucking sexy with your body being this slick and slippery. You feel like a goddess being worshipped and adored, yet at the same time you feel like a dirty whore who doesn’t care who fucks her.

You wait for the hands to return to your body, anticipating them all over your stomach and you moan and pant with the need to be touched now. You're desperate and on the verge of begging.

“Pl-please… please touch me.” you say.

“He wants you to call him ‘Sir’”, Chan whispers.

“Please touch me again… Sir.” you pant.

You let out a long, low moan as he pours the oil at the top of your pussy. It runs down through your lips and onto your asshole. You can’t help but try to wriggle with pleasure and frustration. Chan squeezes your hand, a reminder that you need to stay still. You don’t know where his hands will land next and the anticipation is pure agony.

The stranger lifts your legs up bending them so your knees are up near your chest. Chan removes one of his hands from yours to grip under your knee to help pin it against your chest, whilst the other man pins your right leg.

You feel the heel of a hand press firmly against your clit and begin to move in circular motions, much like they did with your breasts. It provides a grinding sensation that shoots pleasure deep inside of your abdomen.

“Fuck that feels so good… Sir.” you whimper as his hand swirls and presses on you for what feel like and eternity.

He then drags two fingers beginning at your clit all the way down to your asshole, dragging the oil and your slickness all the way down. Your cunt clenches as his fingers pass by the entrance, not stopping to explore. He presses a finger to your rim.

“Aaaah!!” you gasp at the sensation of the pressure.

He massages his finger against you, and you know you're going to open up easily for him. You are so aroused and so slick from yourself and the oil that it doesn’t take much for the tip of his finger to breech the entrance. You grip the sheets with your hands and pant shallow breaths as his finger slips in deeper, deeper, all the way in.

“You’re being so good for him.” Chan’s words of praise in your ear make you melt around the stranger’s finger and you're ready for more.

“Sir… please.. I need… can you put in another finger?”

He slowly removes his finger and you feel two fingers at your rim now. He pushes them in, going ever so slowly. It’s a stretch but he’s moving slowly enough that you're adjusting along the way, making the stretch feel achingly good. He must be experienced at this sort of thing. He knows exactly what to do.

You bring your left arm up and wrap it around Chan’s neck, as whispers words of encouragement in your ear.

The volume of your moans and whimpers grow so loud now that it’s drowning out the sound of the French woman’s singing. The man moves his fingers in and and out of your ass maintaining a relentlessly slow pace. The burning sensation with every drag of his fingers makes you cry out.

“Faster… harder… Sir I need… more.”

He quickly builds up the pace. Chan releases your hand to bring his hand to your neck, wrapping it around your throat and squeezing slightly but not enough to cut off air. Then he brings his thumb up to your lips. You open your mouth allowing him to slip his thumb inside. You pull at the hair on the back of his head and he pushes his thumb further into your mouth. The other man continues to fuck your ass with his fingers.

A mouth lands on your pussy. His tongue swirls around and through your lips. The tip of his tongue slides inside of you. Chan starts to fuck your mouth with his thumb, pushing it deep into your mouth roughly. You want him to ruin you.

You're practically screaming from the glorious agony, your senses are on overload.

Chan removes his thumb. “Is this okay?” he checks in with you.

“Yes… But… I want his cock now.”

“Ahhh yes, I bet you do. Let’s sort you out, yeah?”

The fingers inside your ass are removed and you feel the man shift his position.

His thighs press against the underside of yours. Then… you feel the tip of a cock. He pushes it against your opening, making you let out a pathetic whine. Your body is begging for him to push his cock in.

But he doesn't push it in. Moments pass and still nothing happens. What is happening? A sense of panic makes it’s way into your body. Has he changed his mind?

“He wants to know if we can take the blindfold off?” Chan asks.

You pause. He hasn’t changed his mind. You quickly decide what you want to do. Whoever it is wants you to be right there with him, making this moment together. Not him fucking you, but you fucking each other.

You bite your bottom lip. “Okay.” you say shakily. Your breath quickens at the thought of coming face to face with the man who has been pleasuring you so amazingly.

Chan takes over holding your right leg up and two hands come to rest on the sides of your blindfold, the tip of his cock slips into you slightly as he leans in towards you, giving you a tease of what’s to come. You can’t wait until he is all the way inside.

Your blindfold slides off but your vision is slightly blurry. You blink to adjust your eyes and the man before you becomes clear.

Minho.

He is looking at you expectantly, nervously, like you might run away at the sight of him.

You reach up and cup his face. His cheeks are flushed and lips pink and swollen. He isn’t even being the one fucked right now but he looks like he is.

“Hey.” you say with a dazed smile.

“Hey.” He replies. “Is this okay…do you want to keep…”

You wrap an arm around his waist and pull him down on top of you. His hands reach around to your ass and he lifts your hips up and pushes himself all the way inside of you.

Minho is finally free to make noises now and he makes long low moans as he rocks his hips into you. He looks down to where you're joined to watch his cock glide in and out.

You still have one arm wrapped around Chan’s neck, your other explores Minho’s body. His toned body undulates like some sort of exotic python. He’s even more skilled with his cock than with those magic fingers. He brings his mouth down onto yours mirroring his tongue with his thrusts. A skilled, diligent lover.

You melt together as his long, languid thrusts become deeper and you’re being pressed into Chan’s hard cock.

Without warning, Minho pulls out and flips you over in one fluid move so that you’re on all fours.

You look to the head of the bed and see Chan’s hard erection inside his sweat pants. You’re about to reach for it when you’re dragged down the bed by Minho. You look into Chan’s eyes longingly as you’re being pulled out of reach and he just stares back at you. You want to please him so badly.

Minho pushes his cock back inside of you making you cry out. Pleasure washes over you, mixing with the angst of yearning for Chan. He slides his thumb over your asshole and presses it inside. “Ahhh.. Yes, Minho.” You cry, squeezing your eyes tight.

He pushes it in all the way and rests his palm and fingers on your tail bone. His grip is perfect to rock you on and off his cock. You love feeling so filled up. You’re so close now.

Chan looks fucked out, like he’s on another planet. His engorged, swollen red cock is now out of his pants and in his hand, but he’s not doing anything with it. He’s just holding it absentmindedly. His eyes glazed over as he stares at you.

Minho must notice him too. “Kitten?” he pants. “Do you want to help Chan out? Make him come?”

You look at Chan eagerly. You’re practically salivating.

“Come over here Chan. It’s okay.” Minho encourages Chan over but he doesn’t move. “Before I cum.” He adds, hoping that will spur him on.

Chan, as if possessed, gets up onto his knees and crawls his way towards you. Once he is close enough he offers you the head of his cock and you take hold of it with one hand and guide him into your mouth. Chan whimpers at the touch. You lick your tongue along his shaft and over the tip before taking him deep into your mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Chan whines high pitched.

“Don’t use your hands. Make him work for it.” Minho growls.

You do as you’re told and release your grip but keeping him in your mouth.

Something in Chan snaps. He grabs the back of your head and starts plunging his cock into your mouth relentlessly. He tangles his fingers in your hair as he fucks your face without restraint. It makes you gag. It’s hard to take him and your eyes water.

You look up at him, he’s staring at you while his cock thrusts into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you almost choke. Seeing Chan using you like this while Minho pounds into you from behind, is all too much.

You cry out around Chan’s cock as your legs shake and your cunt clenches around Minho. Your arms and legs buckle underneath you but Minho is there to hold you steady. He wraps an arm underneath you, keeping you in position.

Minho suddenly pulls out, painting your back in his cum with a long moan.

Chan growls and moans and pulls his cock out to massage his release into your waiting mouth and tongue. There is so much, coating your tongue and dribbling down your chin. He leans back onto his heels, shaking as he watches you swallow everything in your mouth, and then use your fingers to scoop the remaining cum on your chin and licking your fingers clean. He looks horrified and startled. Oh shit, have you done something wrong?

Chan quickly gets off the bed and pulls up his trackpants. “Fuck. I am so sorry.” He is so flustered.

“I’ll get the towels.” Minho announces and hops off the bed.

“Chan?” You whimper. He doesn’t seem to hear you. He’s is freaking out. “Chan!” You repeat, “I need you to hold me.”

Chan looks down at you, as though he is scared. What is going through his mind? Cautiously, he edges closer to the bed and sits beside you. You’re still in an all fours position waiting to have your back wiped clean, but you kneel up to let Chan wrap his arms around you. You nuzzle into his chest. Why is he so upset with you?

You feel him relax against you and he strokes your hair. “I shouldn’t have done that to you.” He whispers over and over. You don’t understand. You fucking loved that he did that to you. You’ve wanted it for so long.

“Oh Channie!” You cry. “I fucking want you, you idiot!”

Chan looks at you warily. “Really?”

You reach up and cup his cheek. “Yes.” You whisper, your eyes dropping to his lips. He closes the gap capturing you in a heated kiss. “Stay with me tonight, Chan.”

“Of course, baby girl. Of course."

Minho returned, cleaned you up and helped you and Chan hop into bed.

"I'm glad you two have finally got your act together." he said laughing as he said goodnight and left you and Chan to snuggle together.

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itshannjisung @kangnina @weareapackofstrays

[mossygirl333]

Could I request for Boba Tea - body worship with Astarion with female human reader please?

AN: Coming right up! Hot and fresh <3

Bakery Order: Boba Tea - body worship

Astarion x human!wizard!reader

Tw/Cw: smut, porn w/plot, Astarions Lowkey a munch, some blunt dirty talk, mentions of weight and gaining weight, intimate, established marriage

SMUT UNDER THE CUT!!!

The room was dimly lit, candles flickering silently in the corners. Settled in front, a giant ornate hearth, the fire crackling and causing you to squint your dry eyes. Deepened shadows, tall and looming lined the walls.

The Inn was nice, clean, expensive but you had been travelling for months. Astarion told you that you needed more rest. Everyone did.

"Darling, you keep pushing yourself. Those silly little spells wont do anything when you have bags under your eyes the size and color of dead coals. Now rest in this nice place and let me pay for Utamo's sake!"

A snort of laughter left your lips as you remembered his words, settling into the bear skin rug, fur thick and soft under your hands. Halsin was...quite surprised when his room had one as well. And quite uncomfortable.

"Whats so funny my dear?" The door quietly shuts beside him, settling down a goblet of wine. His blood red eyes settling onto your form. Lithe but strong, graceful and regal he was. But those hands could snap a neck and tear a tendon quite easily.

Those fangs under those sly smirking lips could do a lot more too.

A shudder ran down your body, barely suppressed as you finally met his eyes. Curling up in your quilt a bit tighter. "Just thinking is all. About Halsin and his shock."

"Ah yes, that nature obsessed hunk." He jokingly gags, sliding in beside you. Opening up your arms, Astarions joins you under the covers. Ring gleaming in firelight. "I'd rather you just focus on me instead. The pretty one, maybe?"

"I thought the pretty one was me?" You ask, staring down at him as his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast. Nose nudging against the cleavage.

"I think we're tied." He snickers, pressing a tender kiss to your jaw. Pausing for a moment before pressing another one. "You smell good my dear."

"Me or my blood?" You raise a brow, tracing his neck with your nails, before burying them in his white locs. Thick and curled, gentle against your palm with the smell of his bar soap.

"Aren't you made up of both? But as much as I love your blood...I'm not exactly looking for that tonight." He trails his eyes down, palm gently resting on your thigh.

"I've gained weight." You curtly state. Sighing as you watch his hand sink into your thigh.

"Happy weight."

"Still weight."

"It looks good."

"I doubt you can even pick me up anymore."

He huffs, and grabs your chin. Making you look at him. Expression slightly soured and exasperated. "Shush! By Lathanders light, shush! Enough with this nonsense, I'm not going to listen to the woman I love insult herself like she's some cow. Because you aren't. You...You are beautiful. Understand me?"

You pause, sighing and locking eyes with him. Watching as the firelight flickers across his sharp features. Strong nose, round ruby eyes filled with slight hurt and thin lips pulled down into a pouty frown.

"It's just hard. Looking different than before. I'm afraid I won't be pretty to you if I change too much." You admit. The insecurity slightly bubbling up. It was true. Pants are slightly tighter now. You needed a size up in your bras and to be honest, looking at everyone else, you felt like the only one who's gained some.

"I don't care if it's 3 pounds or 300, you...you my dear are the most stunning, beautiful woman in this entire city. In the entirety of Faerun, I have never once witnessed a person who so similar reminded me of the sun. Hell, I hadn't even remembered what the sun looked like before you. Before this all. Why would I abandon the woman I'm marrying, the woman I want to have children with for something so daft as weight? Do you take me for an idiot?" He cups your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. Eyes full of sincerity and softness, hands cold but gentle.

This was what Astarion was to you. And what you were to him. The sun and the moon. A yin and yang situation that played on like prose poetry. Bright smiles and sharp tongues. Magic and madness. Lives played out like chess games by their masters but broken free. The white piece and the black piece. Now off the boards, no longer tied down by it. No longer held under cruel scheming hands.

They had each other.

And they wanted each other.

You hadn't really noticed he was kissing you until your back hit the bear skin rug. Snapping out of your daze, hands coming up to his face. Whispers between kisses sent between you, breathless and quiet, neither of you could hear each other.

But it didn't matter. You just needed to know he was there. And that was all you needed.

His knee nudges your thighs apart, his lips trailing down your neck. Pulse thumping under them. Soft and cold, undead but how his heart burned for yours.

Slightly hitching, you make room for his body. Thighs sliding up to rest on his broad shoulders, his hands pushing up your shirt. Desperate to get to the hot plump skin underneath, tongue darting out to taste it. Trailing down new stretchmarks he stops at your pants. Eyes coming up to meet yours again.

Quietly nodding, he situated you so he could toss aside your garments. Shorts and underwear dangerously close to the fireplace.

You laugh, reaching over and snagging them away. "Dummy."

"My bad, my love. Wouldn't wanna burn your knickers and start a panic, imagine that. Gale runs into a half-naked you and my face shoved in your cunt while the hotel burns down."

A shudder of arousal seeps down your core, now dewy and dripping, an opened flower full of nectar for your lover.

He sighs, lifting you up slightly, breath thick against your folds. Watching. Waiting. Before the tip of his nose nudges against your clit.

A whine leaves your lips, thighs squeezing against his temples as he groans. Mouth hot and heavy against your pussy, fingers denting into the plush fat.

"Feel so fucking beautiful wrapped around me, my love-" His tongue slips into you, licking up stripes. Collecting that tangy slick on his taste buds.

You squirm slightly but his hands keep you there. Nose buried in your clit, taking huffs of your smell. Desperate for more. "Please, darling, hold still, let me taste you."

You slowly grind yourself against his face. Riding the bridge of his nose. He chuckles, slipping his fingers in gently. Hips jerking, two digits curling and searching for that spot.

The pads of his fingers find it, spongy and warm. Pressing up into you, the coil in your belly growing tighter and tighter.

Mewls left your lips, drawn out and high pitched, Whining and writhing beneath him as he devoured you.

It wasn't so different than when he fed. Laid down and swallowed whole. Desperate and wanting to quell the fire in his bones. To feed the beast inside of him. But instead of bloodlust, a curse from his cruel master, it was the sexual desire and lust of a man. A craving only you could stop.

The coil snaps, slick flushing into his open mouth as he licks you clean. Shushing your pleasure filled cries, riding out the waves of heat and shock.

He pulls away, chin glistening as your thighs tremble. Let down slowly.

"Shh my dear....God you did so well. Look at you!" He giggles, pressing soaked lips to yours. Tangy and sweet, your slick heavy in his tongue. "Glowing I tell you. Orgasms suit you well."

You were pliant and soft, eyes heavy and content. Barely able to muster a breathy laugh before melting into his embrace. His body laid beside you.

"I love you." A whisper finally leaving you, enough breath entering your lungs to speak.

"I love you more, my dear."

AN: OMG OMG OMG I THINK THIS IS THE BEST THING I"VE EVER ACTUALLY WRITTEN????

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. 2 - Domination

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: LaCroix briefs Vincent on the new world he has just entered into, with the expectation that he will be an obedient ghoul. But Vincent is still struggling to gain the upper hand.

Author's Note: I made myself sad writing this - I want Sebastian to turn from Whumper to Caretaker already!

TW: mind control, emotional manipulation, strangulation, kidnapping

It was not LaCroix’s habit to keep his subordinates close to him. If it was wise to keep enemies close, then it was wiser to keep envious inferiors at such a distance that they had no opportunity to become enemies. Ghouls ought to have no knowledge of their master’s weaknesses, and no importance as anything other than pawns. They ought to view him as a solitary, impenetrable figure, above even their understanding. But Vincent Bisset de Gramont proved himself an enemy from the start, and therefore, an exception.

LaCroix repeated that name in his head and smiled, rolling it and playing with it, along with the bullet in his palm which he had decided to keep as a souvenir. Vincent had become so incensed when LaCroix refused to use his title that he determined on the spot never to use it again. The man had to be taught a lesson. “You are no Marquis any longer, let alone an ‘Autem Imperator,’ Vincent. Those titles have no meaning here. You will learn new titles. ‘Prince.’ ‘Regnant.’ ‘Domitor.’ And they will belong to me, not to you - as do all things where we’re going. Know your place.” He leaned back into the quilted suede of his seat, letting starlight and the dimmed glow of the cabin play across his features to what he hoped was a mysterious and intimidating effect.

“Your hubris knows no bounds, Prince,” Vincent spat back, clutching the arms of his seat as if his wrists were lashed to them. “They’re looking for me even now. Do you think you can walk into a High Table duel and make off with the highest ranking –“

“No one is looking for you, because no one knows you’re missing. Everyone who saw me believes they saw a kindly priest who said his respects over your body before helping that fellow – The Harbinger, I believe you call him – lay you to rest in a casket for your mortician to carry away. Tomorrow, that empty casket will be buried.”

A flash of panic before his pretty green eyes lit up again. “The mortician will – “

“The mortician wasn’t your man. He was mine. I sent a local friend to take his place, and to oversee the proceedings. You’re as good as dead, Vincent. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

He went as ghostly white as his travelling companion then. He remained very quiet while Sebastian explained to him the meanings of those important titles he’d mentioned, as well as other relevant words such as “Masquerade” and “Camarilla” and “Ventrue.”

LaCroix’s hope of entertainment during the flight was very much fulfilled. Vincent made for a captivating (if pitiful) image, with blood still smeared across his forehead and wetness sparkling in his eyes. LaCroix couldn’t stop staring at him and wondering whether he’d really cry or not. It filled him with a strange mix of sadism and sympathy that kept the Prince continuously in suspense. It sent him inexplicably trembling to hear Vincent say, “You’ll have to forgive me, Sebastian, I’m just so confused. Please…help me understand everything.”

He was coherent enough to ask intelligent questions though, and always seemed to latch onto those subjects that were a little too top-secret for a first conversation with a ghoul, whilst sighing that he was just so confused and scared. Clearly, he knew his way around a syndicate like the Camarilla and went straight for the vital information. When at last the Prince tired of this game and started to inquire about Vincent’s own organization, he refused to divulge anything.

It confused Sebastian a little. Every other ghoul he’d ever created had hung on his words in an ecstasy that totally drowned out the loss of their former life. They typically begged to repay him for saving them and fell over themselves to please him until he was either amused or disgusted. They certainly didn’t issue desperate pleas and threats about returning to their old life, or try to ply information out of him, or protect their old secrets. But Vincent? Well…there was no doubt that Vincent was affected by Sebastian. Sometimes his eyes lingered on LaCroix as if he wasn’t quite able to look away. But the look there wasn’t puppy love, it was…horror. Hatred. As if Vincent was looking at an old grudge who had wronged him grievously. Something wasn’t right.

He wasn’t in deep enough, that was all. He’d only taken the first sip of vitae – two still remained to form a full blood bond. And he was hardly a pliant individual, that much was evident. For now, Sebastian supposed he’d have to secure the ghoul’s cooperation via commands. “Vincent. When I ask you a question about the High Table, you will answer me directly, honestly, and without embellishments. Do you understand?”

A glazed, vacant look replaced the pitiful one. “I understand.”

There, good. Sebastian let out a breath, only just realizing how tense he had become, and began his inquisition.

He knew a little about the High Table already. It was not so different from the Giovanni, but even larger by membership the Camarilla, and impressive for a human construction. It was difficult to be anyone significant in either the human or kindred underworld without running across the High Table’s activities at some point. But the Autem Imperator (Sebastian might not call him by his title out loud, but he wasn’t forgetting it for an instant in his own mind) offered a unique view of its proceedings. Within minutes, LaCroix knew who held each seat, how communications passed between members, how those communications might be intercepted, into which countries their influence had spread (it was most of them), and even where the Elder resided.

It had been no idle tip, he realized, that suggested he should pay a visit to his home country and rest in the basilica that day. It had been, in fact, pure gold in the form of an anonymous email. He almost passed it up as an attempted ruse or ambush, even with all the power promised by the stranger on the other end. But it also spoke to a Masquerade violation, and even the Nosferatu could not trace it. The sender must have had a contact, someone who could encrypt on their level. So he went personally, just for 24 hours, with the resolution that he would return to the safety of LA as soon as possible.

Remembering at last to the original purpose of his visit, LaCroix asked his ghoul one final question, shortly before landing.

“Do you have an associate who would go by the initial ‘C’?”

Even under domination, he rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Sebastian held out the message on his phone. “Who could this have been?”

“Is it true that you can help someone live beyond death? If you really are I’ve been told you are, then come at once, to Paris. Come to the Sacré-Coeur Basilica just before dawn. If you’re lucky and I’m unlucky, you will find a man there who cannot escape death any other way. If you keep him alive, he will offer you knowledge and power equal to your own, pertaining to a human organization you may know as the High Table. Take him away from me, change him, disappear him, I don’t care. Only save his life and make him happy, and you will have my eternal thanks. He does not know, and will never know, what he means to me.”

- C”

“My bodyguard, Chidi.” His voice was strained almost to the breaking point, and his eyes still fixed on Sebastian’s phone even after the email was closed. Sebastian had no questions about whether he was faking his tearfulness this time.

“A ghoul of your very own, of sorts! Where can I find him?”

Vincent closed his eyes for a moment before mustering an answer. “…He’s dead.”

“Ah, splendid. That saves me a great deal of trouble.”

And then Vincent did what no ghoul, whether on one sip of vitae or three, should have been capable of doing. He sprung forward and closed hands around his domitor’s neck.

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

It took Vincent much longer than it should have to recall that Sebastian didn’t need to breathe. By that time, he was already being dragged off by the enormous, visibly supernatural thing that Sebastian had introduced as “The Sheriff.”

“Get this brainless lump off of me!”

“Hey,” The Sheriff grunted. Vincent paid him no mind, and continued addressing LaCroix with exactly as much civility as he deserved, all the while straining against the boulder-heavy hands holding him back.

“You will not SPEAK to me that way and you will not – “ Fuck, he hated the way his voice was shaking… “You will not speak of my bodyguard’s death as – as ‘splendid!’”

“And you will not speak to me at all until you can behave yourself!” LaCroix retorted. “SILENCE!”

The voice seemed to go out of Vincent’s throat. All his resistance had been used up in the outburst and he sunk numbly back into his seat.

LaCroix was panting, a shaking hand against his neck. He adjusted his tie and recovered himself enough to laugh. “Imagine trying to strangle a vampire! And the one holding your life in his hands, no less. You’re one to talk of brainlessness. And just when I was beginning to respect your cunning.” Vincent opened his mouth and nothing came out, so he spat in LaCroix’s face instead.

“Oh for god’s sake - You don’t speak AND you don’t move!” Vincent smiled as he watched LaCroix wipe at his face with a handkerchief, scowling. But another wave of terrible compulsion spread through his limbs, and then he was paralyzed.

It was such a strange feeling, being “dominated.” It was the same magnetism that drew him to LaCroix when he first laid eyes on him (that must be the “vitae” he had spoken about), but stronger, and more concentrated. Making him capable of magnificent feats, making him motivated, drawing his focus, making things important to him. As if a power was bursting out from inside of Vincent. It wasn’t so unlike being high, and not wholly unpleasant. But it was not his to control, not a part of him. It was LaCroix’s, and he hated it for that, and he hated LaCroix for that too. Maybe, if he just held onto that hatred…

But LaCroix’s conversation with his Sheriff broke his concentration. “No, I don’t want him in a cell, much less his own apartment. He’s not fully dominated and it’s a security risk. I don’t understand it, but I need to maintain a tight hold over him even if I have to do it by manual override. He stays in the penthouse, with me.”

If The Sheriff understood that, he conveyed it only by grunting.

Damn it. Any chance to get out of LaCroix’s grasp was slipping away. Again, he struggled to protest, but it was useless. He couldn’t speak. His own body was refusing him. It felt traitorous and alien and there was no one to help him, no one looking for him, no Chidi ever again and absolutely nothing he could do. If he had a voice, he would probably be screaming, he realized. But instead, for the second time that day, he floated on a sea of bloody misery, gasping worse and worse by the second. As the jet went into final descent, its weightlessness hit him in the stomach and drove home a second wave of fear.

LaCroix was watching him, leaning over him, speaking to him, in much the same way one might speak to a broken printer shortly before kicking it. He lay a hand on Vincent’s chest to feel his shallow heartbeat and the very core of Vincent’s being rebelled against the way that it soothed him.

“Why are you not calm? You shouldn’t be feeling this way, I don’t understand why it’s not working…” He fixed LaCroix with the most hateful stare he could manage without moving his facial muscles. Why do you think, you useless fils de pute? He felt tears rolling silently down his cheeks. Fine. Good, even.

Again, LaCroix’s magnetic voice overpowered his will with a rush, even more hideously blissful than before. Perhaps it was more in harmony with him than the last had been... “Be calm, Marquis. I command you. Don’t be so afraid.”

And all the wild contents of his heart slipped away into a soft, empty, merciful void.

◃ Back ⚜ Next ▹(coming soon)

Image Sources: One | Two

[chaosfae-writes]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

synopsis; a tender moment away from the chaos.

pairing; Alicent Hightower x brown!Targaryen!reader

a/n; a drabble for my love, mine all mine. requested by a lovely mutual from ao3. fluff for my gay mothers. they deserve it.

It’s a miracle from the Seven that the raven hasn’t been struck dead by the heat of Alicent’s eyes.

A letter has arrived, hailing from Dragonstone. Princess Rhaenyra declares her soon return to King’s Landing—- the note wrinkles under Alicent’s fingers.

It has been two months.

Two months since the incident with Vaemond—- who broods in his self-pity. He's been a sore thumb, he doesn’t quite mesh well in the king’s court. He reeks of the sea, and his insistence of traveling to Driftmark has not ceased.

Rhaenyra, nor Laenor doesn’t have any inkling that Alysanne has been born. Alicent has relished in her selfishness, savoring all her time with Alysanne, and you.

Even in the past days, Vaemond has barely held Alysanne—- Alicent ensured of that. Now the Realm’s Delight is to return and soil Alicent’s life once more.

A dread burdens Alicent’s mind as she tosses the letter in the fire’s pit, watching it smolder to ash within the flames.

Alicent worries. She worries that Rhaenyra will meddle. Snatch Alysanne under the guise of a doting aunt—- and her plain featured sons mingling with Alysanne, Alicent scoffs under her breath.

A sinking sensation caves inside Alicent’s cavity, her footfalls faltering.

Mutely Alicent enters her chambers, moving in the silence as a mouse.

Her quarters are warm, provided heat from the burning hearth. Thankfully, the windows are shielded by the floor-length double curtains—- white and green. A comforting dimness casts upon Alicent. Candles are lit, providing a dew hue.

A spacious chamber, meant for the queen, her only reprieve. In the corner, is a cradle with toys.

Sniffling as her shaky fingers unclip her earrings—- she stops in her tracks.

On her massive bed, there lay three sleeping lumps huddled.

Alicent quietly steps closer to the bed, a small tender smile curls at her lips. Sunk into the massive stitched quilts, pale and sepia arms interlocked—- and tucked in the middle is a small bundle with short tuft of silver, and chubby brown curling fists.

Helaena rests to the left, as you lay asleep on the right of the mattress. Alysanne stretches her small arms, and settles back in her sleep.

Alicent is grateful that you can understand Helaena—- and be her comfort. Helaena is a painfully shy, and odd child, but she is Alicent’s pride and joy.

That Targaryen strangeness, how sweetly you would coddle Helaena as a little duckling. Especially, when Helaena would get fussy, you always calmed her down.

It’s only you that Alicent fully trusts with her children, how you helped her when she didn’t feel any bond with them when they were freshly born.

Eased the burden of motherhood, let her rest when the children got too rambunctious, and she felt the threads of her sanity snapping.

Alicent quietly sits at the edge, her hand finding rest on your hip, caressing you through the embroidered quilt. A sweet sight that calms Alicent, the stresses melting away from her skin.

Alicent’s hand leans to Alysanne’s little chest, feeling her breathing under her palm. Her finger stroking the plump cheek, her small sleepy huffs. Moving to Helaena’s silver head, curling her hair behind the shell of ear.

Alicent’s body yearns to rest, she stands to get up for her vanity.

Alicent tugs on the emerald fabric, undressing and freeing her flesh. The dress falls in a wrinkled bundle by her feet, leaving her in her undergarment sheath.

Walking to her dresser, as she untangles the gold ringlets from her thick waves. One by one, removing the rings on her fingers —- all but one.

The one you gifted her, on that day on Dragonstone. Alicent can still feel the warmth of the sun, and the sweet whispers of shared vows. She twirls the bejeweled ring between her finger tips, a small smile curls.

Bare from jewelry and confining lace, thick waves of curls bounce down to the nape of spine, Alicent’s eyes gaze through her mirror—— catching yours in the reflection.

She hums a giggle. With a grace to her step, Alicent walks to the bed. Curling under the quilt, you gaze at Alicent sleepily. Cuddling Helaena’s little body to her chest, Alicent interlocks her ankles with yours.

You can tell by the way Alicent’s eyes droop that she’s been thinking too hard —- worrying too hard.

Tenderly, your knuckles graze Alicent’s cheek. “What ails you, my dearest?” The pad of your thumb soothes under her eye, cupping her face. Alicent holds your hand in hers, eyes closing with a dejected sigh.

For a split second, you stare at her red cuticles.

“Nothing of importance.” Alicent says, kissing your wrist. “The council’s insistent bickering over the realm.” She swallows.

It pains Alicent not to be honest with you, but your love for your sister has not yet simmered. She intends to keep you away from Rhaenyra as long as she can, hoping that a distance can be reached between your eldest sister and yourself.

Not only for yourself, but for Alysanne’s future.

“As the Princess, I order you to stay,” both of you giggle quietly. “I command the Queen’s presence.”

“Ah, how could I disobey an order?” Alicent jests. A happy toothy smile. A comfortable heat encases you both. Alicent plays with Alysanne’s soft tuft of hair.

“How did they fair the day?” Alicent asks.

“They fell asleep rather quickly,” you say, looking at the girls adoringly. “Helaena was excited to show Alysanne her toy bugs.”

Alicent scrunches her nose, “I prefer the wooden ones, I found one crawling near my dresser.” You suck in your lips, to stifle the laugh that rips in your chest, shaking.

Alicent tuts, “Pray to the Gods, you don’t discover a beetle dancing in your sheets.” She speaks through a laugh, her smile wanton now. Her cheeks glowing.

Small conversations, and a few kisses flowed through the hour. Within the noon, all fell in slumber, hugging in embrace.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

I was watching the boy, the mole, the horse and the fox, and was one of the lines that made me think of a small scene for a drabble.

Where during a bad storm, as Mc is comforting Julian, holding him close and cuddling under the blanket or in a pillow fort to dampen the noise of the storm. To try and help him relax, Mc says something like, 'When the big things feel out of control, focus on what you love, right under your nose.' Followed by 'The storm will pass.' While gently messing with his hair.

Inspired by this scene from the movie;

https://youtube.com/shorts/Eyxkv8Cyo5w?si=lrsC82nmDliycwoJ

The Arcana Drabbles: Comforting Julian during a storm

You knew as soon as you saw the grey clouds brewing on the horizon that it wouldn't be an easy night for your beloved doctor. What you didn't expect was for it to escalate as quickly as it did. You'd planned to have several more hours before the storm hit, but by the time you made it to the front door of your shared home, the rain was already splattering down in fat drops of water and lightning was crackling across the sky above you.

"Julian? I'm home!"

No response. The house was dark when you walked in, making you wonder momentarily if he was still at his clinic. Another flash of lightning lit up the sitting area as you walked through it and you miraculously heard a faint whimper despite the thunder rolling through the house.

"Julian?"

"Here."

The embarrassed, shuddering whisper came from inside the shadow of the couch. When you rounded the corner, Julian was wound up tight in a ball on the floor, lanky limbs curled in on himself, one hand stuffing his glove into his mouth to muffle the sobs that sent tears streaming down his cheeks. Oh ... it really is bad, this time.

"I'm sorry -" Another rumble of thunder makes him jump, his mouth snapping shut as he tucks his face into his arms. He flinches when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and you can feel the ragged, rapid breathing wrack his bones. His voice cracks when he tries to speak again. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be like this -"

"Don't be sorry," you tell him, "I should've come home sooner."

He doesn't have much to say in response to that, too busy rocking back and forth as he clenches one knee with his fist. You lean forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders and he buries his face into your neck with a sob.

"Can you stand up?"

No response, just a series of quick nods against your shoulder. You lean back and pull him with you towards the bedroom. He's freezing.

"Take off your boots and get under the covers. I'll be right back, okay?"

"Okay." He sniffles shakily and takes a seat on the mattress, fumbling with the ties on his boots in the twilight of your unlit house. You scurry out to the stove to heat up some water and grab a lantern or two.

When you get back, it's to a shivering lump under the thick quilts Mazlinka gave you and a rapidly darkening room courtesy of the rain beating against the window. You set the lantern down on the bedside table among the clutter of his spare eyepatches and patient notes and climb onto the mattress.

"Can I come in?"

You don't get a verbal response, just a corner of the blanket lifting as he makes space for you to join him. He clings to you as soon as you lie next to him, curling his legs up around your hips, pressing his face into your chest, and twisting his fingers into the back of your shirt. You rest your chin on his curls and take slow, even breaths as your wrap your arms around him in turn.

"I'm here."

"Thank you."

The trembling begins to subside, letting you wriggle one arm free to place the hot water bottle you brought with you at his lower back. He shuffles to accommodate a more comfortable snuggling position.

"Ah - that's some lovely warmth, my dear."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm sorr - I mean," he catches himself mid-apology and tilts his head up to meet your eyes, "I'm ... feeling better, I thi-"

Another crash of thunder makes him jump, and you can feel the shivers running through his body as you hold him close. You can tell he's trying to hold himself together by the strain in his shoulders and neck but that doesn't stop the front of your shirt from slowly soaking with tears. You wrap yourself around him again, feeling him curl up smaller, and bury your nose in his hair.

"When the big things feel out of control, focus on what you love, right under your nose." He stills for a moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath before lifting his face again. You slowly slide his eyepatch off his head and run your fingers through his hair. "The storm will pass."

He loosens his grip, sliding up the sheets to lie face-to-face with you, and offers you a watery smile despite the sound of the wind howling around the corners of the building. "I love you."

"I love you too."

He tangles your fingers with his and pulls them to his chin. "Thank you for being here."

There's so much you want to say to that, but for now a kiss will have to suffice.

[yuesgirlfriend]

of birds and honey

part 1

(simon "ghost" riley x reader) medieval AU

summary: the year is 1312, and your fathers knight follows you to the wood.

The great hills surrounding the castle are a patchwork of green and yellows, as they always are during the summer months. Gray skies up ahead do nothing to dampen the mood of the castle; everyone is bustling about, preparing for the feast marking the new battalions arrival, as if their presence signifies something happier than impending war. 

She can see them, now, where she is perched atop the highest wall-practiced, without fear- in a way her old governesses would have certainly called unbecoming of a lady. But did not the bible speak of the virtues of a young lady- justice, fortitude, among them?

(It takes great fortitude to learn the secrets she has learned, to climb over steep walls like they were bales of hay, to listen to words she would have heard anyway, had she been born a man. Listening from the eaves and skulking about is an act of justice, not a sin.) 

The men, traversing down the trail, look like ants, she thinks- where she sits high above them, balancing on the stone, they look like children's toys. Tiny wooden figures, a small boy's idea of heroes, lined up on the yellow-green patchwork quilt. 

When they finally ride over the moat and into the stronghold, they look like any other collection knights she has seen- some cloaked, some helmetless, all shining in the half clouded, setting sun. 

That night is boisterous and rowdy, like any other feast. The courtyard is crowded with people- servants, villagers, everyone coming together to eat and drink and be merry. The tables are laden with the finest of foods. The smell of roast goose and heron, wine, and vomit hangs in the night air with the shouts and bawdy songs. The new knights drink and eat and throw things, singing their songs with everyone else.  The castle hums with life, every voice and every soul another cell in one great organism. 

(The whole time, she sits quietly as a lady should, but listens as a lady shouldn’t. No one notices, and why would they notice the Lord’s waif of a girl, silently eating at his right hand? The servants, the townspeople, even her father speak of her when they think she isn’t listening- she is, to them, as unnaturally quiet as a changeling and as likely to smile as a mourner. Such a shame, my lord, that  her birth took your wife, god rest her soul. And for the child to not even be a boy…)

The stories that feast are rambling and, wine drunk, but the message is clear- they are hired soldiers with no Christian names, under orders from the king to protect the stronghold that is her home.

But one stands out. The only one still wearing his painted  helmet, and as such doesn’t eat or drink with his companions. Instead, he sits on her fathers left side, speaking in low and gruff tones only when spoken to. 

She picks at her food as her ears pick up words like more men and allies and a thousand dead, all spoken in an accent she thinks more suited to a farmer than a soldier.

As the feast begins to die down, dancers lying about drunk, he walks with her Lord father, presumably to show him a weak point in the castle walls.

She follows along, unseen, silent footsteps trailing behind them in the shadows. The knight with the painted helmet is tall and broad when he waves a hand at a wall that, upon closer inspection, does seem weaker than the rest. A chink in the castle’s armor, he says. 

The fire dies out, people lay around in drunken heaps, and rats are scurrying for food in corners of the room by the time she retires for the night. Her maid is nowhere to be found- based on the way the Scotsman and her were wrapped around eachother earlier, it is likely best not to go looking for her- so she wanders alone to her quarters, a candle in one hand and a half eaten honey cake in the other. 

The halls are dimly lit labrynths, and every footstep she takes makes a wet scuff along the perpetually damp straw covering the chilled stone floors. She does not believe in sneaking about when not needed, and enjoys a reprieve from constant surveillance as she licks honey carelessly from her fingers, focusing more on the sweetness of the honey cake than her surroundings.

And just as she turns the corner to the starcase, a hand shoots out from a shadow  and grabs her arm. 

Her gasp is muffled by a large hand, gloved. His other hand plucks the candle from her grasp, rests it on the narrow windowsill behind him. She scrapes and thrashes at the silver of his forearm, scrambling to reach for the knife at his side before he speaks. 

“Pray, be silent, Lady- I know you are able.”

In response, she bites down on the gloved hand, hard. The man hisses but doesn’t let go, only roughly spins her to face him; and this is when she realizes it is the helmeted knight, eyes and armor shiny in the candlelight. 

She shoves at his arms, and he concedes, letting her retreat three steps up the stairs before he takes her by the hand again. 

“Release me, sir, or you will not enjoy the consequences,” She hisses. Something furious inside her is growing like a wildfire. 

“I meant no offense, but only to warn you, fair lady,” he says, seemingly contrite, but with mirth in his voice. Is he smiling, behind that hideous helmet? 

“Warn me?” She rips her hand from his. “Of what? Churlish knights, skulking behind corners?” She turns to go. 

“You are one to scold on skulking behind corners, Lady. ” Her feet freeze where they are on the steps. 

 “Yes.” His voice is rough. “You are not as invisible as you may think- not to those trained to see, Lady.  You should exercise more caution, when listenin’ from rafters and castle walls like a little bird.” He tilts his head, eyes trained on her, like a cat looking at a tree it’d like to climb. Or a bird it’d like to claw.

“I have been told you have a lovely mind. It would be a waste to see it dashed on a tower’s stony base.” 

For the first time in ages, she forces her eyes to meet anothers. His are dark, redless, with what looks like coal smudged on his eyelids and undereyes. His eyes never falter from her stare, as would be proper. His pale lashes don’t so much as flutter. 

She turns and continues walking upstairs- but before she rounds the corner, she looks behind and down to where he stands, at the base of the stairs, licking remnants of honey off his glove. 

[miaowitch]

Lonesome Ride (18+)

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Read on Ao3 or below !!

Cole Cassidy / GN!Reader (Overwatch 2)

cw ⋆｡‧˚♡ smut, swearing, grinding, power bottom pov, plot what plot, cumming in pants, high tension, canon/reader

summary ⋆｡‧˚♡

You get swept away by the Deadlock Gang, outlaws and violent maniacs. Or are they? Cole Cassidy is your watchful guardian, but you wonder if he even feels anything as you spend countless nights together. Will he ever reach the breaking point?

1.2k words

It was nice to have moments like this. Alone, resting at an inn for the night. It was the only inn you’d seen in days, traveling with the Deadlock Gang wasn’t for the weak. You wouldn’t consider yourself weak, but being abducted by a gang wasn’t in your plans for the month. Cole Cassidy, the young gun criminal, kept his eye close on you. You were technically his, in every sense of the way. 

Not that you hated the concept of a new life, you were practically begging. With a boring life at home, it was easy to imagine a big adventure. This was your big adventure. You wouldn’t admit it, but it wasn’t a bad life. They weren’t the gang of hardened criminals the paper made them out to be. You weren’t bound, just monitored. You weren’t starved or dehydrated, you were treated like a human. 

Which is what brought you to the inn. Instead of camping for the 5th time on low supplies, Ashe directed the gang to a nearby spot her old friend ran. Cole took responsibility for watching you, but you knew he’d much rather be drinking by the fire with the rest of the gang. He stayed in the wooden chair by the window in the room, chewing idly at a lit cigar. You’d gotten used to being in shared company, sharing a horse with the man had gotten you pretty close. 

Being pressed up with your back to his front, bouncing rhythmically with each gallop. The smell of his cigars was familiar now from being so close against him. You might’ve been a little pent up from the repetitive motion, but that didn’t matter. Cassidy hadn’t said much since you’d made it to the hotel. It was…a little awkward. With a free hand, he played at the brim of his hat that rested in his lap, letting his brown hair lay soft around his face. The radio in the room broadcasted a radio show with the occasional news break. It was easy to forget he was an outlaw in moments like this.

You let out a sigh, breaking the silence between the two of you. It was loud enough for him to make a comment. “Bored?” His deep voice inquired. “I guess.” You laid back onto the bed with another sigh. Your legs hung off the side of the bed, swaying slowly with your boredom. “It’s not like you’re being forced to say.” Cole replied, “You’re the one that asked me to bring you along.” It caused a small twinge in your head. He was annoying. His tone was slightly bitter, but you weren’t sure what was up his ass. 

“I know.” You hissed, shooting back up. “No one is asking you to sit in here, I’m not going anywhere.” Matching his frustrated tone, just to watch his expression shift. “Y’know, I’m not askin’ for your damn attitude either. Y’don’t see me crying!” Cole took the cigar from his mouth, resting it between his pointer and middle finger. “In fact, I didn’t ask for you to ride with me either.” He muttered, but you understood. Then, as if to distract you from the first part, threatened. “Maybe I should just pull someone else in to deal with your crazy ass.” Yet a smile had already formed on your face, realizing what was wrong with Cole Cassidy. 

Your fists clenched around the fabric of the quilt laid on the bed. Leaning forward just slightly, you figured you would try something. “What was wrong with riding with me?” Asking that made him tense up. The brim of his hat became clenched in a fist. The hat rested higher in his lap now, holding it tight to hide his tightening pants. “Do you really not want to deal with me anymore?” Standing up, you stood in front of him, as if showing off in your thin sleepwear. “Now..I-I didn’t say that.” He cleared his throat, avoiding your stare and placing the cigar back between his lips.

Stepping closer, you now stood with your knees almost touching the chair he sat on. Standing between his open knees, he now couldn’t look anywhere else. Now, he looked right at you. Hooded eyes, he needed something that he wouldn’t admit to. “Are you okay, Cassidy?” Sharply, he inhaled as you moved away his hat, placing it right on your head. “Couldn’t big bad Cole Cassidy say he wanted to fuck me?” You smile, teasing him as his face flushes with a deep blush. You slowly crawl onto his lap, legs falling on the side of his own.

“Ohh, darlin’....please..” Cassidy begs under your grasp. Thighs placed on either side of his legs, straddling him while putting pressure in the center of his groin. You adjust, grinding up on his coarse jeans. “Please what?” You ask with an innocent tone, keeping quiet for no reason at all. Cole squirmed, looking down between the two of your bodies. Grinding up onto his lap, the thin fabric of your pajamas didn’t leave much to the imagination of what’s beneath his jeans. You let a hand hold onto his shoulder, the other closed the lace curtains behind Cassidy. 

Now his hands gripped onto you, guiding you…using you. His right hand held onto your waist, his left onto your thigh. You let out quiet moans, sensitively twitching each lap you’d make on his hard cock pressed on your crotch. The only reaction he’d given was a furrowed brow while pulling you harder onto his dick. He groaned, laying his head onto the center of your chest. “Gh- Please, don’t stop.” Cole pleaded, his teeth gritted onto the cigar that still sat between his lips.

As if you could stop, with the combined desperation from you and Cassidy’s grasp on you, but it just wasn’t an option. Your speed quickened the longer you went on, teasing at him through the same dusty jeans you’d been grinding against for days now. Cole wouldn’t announce it, but you knew he was close when he started bucking his hips up against you. Startling you, but it’s not as if it was unwelcome. You now held on tighter to keep up with the ride, arousal was intoxicating the two of you, you needed this probably just as much as Cole did. Choking on your name, he repeated it like gospel. As if you were just to be used by his own pleasure, his hands now moved to your ass. Giving him more control with your motion in his firm grasp. 

Combining his forceful moving of your ass against his now throbbing dick, and bucking his hips up; Cassidy’s only thought was finishing you off. Your chest rose and fell quickly against his face that he buried against you, hiding from your teasing smile. Watching him melt under you just grinding against him, watching Cole Cassidy lose himself without even taking his pants off. He moaned out your name in a strained tone, the cigar dropping as he let his guard down. 

His tension melted away under you, fully relaxing while you still sat on his lap. Panting, but not fully satisfied. His head laid back, neck balancing on the back of the table chair. Eyes closed for just a second before cracking one open to look at you. Still looking, hoping he wasn’t done. A sly grin finally cracked on his face, “Look who’s beggin’ now.” He chuckled, grabbing back onto your ass and standing up. Lifting you in his arms, he kissed your quivering lips. Carrying you closer to the bed, and mentally preparing for a long night.

[colettebronte]

She Rings Like a Bell Through the Night: Chapter 2

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Bridgerton Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Anthony Bridgerton x Witch!fem Reader

Summary: In 1695, a young woman is chosen as a sacrifice to appease the will of her village's Protector. The resulting encounter is formative for both of them and though parted, our heroine spends the ensuing years learning about herself, the craft and about the man who still haunts her dreams, over three centuries later

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: 18+ for the overall fic. For this chapter,  not much except for flirty banter and a bit of hot kissing. Minors DNI. I will put this up on Ao3 so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: Despite my firm denials, this fic WILL INDEED be a bit of an epic. I’m honestly not sure how many chapters this will be. I’m now aiming for six, but WHO KNOWS? Certainly not me! Thank you to the AWESOME @fayes-fics for betaing 🫶❤️

Later That Night, Somewhere in Rural England, 1695

Fingers entwined, Anthony leads you down a small set of stone steps and into his bedchamber. Though underground and therefore windowless,, the room is beautifully appointed and well-lit by candle sconces adorning the walls and a small fireplace in the corner. But you can only stare open-mouthed at the bed. Back home, you slept on a small, thin straw mattress with a scratchy, barely-serviceable blanket.

 But this bed is large, taking up most of the wall it sits against. It is covered in a beautiful dark blue quilt with what must be his family crest embroidered in gold. It is all topped off with an abundance of soft-looking pillows. Without thinking, you brush your hand over the quilt and it is indeed as soft as you imagined.

A quiet chuckle pulls you from your reverie. Embarrassed, you turn to look at Anthony.

“I apologize,” you start to say, but he cuts you off.

“There’s no need. I’m glad it pleases you,” he says quietly before adding, “You’re welcome to lie down and rest for a bit while I go back up and clean.”

You look between him and the bed. You squeeze his fingers, still laced with yours. “You will come join me after you're done, won’t you?”

Anthony smiles softly. “If that is what you desire.”

The way he says the word ‘desire’ brings heat to your belly and you can only nod.

“Very well,” he rumbles before releasing your hand. “Please make yourself as comfortable as you wish. If you’d like to change, there are clothes in the trousseau over there.” He gestures to a place beside the bed to a beautifully carved hardwood chest that you hadn’t noticed before.

Biting your lip, you ask, “Did they belong to the former sacrifices?”

Anthony furrows his brow. “Sacrifices? Is that truly what they call you?”

You nod and Anthony huffs in frustration. “That has never been the intended . . . ,” he stops himself mid-sentence. “I apologize. My desire has always been that whoever crosses the bridge from the village has come over willingly. The fault is mine that it has become muddled over time. Please know that anything that happens tonight, you have every right to either consent to or not and should you say no, I will not fault you for it.”

Now you are the one to furrow your brow. His words are in direct contrast to everything The Elders have drilled into the young women of the village practically from birth. “But what of all the ones who come here? They never return to the village.”

Anthony sits heavily on the bed. “That, too, is their choice. I offer to either lead them back or give them a sack of coins to start a new life elsewhere. For more years than I can count, they have all chosen the coins.

You sit beside him, your view of things wholly changed. Of course they did. It’s a choice you know you’ll make too. Except . . . . . 

You take his hand in yours, lightly tracing the lines on his palm with the tips of your fingers. Despite the warmth in the room, his hand remains as cool as it was when you first clasped hands.

Taking a deep breath you say, “There is something else I desire.”

Anthony closes his fingers around yours. His voice is a quiet rumble as he asks, “And what is that?”

You brush your free hand over your pendant, offering up a silent prayer for courage. “Will you teach me what pleasure is?”

His nostrils flare and then, before you can blink, he pulls you into his lap. You gasp as his nose once again goes to your throat, inhaling deeply. Your eyes slide closed as he shifts so you’re sitting facing him. The heat that pools in your belly turns from a flickering candle’s flame to the roar of a bonfire in an instant. He lifts his head to rest his forehead against yours, dark eyes staring deeply into yours.

His voice is rough as he says, “It would be my greatest desire to do so,” he pauses and then muses, “There is something wholly different about you, but I cannot place it just yet. But lucky for us, I have the rest of the evening to figure it out.”

**********

Anthony forgoes returning upstairs to clean up in favor of staying with you. He helps you to stand while he turns down the bed. The gold embroidery catches the light and you run a gentle hand over it. On closer inspection it looks similar to the crest you’ve seen in the village square on a large stone statue of Lord Edmund, the village founder, though long faded by time and weather.

“Is this your family crest?”

Anthony pauses in moving some of the pillows. “It is. My family used to live in the village, but that was before . . . .” he cuts himself off and winces, clearly plagued by a bad memory. He physically shakes it off and resumes clearing the bed.

You slowly put the pieces together in your mind. He must be a descendant of Lord Edmund who founded the village centuries ago and gave the village his surname. Hence the title of The Protector was passed down to Anthony.

Once done, he comes around the side of the bed to stand before you, gently pulling you into his arms. You inhale sharply at the contact, the heat in your belly igniting once more, traveling up and down your spine to settle in your sex.

Anthony’s nostrils flare again. It’s as if he can detect the effect he has on you. And perhaps, as inexperienced as you are, your tells are obvious. The light in the room catches his eyes and sets them glittering. You find it mesmerizing as you gaze up at him.

“Do you still desire me to teach you about pleasure?”

In answer, you lean up on your toes, press your lips to the corner of his mouth and breathe out, “Yes please.”

When you stand back, he stares at you for a long moment and then says, “Well then, let us begin.”

And faster than you can blink, he captures your mouth in a passionate kiss full of heat and flame. He lifts you up and on instinct, you wrap your legs around his waist as he walks towards the bed.

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @laniec03 @queenofmean14 @jtheteenagewitch @sky0401

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHT: VEAL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the eighth chapter in the series. Apologies for the reupload, the first was the incorrect version.

---

You lie in Hannibal’s bed like a bird fallen dead through a window, the back of your hand across your brow, to its fevered heat. The muted rush of the shower sifts under the bathroom door, or perhaps it is only the rain, or both at once, a sonic symmetry.

You feel something of yourself washed away in it, a dune left dry in your defeat. Almost in apathy you turn on your side, thighs closed over the moisture between.

Hannibal returns to the bed in pyjama bottoms, his hair damp, and smelling expensively clean. Rather than meet his eyes, you look at the pictures over the bed— Japanese woodblock prints, you think, the figures rendered indistinguishable by the hearth-lit dark.

“Why did you break into my house?” you ask, as Dr Lecter climbs in under the sheets, beside you.

“I curate all things in my life with ambition to procure their highest quality,” he says. “Frequently this entails a thorough knowledge and familiarity with their origins. I had to be quite certain of yours before I began our therapy.”

You envision him, in the market of life, touching your name in the letter your parents had sent to him for the synaesthesic taste of you.

“Like going to a vineyard to look at the grapes,” you say.

Hannibal smiles, charmed by the observation.

“Quite so. I believe you would make a most excellent wine.”

“Spit me out,” you mutter. “Pour me away. I’ll spoil.”

“Or age into magnificence. You dismiss your latent potential.”

You feel one of Hannibal’s deft hands tracing your back as comfortably as a paramour of ten years’ intimacy, a subtle exertion of dominance. Each stroke is a statement: I am king here, and you will kneel with your lips to my shoe.

You shrug from his touch, carving a gully of mattress between you.

“What makes what you’re doing to me any different from the Silicone Lover?” you ask. “To me, you’re one and the same. What makes you any better than he is?”

There is a practised caution as Hannibal answers.

“An elevated craftsmanship. There is little artistry in his dolls.”

The weather makes an ocarina of the windowpane, so like a scream as to be a cipher of dread.

“You’d murdered people, haven’t you?” you ask, softly. “I can feel it.”

Silence, then, densely impenetrable. You dare not glance over your shoulder, nor take even a breath in the certainty that you have smelled death on this man like a fox.

“You are tired, little one,” says Hannibal. “Go to sleep.”

He speaks almost blandly, the deflection more terrible than an answer.

“You’re not going to... do it with me again?” you ask.

Hannibal looks up at you from his pillow, his eyes a gelid null. To prise his face, lid-like, from its cistern of penumbra— you would give your heart to do it, eager to part with so useless an object in the trade.

“In the morning, perhaps,” says Dr Lecter. “Not now. Rest.”

As though by the conjuration of some fell magician you do, lying as far from the man as you’re able without tumbling from the edge of the bed.

You dream again of the forest, dirt-drowned and blood-mired in the October deep. The stag-horned man has his spade to your throat, one foot on the blade; only a second figure, a streak of night, coaxes the digger from his mortal blow.

“No,” he says, in Will Graham’s voice. “I want to keep her.”

The nightmare closes on the stag-man’s answer.

“Then, for your sake, she lives tonight.”

*

The light is the blue of Neptune’s morning as you choke awake in Hannibal’s room. Your dream hangs upon you like a mantle of lead. You wait for it to lift, and it doesn’t, for the stag lies beside you, his face made gentle by sleep.

As you lean over to extract yourself from the quilt his hands are at your wrists with an oily quickness, holding them above your head against the pillows. Fear thickens your throat, stoppering the cartilage of all ensuing sound— yet Hannibal is smiling, as he peers down at you, quite playful, a laddish glee about him.

“It’s early,” he says. “Are you so eager to leave my bed already?”

“Yes,” you say. “Obviously.”

Dr Lecter draws back the sheet to look at your body, a hand following his gaze until you are wet around his fore and middle fingers.

“Not so obvious. You welcome me.”

The head of his cock meets its slick mark, and you pull at the fist that restrains you, shamed and flushing against your delicacy in his arms.

You’re as supple as leather against him, the slow wax of his cock in your channel unfairly pleasant.

“I don’t want it,” you whimper even as you ache to ribbon your legs about his hips to lead him in. “Dr Lecter—”

He takes your jaw in his hand, the cup of his thumb against your windpipe recalling his deathly potentiality. You feel his pulse through it, and wonder that such a man can be alive, is not merely a vampiric creature stepped from some crumbled ruin, bloodless, wanting.

“Are you going to murder me, one day?” you ask him, in a child’s plaintive whimper. “If you do, don’t just throw my body away, like the Lover. Send me home to my family. Say it was my fault. An accident. Just let them bury me.”

Hannibal releases your throat, opening his hand, instead, against your heart as though he may rejoin its broken halves with its warmth, a soft, red, clay.

“You must trust that your life is precious to me,” he tells you. “It becomes more so with each day that you are here.”

Were you free of him you’d recoil, but now can only wince and utter your rejection of what is surely a saccharine lie.

Hannibal’s grip tightens on your wrist, and as he thrusts into you again you shut your eyes against the Lyrid shower of orgasm. You sense him leaning over you, pleased that you’re fawning when you could fight.

The Silicone Lover’s victims didn’t resist, and they died for it, floating, forgotten, through the lichenous entrails of the riverbed. You think of your dream, relieved from your grave by the man that first fucked you, and you realise yourself on the cusp of some epiphany, though its nature eludes you in the midst of ministrations.

A telephone rings, shrill in the sapphire room.

Dr Lecter presses an apologetic kiss to your brow and withdraws, still hard, pulling his pyjama shirt around him.

“Excuse me, my dear.”

He picks up the telephone receiver and leaves the room with it, noiseless as a spectre on bare feet.

You lie, prone, hearing your heart thump against your temporal membrane in a tinnitus that returns in times of particular agitation. As a child you’d imagined it as boot steps along some grimy underpass, the approach of some villain without a face you now know to have come.

Hannibal reappears, his expression guarded.

“It seems we are to receive another visitor today. My colleague, Alana Bloom, would like to speak to you.”

You climb out of bed, sucking a breath through your teeth at the cold.

“Really?” you ask. “How come?”

“Jack’s taken a liking to you. He has asked Alana to act as a neutral third party throughout your treatment.”

Though as cordial as ever, you discern a particular coolness to Hannibal’s tone you take as disapproval.

“You know I didn’t really tell Jack anything, right?” you ask, following Hannibal into the bathroom. “He doesn’t know what you’ve done to me. He has no idea.”

“No,” says Hannibal, taking his toothbrush from a cabinet by the sink. “But you’ve given him cause to believe you’d fare better in a specialised unit, amongst your peers. That’s not the impression you’ve given me.”

You think of the competition of inpatient treatment, amongst the women, the ferocity with which you’d starve yourself to shame their ranks with your commitment.

“My doctors used to threaten to send me to Forest Ranch or Six Stream,” you say. “They were like bogeymen for me. Now I... I don’t know. I heard they don’t let you out until you’re weight restored.”

Dr Lecter watches you plucking at your body in the mirror, an unconscious motion you withdraw from as you catch his eye.

“That’s not what I seek to accomplish,” he says. “It would be a predictable outcome in which relapse would be imminent. Here, I only expect flexibility from you, an open mind. Belief in my guidance.”

He pauses to brush his teeth, even this menial act carried out with a dignified grace.

“But Dr Lecter,” you protest. “If someone did what you’ve done here to Will, you’d want him to try and get away, right? You can’t be mad at me for trying.”

Hannibal spits into the sink, and it occurs to you that you’ve witnessed something quite intimate, an act unimaginable of such a sophisticated man.

“Any action that threatens my liberty to act and live as I please will be penalised,” he says. “I value my freedom above all things.”

Except Will, you think.

Aloud, you say, “I value my freedom, too.”

Reaching politely across you to the hand towel, Hannibal comments, “Yet it is hunger you kneel to as your God.”

Stung, you sit down hard on the rim of the bath.

“What would you have me worship instead?” you demand. “You?”

“A dangerous question. Priestesses in many cultures have been known to abstain from sustenance in servitude to higher powers. Likewise, some saints historically starved themselves to imitate the suffering of Christ, or else to demonstrate a miracle.”

Hannibal touches your chin, smoothing its obstinate edge.

“Were you to survive on manna alone would you think yourself relieved of what crosses you bear? Or is it that in evading sustenance you are purifying yourself in order to be worthy of an immaculate God?”

There is something in his words you relate to, though you’d lie on a bed of nails before expressing this to Hannibal Lecter.

“Come downstairs,” he says, into your silence. “I’ll make breakfast. Don’t misbehave, when Alana arrives. I wouldn’t want to be ashamed of you.”

*

There is something in the avocado toast, or else the accompanying orange juice, a medicinal venom. You think of past nights you’d drank yourself into a mirage of vertigo, each ending, moaning, on a bathroom floor as though the liquor had changed you back to the child you’d been in Jekyllian fashion.

You are like that now, gawky and uncoordinated, walking flat-footed in Hannibal’s wake as he makes order of the living room in preparation for Alana’s arrival.

Overfull, you wear your body like an ill-fitting dress, its clinging garments a mile from the outsize sweaters you yourself would have chosen. Shapeless, smothering, warm were your selections, in swatches of Nyx, lacquered nails and canvas shoes to match.

The colour of your dress is of suitable darkness, if not the style of it. Your teenage years remain indelible upon your sense of taste, time seeming to have broken down like an ancient engine in the decade your starving manifesto began.

Today you feel even younger still, a state contrived by Dr Lecter to tighten his control upon you in company, and make an obedient daughter of his embittered victim.

With scarce hope of turning any friend of Hannibal’s against him, you conform to his rigid will. Curling up with your head on the arm of the sofa, you count out seconds into minutes, another childhood habit.

Hannibal turns to you, appraising your ennui with a dry amusement.

“You’ll like Alana, my darling,” he says. “Just as you liked Jack.”

“Would they like you if they knew what kind of man you are, Dad?” you ask, cuttingly.

“They would not. That is why there are many faces I wear, and with them I choose only the most pleasant mask.”

Dr Lecter glances at another of his favoured woodblock prints on the wall, a depiction of kabuki actors in varying guises, and you see with a cold vein of shock that he has, across the house, hung up his soul for all to see, if only they knew it.

“You, too, take pains to manufacture appearance,” says Hannibal. “You play the part of the embittered introvert well, but there is a quarter of darkness, even a malice that is beginning to ascend the oubliette you have built to keep it in.”

Snorting, you shove your face under one arm.

“Wonder why.”

“I saw it in my office. It long precedes Will and I.”

There comes a jaunty little knock on the front door, the sound of a guest entering the foyer.

Dr Lecter smooths his manner into one of welcoming warmth, an alarming opposition to the man that fucked and restrained you to the tragedy of climax but two hours past.

Footsteps tread lightly through the house, with the click of low-heeled boots.

Alana Bloom appears, her hair smoke dark, her narrow eyes the blue of an enchantment, and of Hannibal’s room. Something of winter, in her beauty, pale skin whiter still against a suit of fitted darkness.

As with all women you meet, you analyse Alana, helplessly, finding her slim in the way that suggests health, but not restriction; you would know it at once from the shape of the bones in her hand or shoulder blade, a bloodlessness of the lips, a slow death in her gaze, the fairy-tale of hunger.

Some disorders of eating are invisible even to your eye, of course, thinness being no requirement for the trickster king of starving, but it is one guise it wears, when close to the edge, and the most familiar. Alana, however, is rosy with an undeniable vigour, having the face of a woman that adds sugar, unthinking, to her coffee, and enjoys a beer after a long afternoon.

She is the unachievable: beautiful, and well. You are suddenly, sourly jealous.

As Hannibal casts a mild glance towards Alana you see that there is a comfortable and entirely mutual attraction between them. This woman does not know the depths of Hannibal’s carnality, imagines him an affable eccentric, a sometime lover, nothing more. She returns his look with a crooked smile, and again there is that sanguine pulse of envy through you, turning you almost against her.

“I’ll leave you alone, for a moment,” says Dr Lecter, lightly. “I’m sure you’ll find Jack’s concerns largely unwarranted.”

“We’ll see,” says Alana, then, addressing you, she adds, “Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.”

You watch Hannibal dissipate into the shadows of the doorway, doubting he goes much further than the wall beyond.

“Hi,” you say, at last, quite listlessly.

Your mouth is loose around the word. You’ve never wanted less to speak.

“You know who I am, and why I’m here to see you today?” Alana ventures.

Her voice is soft, level, the tones of therapists the world over. Perhaps she hopes to incur a bond between you, to pierce your ice with a pick of female sensitivity.

“I know about you,” you say. “Dr Lecter told me.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

You see the tension in Alana’s forehead, an attempt to read the glaze in your eyes and coiled skink of your posture.

“You’ve made quite a friend in Jack already,” she says. “Usually he wouldn’t get involved with any of Hannibal’s work outside the FBI, so him asking me to see you means a lot. I want you to understand that. I’d also like you to know that while we’re both close to Dr Lecter, if this situation truly isn’t right for you, we’ll express that.”

Unmoved, you pluck at the edge of a couch cushion, letting Alana wade through the quiet alone.

“I have to admit that I was shocked to hear that you were staying here with him,” she says. “It’s... unusual. I’m still trying to figure out that decision.”

With Hannibal listening, an omnipotent threat, you only blink, rubbing your socked foot against the carpet.

“But,” Alana continues, sitting down beside you, “Hannibal has explained to me that he thinks you’d be unhappy in a facility.”

You edge away from her, trying not to look at her slender wrists, the small, lacquered fingers.

“Well,” you mutter. “I’m not happy here.”

“You weren’t happy at home either, so I’m told,” says Alana, softly. “So where would you be happy?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t felt it in a while, I guess.”

Misery overcomes you, and you begin to shiver, which Alana, with seamless tact, elects to ignore.

“When was the last time you were happy that you remember?” she asks, and you shake your head.

“You won’t like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Rubbing your eyes with the side of one hand, you say, “It was at my lowest weight. I felt so light, full of, you know, good cheer and kindness towards people because it was just easy to be nice when I felt good about myself. I knew I looked sort of scary, but I thought I looked sort of amazing, too.

“It’s weird. How I hated how sick I was. I hated myself, and I cried all the time, and yet I loved it. I felt like I belonged somewhere— there was this community for people like me, and I fit in. I was one of the best. Then the doctors said I had to gain weight, and it was all ruined. I lost my place, and I was back to feeling awful every minute of the day.”

You take a breath, cursing the childishness of your every mannerism, that you are so much less of a woman than the being beside you.

“Here, Dr Lecter controls everything,” you say. “Not one single thing is my choice, or what I’d do. I don’t even have a TV in my room. Everything I ask, he says no. I don’t have a future. Everything feels grey and pointless, and I wish he’d just leave me alone.”

Something pushes against one of your fists: a subtle square of tissue.

“I agree that there needs to be quite a few changes around here,” says Alana. “Maybe we can start by asking Dr Lecter to set you some short-term goals. Has he discussed any with you yet?”

“He wants me to finish a book,” you say, reluctantly. “The Idiot. Dostoevsky.”

Alana’s low brows rise.

“Wow. That sounds a little intimidating.”

The statement could easily be patronising, but isn’t. Like Jack, Alana has her reservations, and does not conceal them.

“So far it’s actually pretty good,” you say. “Sad, though. It’s about this poor guy who’s sort of in frail health, and seems kind of strange, so everybody is horrible to him. Every chapter you hope somebody will understand him or treat him right, and nobody ever does.”

“I see,” says Alana. “Maybe Hannibal is trying to make you be a little kinder to yourself. You’re an intelligent, creative young woman with a future ahead of you. I think Dr Lecter sees that in you, wouldn’t you agree?”

The affection in her eyes is so sure, so wrongly led, that it breaks you like antique glass.

“Alana,” you say. “What if I told you that Hannibal was—”

You remember his presence, suddenly, eavesdropping as you yourself have often done.

Alana frowns, her folded hands stilling in her lap.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Don’t answer, you think, but your tongue unlatches of its solitary accord to speak.

“I don’t feel safe around Will and Hannibal. I don’t really like... men. There are things that have happened to me. I— I feel dirty all the time. When they look at me, touch me, it’s exactly like that.”

“I promise you that Will and Hannibal are not like that at all,” Alana says, firmly.

“You don’t know that,” you snap. “You don’t. They could lie to you.”

Alana looks at you for a long time before she answers, treading a pinched line between sympathy and duty.

“If something happened to you, I can help you report it. Even if it was a long time ago. Historic cases are a lot harder to prove in court, but it might benefit you to have it on record.”

“And if it was recently?” you ask, with daring abandon.

“Depending how recently, there’s a process you’d follow,” says Alana. “For instance, you could go to a hospital and have a rape kit taken. They’d document the evidence, take photographs, and your statement. It would be thorough and difficult, but it would help you find justice. Is that something that would be helpful right now?”

Forthright and serious, she nevertheless does not—cannot—believe that Will and Hannibal are your injurers, looking back through the tunnel of past at some assailant yet unnamed.

“I was just wondering,” you mumble, and Alana withdraws, realising she cannot get through to you.

“Alright,” she says. “I’m going to have a talk with Hannibal. See if he’s willing to make some adjustments for your comfort. I’ll come and see you again in a week or so to check in on you. It’ll be nice to catch up.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It will. Bye, Alana.”

You look down, seeing the tissue ripped into dehydrated snowflakes in your hand.

Quietly, sensitively, the woman leaves.

It is half an hour before Hannibal renters the room, danger lying, flat-bellied, beneath his affable smile.

“I overheard your conversation, with Alana,” he says, plainly. “The thread of some notion of leaving with her. Of alerting the police. Let it go. I will never leave a trace of myself within you when guests are expected, little one.”

He pauses, seeming to search your face for a response that is not there.

“You don’t expect to see justice.”

You allow the pieces of tissue to fall from your hand, picking off the last damp shreds with the border of one bitten fingernail.

“No.”

“Then your attempts to escape are entirely self-harming,” says Hannibal, in genuine disappointment. “All your life you’ve been looking for someone to take responsibility for the acts that you must do to survive. To be caged, to you, is liberty, for behind such bars you’ll no longer be culpable for shame or failure. Why do you spurn what I would gladly give?”

“It wasn’t given,” you say. “It was forced.”

“By necessity, yes. For you to consent, you would have been made to acknowledge your own sin, and you’re not capable of that, are you, little one?”

Hannibal leans down and kisses a tear from your cheekbone.

“Soon, you will attend a therapy session with me. You will tell me what you were on the verge of offering to Alana.”

*

In the early evening, Will Graham arrives; you see him crossing the driveway from a window, pulling a leaf from one wayward curl with a grimace. Since Alana’s visit you’ve been on the couch in a drugged malaise, but upon hearing him stamp dirt from his shoes on the welcome mat you are taken up by the senseless notion to go to him.

He is not Hannibal. He is the man that saved you from the earth, in your dreams. A beast, but one you may learn to ride, being that, in his rudderless madness, he seeks companionship in the dark.

Certainly, you are not yourself, to think this, are exhausted to the point of insensibility by Hannibal’s slow cruciation of the mind.

Orphaned from logic, you run to Will, catching him as he strolls through the foyer. You behold a startled look of horror before you leap into his arms, unable to articulate yourself beyond a howl of sobbing hurt. He stands, ossified against you, an indurate oblong of disgust.

Then, with the suddenness of resignation, he sags into a nearby chair with you in his lap and rocks you there until you quiet.

His heart is quick under his shirt, his hands at your back quaking, dismayed. Glancing up, you see his mouth is a near lipless line, but then it breaks, and he hushes you, more as though you are a pet than human.

“An unexpected sight,” says Hannibal, looking into the foyer. “I didn’t think you had much liking for our girl.”

Will grinds his teeth.

“I don’t. But I do pity her. I’m afraid that by the time we’re done with this experiment she’ll be dissolved by our cruelty.”

“Like the little mermaid by the sea,” Hannibal comments. “Condemned by love’s rejection. Will you continue to rebuff her, after this?”

“I’ve been participating since the beginning.”

“And so you see that cruelty is often a necessary force. A common occurrence in nature, and in the culinary world. Veal is a biblical evil, for example, infanticide for the selfishness lusts of men.”

“We’re selfish, alright,” says Will, adjusting your weight in his arms. “Besides, doesn’t cruelty affect the flavour of the meat?”

Hannibal laughs indulgently.

“Are you intending to eat her, Will?”

The younger man lifts his chin.

“Are you?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” Dr Lecter replies, with a wicked merriment. “But in the other, we’ve both sampled her, and have no regrets. Do we?"

[iifishizzleii]

Touchy Ronald Weasely

Ron, who grew up the ‘cuddle bug’ of the family, was an incredibly tactile fellow. He was always touching someone, someway, somehow. Whether it was by a hand on their back, an elbow on their shoulder, a hand ruffling their hair.

Harry wasn't used to it, at first. It wasn't a surprise, considering how he was raised by the Dursleys. So, it takes him by surprise just how tactile his new friend is.

When Harry’s unpacking his trunk, Ron sweeps by and claps his hands on the boy’s shoulders before squeezing them. Ron hooks an arm around his shoulders with an easygoing smile as they walk to their next destination. He messes with Harry’s hair even more so when the boy first wakes up and Ron is passing his head.

Ron fixes his glasses from across the damn table during supper.

But, to Harry’s surprise, he isn't put off by it. He doesn't jump like how he used to when Uncle Vernon or Dudley suddenly slammed their hammers of a hand down on him. He doesn't flinch or pull away.

It's probably because Ron has ‘comfort’ hands. Hands that carry a reassuring weight, warm and friendly.

And Harry isn't the only one who notices this.

Once, when Hermione and Ron were going to visit Harry, who’d landed himself in Madam Pomphrey’s care after a Quidditch game, she’d nearly walked right off a moving staircase.

But, Ron had snagged her back before it was too late. He wasn’t even harsh with it, quickly grabbing Hermione by the sleeve of her robe and tugging her back. He then fixed her uniform, deftly smoothing it back in place with an eye roll.

Ron only scolded her, commenting something about, “The brightest of the century witch being killed by a staircase,” although Hermione doesn't remember. Her heart was beating too quickly in her chest, cheeks burning.

She's pretty sure that's where it all began.

And when they're dating, and Hermione shows him her O.W.L’s (which she passed with flying colors), Ron is reaching down to cup her face. Hermione stands there with a bashful smile, giggling as he peppers her face in kisses and praises.

Ron is always touching her when they date. He leans on her shoulder, plays with her hair while she studies, and fiddles with the fingers of her free hand as she uses the other to flip through the book she reads.

Hermione isn't used to having a friend (much less boyfriend) be so touchy-feely, but with Ron, it just feels right. So, Hermione welcomes the change eagerly.

Bonus:

And then, both Hermione and Harry find out that Ron is a little spoon.

It's their eighth year, months after the war between Hogwarts and Voldemort. None of them can stand to be apart from each other— especially Ron, who’d been grieving the lost of his brother.

So, one night, on a night when he knows this is something all of them need, Ron drags the two to the Gryffindor Common Room. And then, he's piling them together under quilts handmade by Molly, tucked near a dimly lit candle.

If Ron sticks himself between them, neither Harry nor Hermione comments on it. They simply wrap their arms around their friend, eyes slowly closing as they tangle up under the blankets.

It's how the First Years find them hours later, the trio a sleeping mess of limbs, a blanket strewn to the side, Harry’s nose buried in Ron’s shoulderblade, a leg tossed over him, while Hermione’s face is pressed into Ron’s chest, a knee resting against Harry’s thigh.

[moonsavior]

Cotton Tail

☆ Summary: Heaven & Xavier spend their day-off in bed.

☆ WARNINGS: Domestic, Pre-established Relationship, explicit sexual content

🐇⭐️🐇 ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 🐇⭐️🐇

'Went 2 get coffee. B back soon. - Your Partner'

It was an early winter morning.

Straggling birds chirped into the clear blue-yellow sky, and Heaven Uhuru had the day off. She lounged in the bedroom, lying prone with her feet kicked in the air and her relaxation candles lit as she scrolled through her phone.

With her partner gone, so too went a major heat source for Heaven, which turned into the opportune moment to done her big, fluffy Christmas apparel that Xavier recently bought her.

With a white thong underneath that she bought to match, of course. To balance her body temperature.

"You look nice."

Surprised, Heaven turned her head to the doorway and smiled at Xavier, finally returned from his coffee run. He seemed momentarily stunned standing in the doorway.

"You look nicer."

Heaven held open her arms, the only invitation Xavier needed to put the hot coffee basket down and fall back into her arms.

What started out as a quiet, sweet kiss turned to Xavier stealing quick kisses between Heaven's giggles.

She pulled away slightly.

"What kind of coffee did you get?"

"I brought coffee?" Xavier stared at her in confusion.

If she didn't put her lips back against his soon, he'd begin pouting.

Except, when he tried to continue, she would move the goal from left to right, only granting him last-minute cheek kisses.

Which was fine. Her cheeks were so soft, and he loved rubbing against each other any other time.

However, this time, she was wearing that, and Xavier's eyes were already dilated, so this simply wouldn't be enough.

An otherworldly gleam appeared in Xavier's eyes.

His hands roamed her warm, brown skin. She smelled so good, like cocoa and the perfume he'd bought her.

Their bodies naturally cuddled together, but the way Xavier slotted himself against her made his sweatshirt ride up to reveal nothing underneath, same as her.

Their heated abdomens pressed together made her slightly dizzy.

"Woah... Have you been working out?"

Heaven blushed.

He knew she did. There was still a hickey below her navel.

They had just had an intense training session the other day following Xavier's ridiculous training regimen. It involved a penalty game if Heaven wasn't able to meet the requirements of each workout.

Needless to say, Xavier's required training proved too much to bear.

She had been worked out, more like.

"I can tell you have. You're so strong, Bun."

Xavier praised Heaven, which embarrassed her and made her hide her blushing face behind her hands. To help, Xavier pinned her down and held her face in his hands so she couldn't escape his praise.

"You're pretty when you're struggling." Xavier smirked.

Moving his hands from her face to her hips, he slid his long frame off of Heaven's short figure to cradle her from behind.

Xavier slid her panties to the side, the damp material nestled comfortably against the back of his wrist. He palmed her messy lips so securely that his fingertips "accidentally" probed inside of her.

"Why'd you come in here ready to start something?" Heaven asked, dazed.

"Me start something?" He answered incredulously, "This is your fault. Look at what you're wearing."

In her somewhat appeased state, Xavier made them both fall to their side on their cushy Starry Night quilt.

"You bought it."

Distracted by his hand, Heaven could only rest comfortably on her back, so Xavier nestled her into his side before recapturing her attention with a long, tender kiss.

He coaxed the cutest little notes from her, depending on where his fingers stopped dragging out of her. Until he discovered that two knuckles deep made her sing a particularly beautiful song.

It sounded like a signal in deep space, calling him home.

"Not these."

Still, Xavier loved when she wore her signature oversized sweater/panties combo. It was so easy to slide to the side and cuddle fuck her whenever he wanted.

His glossy fingers pulled out of her momentarily to drag across her hip, snapping the scrap of clothing against her sopping pussy.

"Give me your panties." Xavier commanded.

Heaven immediately complied.

Lifting her legs high in the air, she maintained eye contact in his arms as she slipped her thong up, getting to about mid thigh before Xavier snatched down to her ankle, making sure it wrapped around snugly.

The print in his grey sweatpants wept.

Xavier pressed his palm flat against her stomach, grinding her ass against his erection, massaging her squishy clit between his long, dexterous fingers. Heaven's fingernails dug into his protruding veins as his fingers curled within her.

"Xavier!" She squeaked.

"Is this ok?" He teased.

He knew full well she loved it. He just wanted to hear more breathy responses alongside her desperate nods.

"Bunny..." She moaned wantonly.

"I love how you look at me when you're turned on, Vixen."

Reaching around, Heaven tugged at the strings on his sweats until they dragged down his hips, revealing the veins winding the path of his happy trail, surrounded by trimmed curls nesting his straining, two-toned shaft...

"I feel even better." She promised.

Her full lips ached to taste him.

"Spread your legs wide."

Her legs opened easily for him.

"I've got you." He swore.

Xavier pulled Heaven's tied ankle up to his hip, locking her in place before positioning himself.

His rose colored head slicked into her pretty pink hole with ease, and her wetness had him biting his bottom lip.

Moaning, Heaven’s body bowed forward.

"Where you goin'?" He asked.

His voice hit a lower, gravely octave that made Heaven tingle.

His dick twitched inside of her. She could see his bulge.

"Aah-!"

"I know, baby, I know," Xavier shushed.

Xavier's strong arm wound around her waist, then came between her breasts and pulled her back up. Her spine straightened against his hard chest.

His hips rolled slowly, softly so he could completely coat his dick in her juices before slightly pulling back to admire it.

However, when he'd admired enough or simply needed his unrelenting thirst quenched, Xavier snapped his hips behind Heaven's and made her cry.

"But I love the sounds you make."

He pinched her nipple hard, and her sweet cries got louder.

Rhythmic clapping echoed, and the headboard knocked against the wall. Were the neighbors home?

Xavier's fingers deftly played with her nipples, stroking them feather light when they pebbled to harden them again. Did it matter?

"Right there," Heaven begged.

"Right there?" Xavier replied.

His voice was firmer now, more gentle.

His kisses tickled behind her ear, down her neck and across her shoulder. He released her ankle to play with her clit.

When that made her grip, Xavier had to bury his face in the crook of his partner's neck to hide his loud moan.

Heaven could offer nothing but lewd sounds herself as he fucked her into their plush mattress.

"You're so pretty." He said after every kiss.

He pulled their heads away slightly to lure her tongue from her mouth. They weaved together in a salacious waltz, their breaths mingling.

Heaven reached behind to the back of her head to deepen the kiss. Moaning, Xavier hugged Heaven close to keep himself inside while he rolled her onto her stomach.

He broke their kiss briefly, only far away enough to break the saliva string that had connected their tongues.

Heaven backed her ass into him, making Xavier's eyes cross like stars.

"Where you goin'?" Heaven panted, teasing.

"'Mm—sorry—keep going," He begged.

Foregoing putting his tongue back in his mouth, he opted instead for licking a slow stripe from spine in between her toned shoulders.

Constellations formed at random spots on her neck as Xavier's lips dotted upon her like stars appeared in the night sky.

"Just like that," Xavier gasped, "You're doing so good."

Xavier pounded into Heaven with one arm on the bed propping him up, and she tiredly clinged to his muscular bicep for leverage while he made her ass clap. With his head bowed low and his breath hot against her skin, Xavier made Heaven cry.

"You feel so good." He whimpered in between strokes, "I could spend all day inside you."

He could feel her pulsating and tightening up around. She soaked him to the bone, and yet his thirst remained insatiable.

"I love when I can feel you squeeze me." Xavier confessed.

He was a sweaty, blushing mess of a man coming undone above her, and she loved it; He looked like a meteor shower, bright-eyed and shining down, desperate to be seen by her.

"I love it too." Heaven admitted.

The room was heady and thick with the scent of sex and scented candles, bodies stuck together tightly as Xavier rocked his starry-eyed Heaven on his hard dick.

Heated cheeks pressed against each other, Xavier whispered encouragement while his arms flexed and his abs tightened at how hard she kept creaming around him.

"Good boy," Heaven praised him unabashedly.

Her hips couldn't stop shuddering on his sodden length.

"If you keep creaming, I'm going to cum." Xavier warned feebly.

He pulled out momentarily to turn Heaven onto her back. His body blanketed hers, arms like cages, and he slipped back inside of her before she could whine about the loss.

Xavier swallowed Heaven's satisfied moans with his tongue.

They continued humping like rabbits in heat, warnings and praise all sounded the same in their aroused state. Hungry for more, Xavier switched their position again, so Heaven sat in his lap.

"Do you want me to cum for you?" Xavier whispered directly into her ear.

Heaven couldn't resist his trap.

"Mmhm... I want you to cum for me." Heaven's voice dropped sinfully.

She draped her supple body over Xavier's hard planes, her arms dangling across his shoulders as she caressed and sucked his earlobes, making sure every single moan of hers orbited to his ear.

"Aah... Where?" He panted.

She was more spread out now, drenched and dripping and able to twerk on his dick in rapid succession.

"Is there anywhere else?"

Xavier's body clenched.

"You like that?" Heaven panted into his red ear, "My Star."

Xavier's thrusts became more intense, deeper, and firmer.

His muscles contracted, accompanied by a sexy, guttural grunt of pleasure when he came.

Heaven relished in the feeling of Xavier's dick twitching inside of her when he came. The feeling of him throbbing while he squirted made her squeeze him. Together, they rode the high for as long as possible and when it was over they bathed in the afterglow.

Their lips locked languidly, in no rush to head back down to earth so soon.

🐇⭐️🐇 ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 🐇⭐️🐇