#but I wanted to write this down before I forgot

[kyshosmd]

BAD DOG — stanley snyder x top!male!reader

sypnosis: in which stanley snyder, prodigy marksman, is down bad for his general.

cw: general!reader, reader is bigger than stanley for plot purposes, age gap, kind of obsessed and perverted stanley, stanley acts like a nymphomaniac cause i said so, nasty degradation but not too bad, a bit too smutty for dr stone fandom tho. this is before the petrification incident happened, more perverted thoughts than plot

author's note: i warned you btw! this is totally self-indulgent. i can't write for shit. since stanley's an obsessed freak why not channel this into a fic yay !! whored stanley snyder out woo hoo! who cares if it's ooc, all smuts are kinda ooc. you never know what might happen when you bend a character over cause that has never happened btw <3

Stanley Snyder had always been a little bit... wrong. Not in a tragic, misunderstood way— in a "this guy would absolutely jack off to a voicemail you left him by accident" kinda way.

At twenty-four, Stanley was already a full-blown cautionary tale. He was an unhinged sharpshooter, attack dog and whole menace to society, the sniper prodigy who could kill a man at two miles and look pretty doing it. Cigarette perpetually dangling from his pretty lips, purple lipstick always just a little bit smudged, amber eyes gleaming with the kind of feral intensity that made people nervous. He walked around like he was one bad day away from blowing something up.

And you, General Y/N, were the poor bastard who accidentally turned his psychosexual mess of a brain into the Sistine Chapel of daddy issues.

You didn’t even have to try. A pat on the shoulder. Or a rough "Good work, Snyder."— and Stanley's suddenly so damn hard.

Every little scrap of validation you threw his way got hoarded like some deranged dragon hoarding praise instead of gold.

Stanley didn’t want to date you. He wanted to worship you. He wanted to be your fucked-up little trophy soldier, sitting at your boots, begging for scraps of attention like a mutt you forgot to neuter.

When you barked orders or even rudely growled something like "Move your ass, Snyder," he damn near came on the spot. So desperate he'd chew through concrete if you told him to. God forbid you actually praised him in front of the others — he’d spend the whole night hard as a rock, grinding into his mattress like a filthy little pervert, choking on miserable need to hear you say it again, and again, and again.

In the dark, in the silence, cigarette smoke curling around his twitching fingers, he’d press his hand between his thighs and would pretend it was your hand. Would pretend he wasn’t three brain cells and a bottle of whiskey away from breaking into your office and licking the inside of your kevlar vest just to feel close to you.

It was pathetic. It was disgusting. But...it was kind of everything he ever wanted.

Stanley Snyder probably wasn't in love. This was probably obsession. Obviously you weren't aware of your subordinate's freakfest.

It started with good intentions.

You, seasoned silver-fox general and occasional bringer of mercy, had decided to treat the younger soldiers to a night off — a little "Congrats on not dying this week" reward. Simple. Harmless. Just a few drinks, a little music, some cheap-ass bar food. Nothing could have possibly go wrong.

Unless, of course, you were Stanley Snyder.

Stanley had zero chill on a normal day. Tonight, he was five shots deep, emotionally unstable, and laser-focused on you like a guided missile made of daddy issues and desperate horniness.

He posted up at the bar first, looking cool— cocky even —cigarette tucked behind one ear, jacket slung over one shoulder. He looked... devastatingly good. And he knew it.

Because the moment he spotted you — slouched against the wall in plain clothes, drink in hand, muscles straining under the lazy fall of your jacket — Stanley decided, right then and there, that he was gonna be the worst version of himself for you.

He stumbled over, grinning way too wide, drink sloshing in his hand, and planted himself against your side like he belonged there. Pressed full-body against you, casual as a cat rubbing its head on its owner’s shin.

"Gen'rul," he slurred, his drawl sticky-sweet and loaded with all kinds of filthy implications, "you always look this good, or'm I just too drunk t'function?"

You blinked down at him, a little thrown off — because you were used to people being into you, sure — But Stanley Snyder? Stanley Snyder, golden boy, deadliest marksman alive, face like a fallen angel Stanley? The same Stanley who acted too cool for literally everything was now pressing his cheek against your chest like he was seconds from purring?

Yeah. You didn’t expect that. Not even a little bit. After all, you had no idea what was brewing in that filthy mind of his for the last few days.

"Y'know," Stanley mumbled against your shirt, voice all low and ragged, "ain't just 'cause you're my boss. I mean, it helps, yeah, but — fuck, you're stupid hot. Should be illegal."

You grabbed his wrist before it could slip even lower, but he just whined under his breath — honest-to-god whined — and looked up at you with eyes so glassy and adoring it was almost tragic.

And he wasn’t stopping. Oh, no. If anything, the resistance made him worse.

Stanley's hips shifted against yours, grinding subtle and slow, the alcohol making him sloppy and shameless. His hand trembled against your chest like he was dying to tear your clothes off with his teeth, if only you'd let him.

"C'mon, boss," he pleaded, voice cracking sweet and pitiful, "lemme be good for ya. Lemme — fuck, lemme make you feel good. I'll do anything — anything you want — I'm good with my hands, swear it, I—"

His mouth just kept running, a messy stream of filth and begging, like he didn’t even care who heard.

"Sir please," he whined, tilting his head back until you could see the flushed, vulnerable stretch of his throat. "Spit in my mouth, tie me up, ruin me — fuck, please, just lemme—"

You stared down at him, stunned into silence. Because holy shit.

You knew Stanley was weird. You knew he had issues. But this? This was... This was totally next level.

And maybe it was the liquor talking. Maybe it was the way his body molded to yours like he belonged there. Or maybe it was the way he looked up at you— like you were God, salvation, and damnation all wrapped in one— that made you think, Maybe... just maybe... he deserves a little reward.

You leaned down, voice dark and low right against his ear,

"Get on your knees, soldier."

And Stanley collapsed. Dropped so fast it was like he'd been waiting for you to say it his entire goddamn life.

Big, bloodshot eyes staring up at you with absolute worship, hands trembling on your thighs, lips parted on a breathless, "Y-Yes, sir..."

you lost whatever scrap of mercy you had left.

You dragged him out of the bar without a word, your hand tight around the back of his neck, steering him like a misbehaving mutt. Stanley stumbled after you, half-drunk, eyes wild, lipstick smudged down to his chin, and looking so goddamn happy about being manhandled you thought he might actually start drooling.

You didn’t stop until you found the back alley — dark, half-hidden by the noise and neon haze of the bar. Just private enough, and just filthy enough.

You slammed him up against the wall with a grunt, and Stanley whimpered, grabbing fistfuls of your jacket like he couldn't stand not being plastered against you.

"S-Sir—" he gasped, and God, the way he looked at you — glassy-eyed, flushed, mouth open like he was starving — You could’ve done anything to him. Anything.

Instead, you leaned in, your voice a low growl against his ear, "Look at you. Fucking pathetic."

Stanley shivered, hips jerking like your words alone could make him come undone.

"N-Not pathetic, sir," he breathed, but even as he said it, he was pawing at you desperately, grinding his slim hips against your thigh like a bitch in heat. "J-Just wanna be good f'you..."

"Yeah? This what good boys do? Get drunk and act like little whores?"

You yanked his belt open with a rough snap, and Stanley moaned — an honest-to-god whine, high and needy, his knees buckling slightly.

"Slut," you hissed, palming him hard enough to make him sob. "You’re fucking useless like this. Look at you. Can’t even stand up straight, can you?"

"I-I’m sorry, sir—!" he gasped, hips twitching helplessly, eyes squeezed shut like he was about to cry from how good it felt already. "’M tryin', I swear—"

"Trying what? To embarrass yourself?"

You shoved him back against the wall again and unzipped your own pants— and Stanley’s entire body twitched, breath hitching when he caught sight of what you were packing. His hands fumbled at your waistband like he was desperate to help, desperate to serve, desperate to be ruined.

When you finally pushed into him, hard and fast — too fast, too much — Stanley choked on a sob, clutching your arms like he was gonna fall apart right there.

"S-Shit, sir— it’s— it’s t-too big— fuck," he hiccupped, legs trembling, trying so hard to take it even when he was visibly overwhelmed. You gave him no mercy. Not an inch.

You railed into him— rough, relentless, every thrust pushing pathetic little whimpers and "I'm sorry, sir!"s out of him like a prayer.

His lipstick was completely ruined, smeared down his chin, and tears were starting to slip from the corners of his pretty amber eyes — but he still arched his back, still sobbed "Yes, sir!" every time you barked an order into his ear.

At one point, when you spit harshly onto his tongue — just to see if he'd take it — Stanley fucking moaned like you’d given him the meaning of life. He swallowed it down without hesitation, breathless and desperate, begging, "More, sir—please—"

"You’re disgusting," you snarled against his throat, biting hard enough to leave bruises. "Fuckin’ sick little thing. You love this, don’t you? Love getting used like the whore you are?"

"Y-Yes, sir!" Stanley cried, hips jerking uselessly against yours. "Love it—love you—need you—please don't stop—"

He was babbling, barely coherent, tears smearing black down his flushed cheeks, clawing at your back like you were the only thing tethering him to Earth. Completely fucking broken.

And when he finally came — ruined, sobbing, breathless — it was with your name falling off his lips like a desperate prayer, his whole body wracked with trembling, twitchy aftershocks. He looked like a debauched whore more than a respected soldier covered in tears, bruises and not a surprise— cum stains all over him.

Guess you didn't mind taking care of him for a while.

[cheolieji]

Can u write a Seungcheol arranged marriage trope. Kinda enemies to lovers.pleasee😭been searching something like this for so longg

arranged love - choi seungcheol

wc: 3k~

pairing: wife!reader x husband!seungcheol

genre: e2l, a little angst, arranged marriage (obvi), suggestive (at the end but not rlly)

guide for requesting on my page [17] please read before requesting

proofread ✔️

A/N: it's barely enemies to lovers rlly, just two people who doesn't wanna be in an arranged marriage, but oh well it worked out In the end.

You hated him the moment he opened his mouth.

“I hope you don’t snore,” Seungcheol says, sliding into the seat beside you at your engagement dinner like it’s any other bland corporate meeting and not the night you’re being shackled to someone you barely tolerate.

You grip your champagne flute harder than necessary. “I hope you don’t breathe loudly. I’m a light sleeper.”

He glances at you, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, and it grates on you more than it should. Everything about him grates. The way he takes up space. The way his tailored suit hugs his body like it was made just for him. The way he looks like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and enjoys watching you squirm in silence.

The whole room buzzes with congratulations and approval. Not for the love you’re about to begin, but the empire you’re about to merge. Your family. His. A perfect match on paper. The kind of marriage that brings investors to their feet and reporters to their keyboards.

You don’t love him. You don’t even like him. And yet, you’re expected to stand beside him, smile for the cameras, and wear the diamond on your hand like it’s anything but a shackle.

“You really don’t want this either, do you?” you murmur under your breath.

He sips his wine and leans in, his voice low enough to make your pulse stutter. “Does anyone ever want a deal like this? We play our parts. That’s what we do.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no warmth in them. Just recognition. You’re both pawns in the same game, and somehow, that makes you hate him more.

The wedding is a blur of white and gold. Flashbulbs. Applause. Vows that feel like theater.

He doesn’t kiss you on the lips. Just brushes a chaste kiss to your cheek, which earns a round of coos from the audience. In the photos, you look perfect. Elegant. United.

Behind the scenes, you avoid his gaze. He avoids your touch.

The wedding night is no different. The penthouse is silent when you arrive. You kick off your heels and march toward the bedroom without waiting for him. The ensuite bathroom becomes your temporary escape. You scrub off your makeup like it’s guilt, brush your hair with aggression, and when you open the door again, he’s lying on the bed shirtless, scrolling through his phone like he owns the world.

You pause.

“You could have waited.”

“I figured you'd want the couch,” he says without looking up.

“I figured you would take it.”

He sets his phone down and meets your gaze. “Trust me. I’m not trying to sleep next to you either. We can switch tomorrow.”

You say nothing. Just cross the room and climb into bed with as much space between you as the king-sized mattress allows.

You stare at the ceiling for hours, body tense, every inhale of his enough to keep you from sleep.

The first few weeks are cold.

You operate like coworkers who hate each other. You rotate nights on the couch. Argue over trivial things—whose turn it is to restock the fridge, where the spare keys should go, who forgot to RSVP to that charity auction. Seungcheol has this way of staying maddeningly calm while you burn.

He makes coffee exactly the way you like it and never says a word about it.

You fold his dress shirts when they’re in the dryer and tell yourself it’s because wrinkled clothes reflect badly on you, not him.

You start to notice the way he reads before bed, how he runs his fingers along the page edges. How he cracks his knuckles when he's thinking. How his voice drops when he’s on a late-night call in the living room, unaware that you’re listening from the hallway.

He’s irritatingly considerate. Not nice. Never sweet. Just… thoughtful in ways you didn’t expect.

You catch him watching you sometimes. At dinners. Across the room. When you laugh too hard at something someone else said. His eyes soften just slightly before he looks away.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. He’s just playing his part.

But one night, everything shifts.

You’ve had a long day. An even longer dinner event with more fake smiles and one too many invasive questions about your nonexistent honeymoon.

When you step into the penthouse, you kick off your heels and sigh loudly, expecting silence.

But Seungcheol’s there. In the kitchen. Two glasses of wine already poured. His tie is loose, sleeves rolled up. He looks at you like he’s been waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice gentle in a way that makes you pause.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He hands you the wine without pushing.

You sit across from him at the counter, sipping in silence.

“I’m tired of this,” you say after a moment.

“This… marriage?” he asks.

You nod. “Not the marriage. The pretending. The cold war we’re fighting. I can’t keep being angry all the time.”

He looks at you for a long time. “Then stop.”

Your brow furrows. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

You open your mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. Because what would you even say? That you don’t know how to trust him? That the way he looks at you now makes your heart pound? That you’ve hated him for so long it’s become part of your routine, and letting that go means risking something else entirely?

He sets his glass down and steps closer.

Too close.

“I’m not pretending when it’s just us,” he says quietly.

Your breath hitches.

“You’re the one who acts like you can’t stand being in the same room,” he adds, voice low, nearly a whisper. “But you’re always looking at me.”

“So are you,” you shoot back.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes dark. “I am.”

He lifts his hand slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

His fingers brush your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His touch is warmer than you expect. Careful. Like he’s afraid to push too far.

Your voice is barely audible. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs. “But I think about you more than I should.”

That’s all it takes.

You surge forward first.

Your mouths crash together in a kiss that’s messy and hot and far too long overdue. His hands slip into your hair as your fingers tug at the collar of his shirt. It’s not soft. Not romantic. It’s months of tension and resentment and unspoken want, igniting like a match to dry kindling.

You gasp when he presses you against the counter, the edge digging into your hips. His lips move to your neck and you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as heat pools low in your stomach.

“I still hate you,” you breathe.

He chuckles against your throat. “You say that, but you’re pulling me closer.”

“I want to bite you.”

“Do it.”

You do.

He groans, and something about the sound makes you dizzy.

When he lifts you onto the counter, your legs wrap around his waist without thinking. His hands press into your thighs, mouth never leaving yours, and you wonder how you ever convinced yourself you didn’t want this.

You break the kiss only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen, pulse racing.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whisper.

His thumb brushes along your lower lip. “Doesn’t have to. We don’t have to label it.”

“So what are we?”

He pauses. Smiles faintly. “Married.”

You laugh, breathless. “God, I really do hate you.”

“No,” he says, voice like velvet. “You don’t.”

You pull him in again, and this time there’s no hesitation.

No pretending.

Only heat. Only hands. Only the taste of red wine and the quiet sound of your name on his lips like it’s something he’s been waiting to say in the dark.

And you let him.

Because maybe this marriage started as convenience.

But tonight, it feels like something else entirely.

The End.

(for now)

[pepshee]

First Place

when you make a bet with your best friend—loser is forced to do what the winner wants—but his demands for you aren't exactly what you expected, but you're fully willing to comply.

Pairing - heeseung x fem!reader

Genre - friends with benefits, friends to ???, smut

Word count - 2k

Warnings - p in v, creampie, cliche, degrading (he calls reader a slut), fingering, mentions of other enha members, Mario kart mention, stripping, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N - I was gonna lowkey abandon writing but here I am.. back again... again, sorry if it's bad, and thank you to the anon in my inbox who gave me writing advice! i dont feel like using capitalization in this one so im not gonna... anyways.. enjoy! also yes im aware its kinda cliche

MDNI 18+

heeseung was always your best friend; he was always there when you needed him and vice versa. meeting him in high school was the best twist of fate ever. those four years would've ended up miserable had it been someone else.

there was a decent amount of girls after him, but that was never a bother. in fact, he was always your wingman, helping you find ways to ask out your crush without looking like a complete ditz. he had a couple of girlfriends throughout high school, but they never really lasted.

he was able to tell when you were upset and was somehow always able to pinpoint the reason. you'd never thought of him in a romantic light, although he was extremely attractive. it was like a forbidden fruit, something you were too scared to explore.

after graduation, applying to the same college as one another seemed scary. what if only one of you got in? what if neither of you got in? those worrying questions quickly disappeared when one day you both opened your results and found out you were both accepted.

he made new friends, and so did you, but one thing was that you never forgot each other. you both still regularly hung out and went to your usual coffee shops or shopping malls.

heeseung and his friends are at his dorm, and he had given you permission to come and go in his dorm without asking whenever you wanted whether he was there or not. his roommate, Jake, was hesitant about this at first, but just agreed to avoid drama, however, he grew to not mind it.

you were bored lying in your dorm room, so you got up to go to his dorm. upon walking in, you find him, his roommate, and his friends all huddled together in the living room, some on the couch, some on the floor, and the rest standing around. through a closer look, it wasn't hard to locate a couple of them, including heeseung, who were equipped with gaming controllers; they were playing video games.

one of his friends who wasn't playing hears the door opening and looks at you. you don't know his friends well, except for his roommate, but you did know their names.

the friend who saw you, jay, smirks upon noticing your presence. you didn't know the reason, but you just left it alone with a shrug of your shoulders. jay tapped heeseung—whose attention was occupied by whatever game it is that they're playing—and he replied without even looking away from the tv screen. "what is it? I'm trying to win, dude," he said. jay leaned into heeseung's ear and whispered something that you were unable to hear.

heeseung paused the game, earning him a few groans from his friends who also held controllers before turning his head to the door where you were standing. he smiled at you, "hey y/n! come here, we're all playing video games!" after walking over to him you both quickly realize there's no room on the couch for you to sit, but that problem didn't last very long. he hits his friend sitting next to him, sunghoon, not very hard but so sunghoon will know what heeseung is trying to get him to do.

sunghoon promptly got up, before you even got time to process him getting up, heeseung grabbed your wrist and pulled you to sit down next to him on the couch. it wasn't hard to notice the looks and smirks his friends gave each other once he did this, but you didn't think anything of it.

"why'd you show up to my dorm this time?" he looked at you, the game still paused, but it seemed his friends were more focused on you two rather than the game now. you let out a small laugh at his comment, "i got bored so i came here, but you're already busy i see." he shakes his head, "i'm not busy, we're just playing games, now watch me win," he smirks, he's always been quite cocky but it's part of his charm.

he unpaused it and continued the competitive game with an intense focus. after a bit, the game was over, and well, heeseung didn't win, but that's not important. he throws a playful fit about losing, and after a bit, he turns to you. "hey, lets play the hardest map on mario kart and whoever loses gets to boss the loser around, but it's just us two," he grins at his own idea, hoping you accept.

he almost cheers when he sees you nod, and signals one of his friends to hand you a controller. he selects the map, and as the game starts, he's completely in the zone; he really wants to win, to have power over you.

after crossing the finish line for the final time, heeseung had won, which makes you let out a groan of disapproval. his friends all laugh as heeseung lightly pushes and teases you. "I knew you were a loser!" he teases, making you hit him on the shoulder. "knock it off, i hate you, you have more experience!" you argue back, and he just laughs.

"okay so now I get to tell you what to do," he smirks. you roll your eyes, but he suddenly shooes his friends out of his dorm while they shoot him knowing looks, and mocking kissing gestures. it's like they know something you don't, which makes you nervous. why would they leave that easily?

after they had left, heeseung shifts around in his seat and turns back to you. "so.. now I need to think about what I'm gonna make you do.. maybe me and jakes dishes? the laundry?" he says, basically talking to himself. he just sits there thinking for a moment, occasionally throwing out random ideas until his face changes, finally landing on one. "y/n, we've been friends for a long time, yeah?" you nod, waiting for him to continue. "you know.. you're really pretty, and I think I've made my decision..." your heart flutters for a second at the tone he used; he never really talked to you like this before. he's told you you're pretty, but the way he said it this time was different.

"strip for me," his tone completely serious, lacking any bit of sarcasm or signs that he's joking. your eyes go wide, and you look at him, bewildered at what he chose. "seriously? strip? hee—" he stopped you before you could finish, "I'm serious, I've always felt something towards you, this is my opportunity, I choose for you to strip," his tone lowering, you can see the desire and the hunger written in his eyes.

through your utter shock, you take a moment to think, he is attractive.. you've always thought he was. what's the harm in this? why not just do it?

you started by removing your hoodie. once he realized you were down for his demands, he couldn't look away. then you removed your shirt, followed by your pants, now just leaving you in your bra and underwear. heeseung was just sitting back, manspreading, smirking at you. he'd never seen you so exposed like this before. "so pretty, your body is so sexy," he commented, you could see the growing bulge in his grey sweatpants.

suddenly, he stood up, grabbing your wrist dragging you to his bed before promptly pushing you down onto it. he quickly crawled on top of you and smashed his lips onto yours. it was unexpected but not unwelcome as you kissed him back and moved one of your hands to bury your fingers in his hair. as the kiss continued, your grip on his hair got tighter, earning a groan from him, while one of his hands explored your thighs.

his hand made its way to the wet patch on your panties, touching you over the cotton. this caused you to let out a whine at the feeling; you wanted more, wanted him to touch you more. he clearly noticed this, "beg for it," he demanded. he clearly wasn't going to give it to you that easily even though it was his idea. "please heeseung, touch my pussy, please.." your pleas made his cock twitch in his boxers, he finally took your panties completely off, sliding them down your legs.

he ran his fingers slowly and teasingly through your already wet and slick folds. "all this for me? didn't think you loved the idea of fucking your best friend so much, you're just a slut aren't you?" his degrading words just fueled your desire for his cock even more even though it probably shouldn't.

he slowly inserted one finger into your cunt, the feeling causing a small moan to release itself from your mouth. he then added a second one and started out slowly moving his fingers in and out of your hole, but then he sped up and even curled the slightly making them hit your g-spot at just the right angle. you moaned at the pleasure that took over you as he continued to scissor his fingers inside of you. his thumb started to rub your clit further stimulating your pussy.

"heeseung im s' close—" he removed his fingers without warning, making you whine at the newfound emptiness. before you could even question, he removed his sweatpants and his shirt. you could feel the drool forming at the sight of his chest and physique, but then your eyes landed on something even more exciting, the stain on his boxers due to his leaking cock.

he removed his boxers next, his large cock springing out, the sight of it made your eyes widen. how would he even fit? "it'll fit baby, don't worry, I'll make it fit," he said almost as if he had read your mind. he ran the tip of his cock through your slick folds and gave himself a couple strokes before finally lining himself up with your entrance. "i'm gonna fuck this pussy so good you hear me?"

he was so eager he didn't even go slow this time; he immediately rammed himself into you, enjoying the sight of the slight bulge he created on your stomach. he pulled out almost fully before thrusting back in, he repeated this process, making you a moaning mess. it was hard to tell where one of you started and where the other ended, "seungie- p-please.. keep going," you begged him, and he listened. he wasn't going to stop until you both came. you could feel his tip grazing your cervix, his cock stretching your pussy so good. you'd had sex before, but you could already tell heeseung is the best you'll ever get.

"come on baby, i know you're close, you like this don't you? like being my little slut," he was right, you did like it, you were close, he knew how to read you like an open book. "gonna cum—" is all you could manage to get out as the pleasure took over you making it almost impossible to form coherent sentences. not long after your words you let go, your release painting his cock forming a white ring at his base as he continued his thrusts chasing his own orgasm. "hold on love, i'm almost there, you can take it," he encouraged. his thrusts started to grow sloppy; he was close. finally, he came, his release painting the inside of your gummy walls. you'd never had anyone cum in you, you'd always had them pull out, but heeseung was different. you wanted him to cum in you.

he rolled off of you, now lying beside you as he brushed a sweaty strand of your hair out of your face. he looked at your bra still covering your tits, he leaned in to your ear and whispered "next time, I'm gonna fuck these pretty tits. I was so caught up with your pussy your poor boobs didn't get any love," he said almost sounding genuinely upset and sympathetic for them.

you wanted to ask what you two were now, but a pang of fear hit you; you were scared of his answer, so you decided to stay silent. you wanted to stay awake, but exhaustion was catching up. no matter how hard you tried to fight it, you couldn't. you finally closed your eyes and fell asleep, heseung followed soon after.

i hope you all liked it!! i'm not too confident about this one but yk.. anyways, this is only like the 4th evber fic ive ever written..... im aware its kinda fast paced, i did rush it oops....

[unhingedgirlythings]

a guide to a goodnights sleep

Tags: fem reader x sleep-deprived post prison Spencer Reid

summary: reader and spencer are on the plane trip home after a long case. reader awakens to find a sleep deprived spencer who hasn't been able to sleep the same since prison and can't help but intervene. (BASICALLY, JUST A CUTE FIC OF READER COMFORTING SPENCER AND HELPING HIM SLEEP TEEHEE CEJDNOREO)

authors note: OMG hi guys I'm so sorry I forgot about this account life got insane for a second there lmao. Anyway, here's a new fic, there will def be a continuation for this one, I've got big plans for this series teehee. I will say that I like to write, NOT edit so if it's rough I am sorry about that ha-ha.

———~~~———~~~———~~~———~~~———~~~———~~

As soon as everyone settled in for the five-hour flight home, you and the rest of the team collapsed in exhaustion.

To be fair, this case had been grueling and relentless. A small girl had been taken from her family home in the late hours of the night. It wasn’t the first kidnapping to occur in the small town of Pine Mountain, and unfortunately for the BAU, the previous case had ended with gruesome and inhumane murders.

No one wanted another child's blood on their hands, so there was an unspoken agreement among everyone that no one would get any rest until she was found alive and returned safely to her family.

You had always hated cases like this.

Yes, they were unavoidable in your line of work, but the thought of a child’s murder always stirred an unwelcome feeling deep inside you. The lingering sense of disgust always stayed with you for weeks afterward despite your attempts to forget, leaving behind a sickening weight in your stomach that persisted. The guilt gnawed at you, constantly taunting you in those quiet moments when your mind wandered.

Maybe it was the sheer exhaustion, or the sleeping pills you had discreetly swallowed before the plane took off, but despite the haunting images of the case replaying in your mind like a twisted personal snuff film, you finally drifted into a deep sleep. Honestly, you could’ve slept through the entire trip home, but unfortunately for you turbulence still existed.

Your eyes snapped open as the plane jolted you awake with little regard for your much-needed rest. A groan escaped your lips as your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting from one of the reading lights

“Spence?" you muttered, your gaze shifting to the boy genius sitting beside you. He had one of his classic novels in his hand, the title too blurry for your exhausted brain to make sense of. His eyes looked sunken, the dark circles beneath them deeper than usual. You couldn’t help but be amazed (and a little envious) at how handsome he looked even when disheveled and exhaustion.

"You're still awake?" you quietly asked, sitting up slightly in the uncomfortably stiff airplane seat, praying you didn’t look too much like a hot mess. Unfortunately for you, the universe had cursed you with bad bed hair and dark bags under your eyes whenever you woke up. Spencer set his book down in his lap and turned his head to look at you, his expression softening.

“Unfortunately," he muttered "How are you not completely exhausted" you asked in a low voice, attempting not to disturb the others' sleep.

Spencer glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment. There was something in his eyes, like he wanted to say something but changed his mind at the last second.

“I’m fine” he replied, noticing your not-so-awake appearance. “You, on the other hand, should go back to sleep.” He stated, clearly trying to brush off your concern, but you weren't convinced. After all these years working with Spencer, you knew him well, too well in fact, well enough to tell when he was hiding something.

You leaned in a little closer to him, looking at him with determined insistence in your eyes.

“You don’t look fine to me.”

His body stiffened as you entered his personal space and a deep sigh escaped his lips, finally giving in to your persistence, probably more out of sleep deprivation than any real desire to share.

Before the whole prison event he had undergone, you and Spencer would spend these long plane rides home venting and doing nothing but overshare. It was the familiarity and shared comfort that made you feel a sense of security with him. It was nice, it helped you make sense of the complex emotions these cases stirred up and the trauma that followed.

You had been each other’s emotional support buddy through your early years at the BAU, but now… it felt as if he had pulled away from you.

You couldn’t stand it “I just... don’t sleep well,” he muttered under his breath, as if he were ashamed to admit it. His eyes drifted away from yours, searching for something else to focus on, avoiding the intensity of your gaze. “It’s usually an unpleasant ordeal for me.”

You understood that feeling all too well—the haunting cases that refused to leave your mind, the ones that you could never quite shake off, some things once seen could never be unseen.

It made sense that he couldn’t sleep anymore, though you could only guess what had happened to him in prison. The silence between you stretched on and before you knew it you had shifted your position, turning fully toward him. Your back pressed against the wall behind you to create more space.

“What are you doing?” Spencer's brows lifted in confusion.

“Helping,” you replied simply.

The plane hummed around you, neither of you making a sound or movement. Spencer seemed to not quite understand what you were offering, despite the soft patting on your lap as an invitation. You rolled your eyes at his oblivion.

“What, you scared I’m going to bite?” you teased, smirking. "Come on, Spence. It’s not like I haven’t used you as my own personal pillow before, I’m simply returning the favor. Now hurry up before I change my mind and leave you to suffer."

There was a long-held silence before Spencer broke it, flashing you that familiar smirk, the one that used to make your stomach flutter.

You hadn't seen it in months.

“Fine, I’ll amuse you, but just this once,” he said, his voice softer than usual, almost vulnerable. You could still sense his reluctance, and it stung more than you cared to admit.

Before you could pull yourself together and remind yourself that this was your idea, you felt the unexpected weight of his head gently resting on your lap. He shifted to adjust himself, trying to make himself more comfortable in the cramped space.

Suddenly, everything felt too close, too intimate.

You tried your best to ignore the quickening of your heartbeat as you silently cursed yourself for being so delusional.

It was kind of pathetic how much of an effect he always seemed to have on you, honestly, it was impossible at this point to ignore the pull he had on you.

No matter how much you told yourself that it was in the past, that if something were to happen between the two of you, it would’ve happened years ago, you couldn’t deny it anymore. You were still hopelessly, undeniably in love with him.

So, selfishly, you decided to indulge just this once, promising yourself that you’d put the whole Spencer thing to rest after. For now, you would let yourself just be in this moment. Your fingers rested gently in his thick unruly curls; you let the warmth of his skin beneath your touch ground you.

“Spence, in order for this to work, you need to close your eyes,” you whispered softly, your voice betraying you as a hint of laughter ruined any attempt at smoothness. His brown eyes, still wide open, locked onto yours and stayed there for a moment.

“Right, right. Sorry,” he muttered with a small sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes finally fluttered closed, and a faint sigh left his lips. You felt his body relax against yours, his breathing slowing.

You watched his chest rise and fall slowly with each breath. Remaining still, you simply watched him, a soft smile on your lips. Your fingers left his hair and fell gently onto his skin, dancing across his features, tracing each line.

Yeah, there was no doubt in your mind—you were officially cooked.

[crescenthistory]

if you're comfy w/ writing this, could i request a barty x reader, where barty gives reader a piercing? or reader gives barty a piercing? (either is fine, you can choose!) i've been thinking about it all day 😗

~🍓

i wrote this aaaaages ago and forgot to post it lol, sorry berry!

wc: 1.6k

cw: gn!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, suggestive undertones, amateur piercings, vague needles, don't try this at home plz. modern au, established relationship, barty's general bursts of mania

Note: this is partially inspired or at least motivated by my chat with komi about dyeing barty's hair for him

“And why did this have to happen at 2 AM again?” You asked wearily as you carded your hands through Barty's slightly damp hair.

He sat on a chair in front of you, chin against your stomach and grinning widely up at you. His face was illuminated by the shimmery moonlight streaming in through the mosaic windows of the prefect bathroom.

About 20 minutes ago, there was a rapid and insistent knocking on your door, one that each and every one of your roommates clearly recognised as Barty as they groaned your name. You flicked your wand towards the door to let in a stumbling Barty, wearing his signature smirk, pajama bottoms that were hanging dangerously low on his hips and a tattered shirt with wet spots around his neck. He had clearly just stepped out of the shower and all but come barging in to find you.

There were various grunts from around the room at the light that streamed in behind Barty. Someone threw a pillow in your general direction, smacking into one of your bed posts before falling to your mattress with a soft thump.

“Babe, take your dog and leave,” one of your dormmates grumbled, though not without an underlying affection for both you and your dog.

You gave Barty a look that you hoped screamed “look, you've gotten me in trouble” even as you jumped out from beneath your covers, suddenly awake just for him. You quickly shimmied on something more fitting for whatever adventures Barty had in store for you, not feeling like trekking through half of Hogwarts in your undies.

Barty just grinned back at you, though perhaps a bit sheepishly, as he picked up a jumper that was hanging over the back of a chair and threw it to you. Were it not for the other people in the room, you were sure he would have commented on the fact that it was his jumper.

“Well, because it was at 2 AM when I wanted to do it, and you said to get your help next time,” Barty drawled in response, as if this was the most natural response in the world. He was drawing circles into the flesh of your hips. “And I figured you would be more upset about me ditching you than waking you.” He gave you a crooked smile that gleamed with every ounce of cunning in his body – which wasn't a light statement.

You shook your head but made no attempt to quell the curling of the corners of your lips as you continued carding through his hair, which was drying more and more each time you caressed it. You hummed in response, not wanting to pick an argument you knew you would lose.

“What do you want to pierce this time then, my love?”

Barty seemingly melted further against you at the term of endearment, irrevocably yours in this intimate moment. He hummed as he pushed your shirt up enough to shower your midriff with soft kisses. “How do you feel about a helix?” he murmured against your skin, smiling when you had to suppress a giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“You're asking as if I'm the one getting the piercing.” You huffed a laugh, scratching your nails up and down his neck to get his attention back. “How do you feel about another helix?”

“I'm just in the mood to get another piercing, doesn't really matter which one,” he said absentmindedly, as if body modifications were an afterthought and not an active decision. “I’ll get them all eventually anyway.”

“Oh, so if I wanted to give you a Prince Albert, you would be all fine and dandy with that?” You laughed as you spoke, shaking your head at him.

Barty just grinned and winked at you. “If I want anyone to give me a Prince Albert it would be you with those pretty hands of yours.”

You tried to just scoff and not let his insinuations get to you. “When that day comes, I will drag you to a professional piercer myself. Don’t want you getting an infection.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Barty murmured against your stomach before nipping lightly at your exposed flesh to get you squealing. A light tug at the dark roots of his hair got him to look back up at you, eyes landing on yours as he couldn’t fight his laughter.

“Helix then?” You let one of your hands card back through his hair, soothing where you pulled at it. 

He hummed in the affirmative and leaned into your touch.

Not able to deny yourself, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his forehead. You tried pulling back, but Barty’s hands tightened around the backs of your thighs, keeping you in place as he tilted his head backwards to capture your lips with his. It was a stretch in this position, but Barty didn’t relent before he had gently invaded your mouth, sucking your bottom lip into his.

“Now I’m ready,” he said through a grin as he pulled back.

“Alex was right, you are a dog.” Despite the admonishing, you reflected his grin as you pulled back to grab your wand.

“I distinctly remember Alex calling me your dog.” Barty flipped the chair around so he could fold his arm over its back, watching you walk around in preparation.

“My dog then,” you corrected. “But a dog nonetheless.”

With the flick of your wand, you sterilised the equipment Barty had procured from somewhere in his dorm – that you wholly didn’t trust to be state of the art, but it would have to do – and your own hands and arms before you put on the black gloves.

“What a professional,” Barty mused.

“One has to do their research with a boyfriend like you.” You walked back towards him with the equipment and your wand.

“Mmm, call me your boyfriend again, baby.”

You laughed, swatting the air near his arm, not wanting to have to sterilise your hands again so soon. “You have got to focus, B. Do you want to draw up where you want the helix?”

He just shook his head, leaning his chin on his folded arms, smiling wider when you visibly noticed the flexing of his bicep. “Just put it somewhere between the other two. On the right side.”

“You don’t want me to draw up where?” you asked dryly.

Barty reached out, his hands once more finding the backs of your thighs as he pulled you closer, kneading the flesh in admiration. “Where’s the fun in that? I’m ready, Dragă.”

You softened a little in his touch and hummed in the affirmative. “Alright, baby. Turn your head for me?”

Barty dutifully listened to you, dumb smile he only reserved for you on his face. With the flick of your wand, you pulled his hair away from his ear and cleaned it, preparing. You fumbled a little with the needle, far from a professional but knowing that you with your research is better than Barty recklessly doing this on his own. The needle was the proper one at least, hollow and sharp, ideal for helixes. You had a titanium barbell pinched between two of your fingers, ready to be inserted.

“Are you ready, my love?” you whispered, not wanting to hurt him while knowing he didn’t mind.

He looked at you in his peripheral vision. “For your hands on me? Always.”

You let out a chuckle before breathing in deeply and setting the needle to what seemed like the ideal place between his other ear piercings. Swiftly, you pushed it through just like the countless videos you watched back home had shown you. With kind fingers, you replaced the needle with the barbell, using the instrument to screw on the end. 

“And there we go!” you announced quietly, mostly to yourself. You dipped your head down to drop a kiss to his messy hair, nose brushing against acid green and dark brown strands.

You quickly discarded your gloves and lifted your wand to wash and sterilise the piercing once more. You didn’t think of how closely you stood double-checking that there was indeed very little blood trickling out, despite his ear being slightly red, which you supposed was quite normal – until Barty swung his legs off the chair and moved his grip from your thighs to your waist to pull you close.

He laughed against your mouth as he kissed you deeply, kiss after kiss placed on your own giggling lips.

“B! Don’t you want to see the piercing?” you managed to get out between kisses.

“Always so focussed,” he murmured, but he did rest his forehead against yours.

Grabbing your own hand with his, Barty pulled you towards the nearby full-length mirrors that the prefect bathroom was filled with – “so they can practise being even more in love with themselves” Barty would always say.

He stepped close to the reflection, turning his head to see the piercing that had landed rather evenly between his two other helixes. “Sick.” He turned to you with a grin. “You are a true professional, aren’t you, baby?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he swallowed it with another kiss, dragging you back against the mirror with him. He intended to thank you profusely for your services.

[soangelbaby]

Can you write smth nsfw for clark where it starts off as clark being weak/sore for the for the first time so he’s unsure oh what to do about the pain, so the reader offers to give a massage, then clark is a moaning mess and it turns nsfw.(sub clark) (reader would have started filming before she started) (im 19)

hii angel !! thank you for the request, i haven’t wrote for clark in soo long so hope u enjoyy !! mdni 18+ mg also i forgot the filming part so sorry my brain is scrambled td 😔 also not fully proofread help rushed afffff

“you okay baby?” you ask clark who’s sprawled out shirtless on your bed, skin burning and muscles aching. he’s never felt like this before, the strongest man on the planet reduced to a sulking, sore mess. his brows furrowed as he tried to shake off the discomfort, “i don’t… i don’t know,” he muttered, wincing as he shifted. “everything hurts.”

when you offered to help, clark blinked up at you with those wide pretty eyes, hesitant, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. it made your stomach flip. the second you touched him, he sucked in a sharp breath. “relax,” you whispered, squeezing his shoulders gently. you let your hands slide lower, pressing into his back, feeling every inch of him tense and give under your hands. each movement was slow and deliberate, teasing him, making sure he felt every bit of the pressure you applied. the soft groan that escaped his lips made you smirk, “fuuck, that — that hurts,” he groaned out, but he didn’t tell you to stop. if anything, he arched a little into your touch, shivering.

“it’s supposed to,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss between his shoulder blades. “you’re doing so good for me, baby.” the praise went straight to clark’s head, and lower. you felt him rutting subtly into the mattress, trying so hard to stay still and failing miserably. “you wanna feel even better, pretty boy?” he nodded frantically, hips grinding down, desperate for any kind of relief “please,” he whined, voice cracking. you loved how he was wrecked already and you’d barely touched him yet.

his body was still trembling when you flipped him over. his mouth opened, a soft, hoarse sound tumbling out. something between a moan and your name. then you saw his dick twitch again, already hardening, even though he was clearly overstimulated. you sank down onto him slowly, torturously slow, hands on his chest for balance as he gripped your ass, hips bucking into you. “baby” he whined, breath hitching, “wait — it’s too much” you didn’t stop, rolling your hips harder, dragging your nails down his stomach. “you’re doing so good, baby. just take it.” clark’s hands slid up your back, trembling, like he wanted to hold onto you. wanted to beg for mercy but couldn’t form the words.

“shit, angel.. i’m gonna cum —” the way your pussy squeezed around him, dragging over every oversensitive inch, it was torture. the sweetest, most addictive kind. you clenched around him one last time before he came hard, large hands fisting your frame, hot load spilling inside you, with everything he had left, like he was giving you his whole fucking soul.

[towasdandelion]

Hotarubi, Obscuary and Jabberwock ghouls when you confess to them

Haku feels so relieved! You finally caught on and understood he wasn't flirty just because? A miracle! Honestly he's so ready to make you his it's almost funny. If you haven't noticed, that guy has had a thing for you since day one. So yeah. Will definitely want to see you as soon as possible so you can... make out already talk about your situation and possibly start dating.

Subaru is too sweet and doesn't really want to get his hopes up even if he does like you more than a friend already. He definitely didn't see that coming and feels a little lost. He's happy of course but... What now? What does he do? What if this ends up ruining your friendship? After thinking for a moment he decides to ask you to meet so you can talk about everything going on. Expect a shy blushy Subaru.

Zenji was hoping for such an outcome in the future, but he never wanted to force it, rather just decided to wait and see how the situation develops. He feels so happy he gets a sudden burst of inspiration. But he can't write yet. Not until he gets a chance to ask. You might have been first with the confession, but he's definitely taking the initiative to ask you to be his girlfriend.

Rui, oh Rui! Like Haku he was so ready to make you his and was constantly trying to make you see that he's not playing around. Well, someone decided not to notice his efforts. (How cruel) until this very moment. Now you confessed to him, and he couldn't be happier. In his head he's already planning hundreds of cute dates he's going to take you on. The fact that you're not really together just yet doesn't seem to bother him much but can you blame him? He's way too excited.

Ed is way too cocky I swear. You want to back away? No can do I'm afraid. You're basically his the moment you confess to sorry I don't make the rules. Was he waiting for this moment to happen? Maybe. He feels satisfied that he did succeed in making you fall for him after all, though he is a bit surprised given the fact how hard you were resisting his charms before. Believe it or not he's suddenly not feeling so lazy anymore... He's eager and ready to see you right this moment.

Lyca is a bit oblivious, but at the same time very straightforward and it makes a very... Interesting combination. You like him? Yeah he likes you too, so? Oh, it's more than a friend... Well, then you two should just date right? Isn't it how it works? At least that's what Subaru told him (he forgot some details here and there but not like it's that important to him) so he's going to ask you here and now. The decision is yours to make hehe.

Towa is a bit sad cause he definitely thought you love him already. I mean he was always so sweet and affectionate with you, so only natural to think that's just his nature, right? Well, wrong. He's only like that with you. The sadness is short lived though. You love him and that's all that matters! He won't waste time and will come and meet you wherever you are just to ask you officially to be his.

Haru catches on very quickly, almost surprisingly given how busy he can get. In his free time he always did make sure to spend it with you, throwing in some hints here and there and it seemed now that it worked out! Here you were, confessing to him. With three words you made his day just like that. He can't wait to be finished with his work so be can come see you and make sure you really want to be his.

Ren is freaking out. Like really bad. His crush literally just confessed to him. Keep it calm, keep it cool. He was fighting that 'weird' (love) feeling that just wouldn't go away and with your sudden confession it felt like a new wave of feelings came crashing on him. Just what is he supposed to do? He really needs to sit down and have a moment of honesty with himself. He doesn't want to reject you after all... But how does he go about making you his girlfriend? It's all so awkward to him.

[acourtofthought]

I forgot who I saw this from the other day but it really resonated with me for anyone who continually undermines the possibility of Elain (and Lucien) having the next book

Someday, the ACOTAR series is going to be sold as a boxed set. Maybe it's a gift for an 18 year old from a parent who "heard there was a lot of buzz about this series".

That person is going to start with ACOTAR and work all the way through ACOMAF, ACOWAR, ACOFAS, ACOSF, and whatever the next book(s) is / are.

That means they'll finish SF and move directly into the next book. They're not going to pause to read the CC series, they probably won't know of any bonus chapters, they won't even know to go back and scour the internet for Interviews where Sarah said "she was excited to write Az's journey" or "because she knew early on where Elain's story was going it allowed her to plant seeds throughout ACOWAR and even SF".

The only thing that will exist for this particular reader are the books. And the end of SF says the following:

"Maybe not." Eris shifted on his feet, and grimaced again. "But you and yours have more important things to worry about than ancient history. My father is furious that his ally is dead, but he's not deterred. Koschei remains in play, and Beron might very well be stupid enough to establish an alliance with him, too. I hope that whatever Morrigan is doing in Vallahan will counteract the damage my father will unleash."

That line comes before Cassian thinking:

And one day, when the time was right.....They'd take the next steps. They'd walk down whatever road lay ahead of them together.

Of course Sarah hinted at Nesta and the Valkyrie having more of a story to tell in SF but based on the above which comes at the very end of the book, it seems a clear delineation of what the focus of the plot currently is.

If you were reading SF and moving right into the next book, would you think that the restoration of the Dusk Court was a more pressing issue than what Eris is talking about? Would you really know anything much about the Dusk Court at all having moved right from SF into ACOTAR 5/6?

If you're reading these books back to back, you'll have also just finished the novella where Feyre says to Mor:

"I want them to be happy. All of them."

And that is in reference to Nesta, Elain, and Lucien. She follows that up with "And you - are you happy?" speaking directly to Mor.

Yes, the Valkryie were introduced in SF but would a reader automatically assume that suddenly their stories are more worth telling than Elain's? Than Lucien's? Than Mor's?

It's as if just because people have grown attached to those characters (which are great, of course), suddenly nobody else's story is important.....at least not until Gwyn and Az get a HEA together first. But I don't think a reader going straight from one book to the next would honestly see it that way. Not when the Elucien bond has been an unresolved issue since book 2. Not when Vassa and those other girls are still Koschei's captives. Not when Spring has been falling apart for multiple books, not when Mor was clearly not 100% happy in the novella. Just because we have our personal favorites, it doesn't mean Sarah cares more for them than she does all her characters.

With that said, Sarah could ABSOLUTELY write Gwynriel next but I have to say, if you're reading the series straight through, they would not be the "obvious" answer to me. They would actually be more of a "What??? But what about everyone else? What about Elain and Lucien? Vassa? Mor? What about Spring falling apart? And Koschei and Beron?" "Lucien still doesn't know about Helion??" "What do you mean people can time travel now?" Because those plots were not only introduced multiple books back but we were reminded of them in SF.

And that's why I say I still feel Elucien could possibly be next because they do make the most sense to me if we're looking at the ACOTAR series as a series and not just a single standalone book.

[whalesforhands]

the summers without you

summary: in which you linger against the backdrop of an endless summer that remembers.

no curses au, everyone lives, anohana inspiration, angst, i always wanted to write this and was saving this for my oc debut but this works too

Your legs shake slightly as you balance on the narrow path, your arms stretched out as you attempt to balance on the steep ledge.

Forward. Once. Twice. One step at a time, a foot after the other and a careful positioning of your feet— Before a sudden breeze catches you off guard, flowing through your hair as your skirt dances in the wind.

Summer is blue. It clears the blue skies, lets the sunshine touch your skin and envelop you in warmth. It evaporates the blue seawater, letting the winds carry the scent of the ocean into your nose.

It’s a nice day today. That’s all you can think about as you let yourself topple, let yourself fall. You think even the wind could be blue in this season. Over the edge of the stone railings you were just walking on, over the blue horizon you were chasing and into the deep, deep ocean waves crashing against the rocks just below.

It doesn’t matter, nothing did.

Because you’re already dead, after all. It’s not like there’s anything left to lose as you feel yourself float back up. The world continues, the earth continues to spin and the sunlight still kisses you ever so gently.

It really is a nice day today.

——

Grief comes in many forms. It can simmer, can linger. It stayed however long it wanted— Can even last a lifetime in some cases.

But for Ieiri Shoko, grief was quiet. It existed in the way her eyes always trail off towards the path that lead to the old candy store, or how the clouds in the sky seemed to resemble the shapes she remembers you pointing out.

It was wordless, was intangible— But it was always there, in the form of a quiet murmur under her breath whenever she watches the waves of the ocean crash against the rocks, or in the way she would watch her curtains be swayed by the wind.

“I think about you too.” You would reply, knowing that there will be no answer, knowing that she will never know that you’re right here, right beside her. Yet, your arms still lean against the railing as you watch her eyes that never left the sunset, how the sun disappeared over the horizon and lingered in the warm autumn of her gaze.

“The cigarettes are bad for you, Shoko.” You would wave off the smoke it produced, lean your head against her shoulder whenever she sat on that familiar bench that faced the ocean.

She lived within a moment you wanted to be part of, a reality you wanted to exist in.

“But it helps, right?” The ocean breeze combs through your hair, your eyes slowly fluttering close to the sound of her heartbeat, a song that you forgot the lyrics to as you let yourself drift off to sleep.

You nestle in her arms that can’t hold you, that won’t feel you there, in her gaze that can’t ever acknowledge you. So you pretend, pretend that this was your reality, pretend that this moment was your own. That this was something the both of you could have once more.

Yet, you just can’t help the way your lips shape the regret that you let the wind carry out to the vast sea, to a place that may one day let your words be heard.

“I’m sorry, Shoko.”

——

For Gojo Satoru, his grief felt unacknowledged. Dormant, hidden beneath a facade of strength of ego.

You write it off as the way he was always so strong, always so full of will. Always unapologetically himself. Yet, you can’t help but think how painful it must be.

“Oi Suguru!” There’s only a loud rapping of knuckles against the door, before it was ultimately kicked down by an intrusive foot, dust settling as the wood kicks up a storm of it.

“Ya finally coming out of your damn house?!”

You admire that about him. You admire the Gojo Satoru who was loud, the Gojo Satoru who made the room’s attention his, the one who would berate others for their weakness and inability.

The Gojo Satoru who always, always tried to save the ones who were still here.

But you also admire the Satoru that sat alone within his room, blankly staring at the old frames that held older pictures, trailing a scarred hand over an image from a past that didn’t have a future.

He would never cry, never laugh— Never crack a smile in these quiet moments. Not an ounce of emotion on his face as he looked on, blue eyes focused on the old picture of your group of friends, back when you were younger, back when everything was okay, back when you were still— Alive.

“What are you thinking about today?” You would ask— A question only answered by the windchimes near his window. A question not heard, a question unanswered.

You would watch as he put the frame down before bed, making sure the smiling faces never looked back at him, never had the opportunity to tear into him until he let them.

But you understand, you think. With the way he would deny it all, with the way he vehemently avoided everything and anything that would have to do with you.

“I miss you too.”

You can’t do anything, after all. Only sit by his bed in silence as you attempt to console a nonexistent grief— One that refused its own existence, one that never wanted to come to fruition.

Yet, you don’t— Won’t pity him. You won’t put a label on something that he rejects, something that he locked away deep inside. So you sit by his head, hand stroking through white locks as you comfort him in your own way.

On this quiet night that held no expectations, not for you, and not for him. It’s a moment only you two can share, a place that only you two can be.

And when he finally, finally falls asleep, alone in his head to the quiet thoughts or the longing in his memory— It’s when you can finally smile, softly whispering your wish into his ear as you quietly turn to leave.

“Good night, Satoru.”

——

And for Geto Suguru, it was consuming.

So you huff at the way Geto Suguru sat alone in his dark, dark bedroom. His purple eyes trailing over each word that you swore were barely even eligible in this crude darkness as he simply read.

It makes you wonder… When was it that you last died? Six, seven years ago? You don’t remember, but you think you’re lucky to have watched your friends grow, lucky to have watched them turn into grown-ups.

Your friends are so good looking, after all. It would be a waste to not have eyes to witness it— But you do also wonder, wonder if you would have grown up pretty, wonder if you would ever be able to live up to the compliments you wanted so badly to get, wonder if they would’ve lik—

“…you again.” Geto Suguru looks at you with an expression that you’ve grown strangely fond of as you appeared right by him, peeking at the words now that you had some of his attention.

“Mhm.” You watch as he shuts his book, that old bookmark you’re all too familiar with hidden away.

“Are you finally gonna go outside t’day, Suguru?” You even tilt your head at him curiously, drumming your fingers against his soft bedsheets as you sit on his carpeted floors, staring up at your friend.

Him. Only him, only Suguru was the one ever able to see you, to interact with you. Yet, you think it’s funny that the most gentle one of your friends— Was the one that never believed in your existence, not in this form.

“Is this your new form of torment?” It’s not sad, not sorrowful. It was cold, tinged with anger and disappointment, yet it never came out strong, never came out as anything but a whisper of what it was meant to be.

It’s okay. It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s justified, to have him be this cold, to have him push you away and reject your very self.

So you only smile— At least, the ghost of one as you push through the hurt it brought you. That’s all you can do, after all. “No, it isn’t.”

So wrapped up, so consumed by the grief that he doesn’t want to admit to, the one that he thought he had tucked away deep within himself.

Yet, you just had to come back and ruin it all. Had to break him when he wants to let go, had to come and destroy what he had worked so hard to get through.

(But is it really your fault?)

“Then what do you want?”

It’s grating, you know. To have to hear your voice when you’re meant to be long gone, to have to be haunted by someone you’re meant to get over, someone who was never supposed to be.

So you watch the way he would curl up into himself, watch the way he would sit in bated silence.

“I just… Don’t want to watch you live this way anymore, Suguru.”

——

Some days, Geto Suguru wasn’t as broody as usual. Some days, he doesn’t fight your existence, doesn’t reject you in your entirety.

“Haibara!” You run towards the boy as you hug him, your arms wrapped tightly around his frame as you squeeze with all the strength you had. “I missed you!”

“Wo-ah!” He shivered, felt tingles up his spine and a weight around his neck. “Geto-senpai—“ He would swallow and steel his nerves, tense his arms to get that numb feeling away as he calls out a warning for his senior, his teeth grit to fight the— Ghostly feeling.

“I think your house is haunted!”

You gasp, head leaning back to look him in the eye as your eyebrows furrow and your lips pout. “How rude!” It’s not like you chose to be like this.

A sigh. “It’s not, Haibara.” Amethyst flitters towards your smiling self before meeting his junior’s gaze.

“Anyway!” A plastic bag crinkles in his hand as he lifts it up. “I brought ya souvenirs! Sweet ones, just like you asked!”

“…I see. Thank you.”

“They’re also meant to be super, super savoury and sweet at the same time, senpai! Nanamin and I nearly ate the entire box in an hour after I—“ A phone rings— One that didn’t have buttons or the cute flip that they had back in your day.

“Oh— It’s Nanamin! I gotta go before I miss the movie!” And he turns on his heel— Before sharply stopping himself in his tracks.

“And make sure you’re eating well, Geto-senpai! We’re all really worried about you!” A wave back at his beloved senior. “I’ll come back to check on you later!”

“Hm.”

Geto Suguru was really beloved. And you just can’t help the proud smile on your face no matter how hard you fought against it—lest Suguru decided he hated it.

But on these days, even when the front door closes behind him, even when you’re both alone once more—

“Don’t— Look at me like that.” He’s more shy, embarrassment trickling out from between his sentences as he looks down at the bag of snacks, and then back up at your glimmering eyes.

And maybe, with the way you chattered nonstop beside him, the way you would watch on with a smile as he slowly, awkwardly ate the food that sat within his kitchen—

That on some days, you think Geto Suguru is gonna be okay.

——

“Do you have to follow me around?” To the naked eye, it seemed like Geto Suguru truly had gone insane. To have to talk to himself as he trudged through the summer heat, under the blue summer sky that you can finally see him clearly.

Pale skin that highlighted the dark bags under his eyes, once shiny black locks damp with oil, sweat and sticking out in odd places from neglect, his frame hidden under a fraying white shirt and baggy sweatpants— You don’t know if he’s even been eating well, especially when you saw the neglected bags of takeout brought over by a certain white-haired man.

It truly looked like he had gone through hell.

“Mm… I‘ll stop if you smile?” Innocent and wanting, your hands behind your back as you follow closely beside him, tilting your head and smiling up at him with an expression he had longed to see.

(Pretty. He doesn’t think you’ve ever stopped being so—even in death, even now.)

“No.” Flat. Stubborn. Unimpressed.

Well, it was worth a shot, you suppose. So you can only giggle nervously, still trailing after him like the breeze in his hair.

“Satoru’s house today, right? It’s been a while since you last saw him.”

More like, it’s been a while since Gojo Satoru decided to break into his home. So you bothered him; The only one who knew of your existence, even when you are a ghost, even if you weren’t physically here anymore— The least you can do is influence the ones who are.

“Suguru.” You sat on top of the body huddled under blankets and pillows, a tired groan sounding out. “I’m not moving until you go visit Satoru!”

“Suguru!” You hold his books to your chest, your eyes squeezed shut and hugging them as tight as possible when you float— As high as you possibly can even if he was basically still towering over you. “I wanna see Satoru!”

“Oho~ Someone finally remembered to pay me a visit?~” Sapphires only lock onto tired amethyst, completely looking past your self that observed quietly.

Nobody can see you after all. Not even the great Gojo Satoru himself. He can’t feel you, can’t imagine you. Not even when you’re right here.

You have to be.

Because Gojo Satoru has never looked worse for wear. Never looked more tired, never looked more worn out. Why? Because on the nights where he can’t sleep, on the nights where the memories linger for far too long… You swear that your hands feel warm in his, that his enchanting blue gaze was looking right at you. Yet, it was far away— Further than you ever could be.

“Satoru?” You would ask to the still air, your head resting against his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

And there would be no answer.

“Satoru—“

“Satoru.” It’s a hitched breath, one that teetered on fear, on disappointment, on worry. A tone that Geto Suguru used gently, used softly. Familiar, yet forgotten.

“Are you okay?”

A smile, all teeth and wry expression that never reached his eyes. A placid response that demanded everything and nothing at the same time.

(It must hurt.)

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

[ghostedgwen]

safe and stranded | r.lupin

note : yeah this one took hours and I ended with 9k+ words but I cut it down to 8.4 after many revisions lol. My back hurts so bad and I have been throwing up, I think I may be sick. maybe. enjoy~

warnings : mentions of bloof and injuries, dark themes, themes of child abuse/abandonment, angsty werewolf shit, reader has a sister who died of the plague - will make sense, a disease spreading around, overall ANGSTTT and depressing to write/read

Exiled to the forest, Remus had to survive all alone and live his life like the beast he was cursed to be. That was until you came into his life to forever change it, and he was never the same.

. . . I'll build you a fort on some planet where they can all understand it.

They used to call it the Moonblight Curse in olden texts - something half-whispered in between warnings about wandless werewolves and inferi in cold lakes. Before there was a name for lycanthropy, before modern minds labeled and categorized, there was this: the wild magic that gnawed at the flesh of men and turned them into beasts.

And once, it found a boy.

The forest did not care for names. It swallowed the syllables of "Remus John Lupin" like dry earth drinks the rain - momentarily nourished, then utterly silent. He was barely fourteen when they left him here, and already the man was breaking through the boy. Bones jutting out too sharply. Eyes too old for someone who still had milk teeth when he was bitten.

No farewell. No comfort. Just the copper taste of betrayal in his mouth and a note tucked into his threadbare coat: We had no choice. It’s for the best.

He remembered his mother’s face when she placed it there. Eyes rimmed red, jaw trembling. But she didn't say anything, and he didn’t beg her not to go. Maybe that’s what stung most. He’d just stood there, letting the trees eat them both alive.

Time moved differently in the forest. At first, he marked the days by carving lines into the bark of a beech tree. Then, when the tree was taken down by lightning during a storm, he stopped counting altogether.

There was no point. He’d ceased aging, more or less - flesh caught in a loop of regeneration and rot, never fully human, never fully beast. The Moonblight kept him alive. That was its cruelty. Healing every wound but leaving the ache. Rebuilding his ribs, but never his hope.

He learned the trees, their languages. He walked barefoot until his soles blistered, then calloused, then hardened like bark. The birds feared him. The deer never came close.

The werewolf in him ran with the wind some nights, fast and howling and free - but the boy in him always woke up curled under a log, shivering, wondering if he could remember his name.

Sometimes he did.

Most times, he didn't.

And in that slow fade of memory, he found comfort. It was easier to survive when you forgot what you’d lost.

A den formed where the light never touched - between the roots of an ancient tree and a shelf of stone that jutted like a jagged tooth from the earth. He lined it with moss and dry leaves, the bones of small animals, and sometimes, when he could bear it, books that he tried to remember reading.

A sanctuary of shadows.

Once, a wizard came, muttering incantations under his breath, robes glinting with runes. Remus tore out his throat before he could finish his spell. The wizard didn’t scream. Just looked surprised, more annoyed than afraid, and then crumpled like cloth. Remus dragged the body to the edge of the warded boundary and left it there. Let the crows and forest decide what it wanted.

He didn’t know why they kept coming. Curse-breakers, bounty hunters, desperate fathers trying to win back favour from the Ministry by killing the creature in the woods.

Maybe the forest told stories.

Maybe the curse whispered through tree roots and spiderwebs, painting pictures of a boy who once had a soul.

They never lasted long.

And so Remus lived - if one could call it that. He existed. He breathed. He remembered fragments: a warm hand on his head, the smell of books, the laugh of a boy with ink-stained fingers, a girl with gold on her lips and sunlight in her voice.

But they were ghosts now. Dreams. Things he had imagined in a fever.

"Let them forget me. I forget myself." He said it aloud sometimes, voice cracking, dry as old parchment. A prayer. A curse. A mercy.

Until the day you walked in.

They told you not to enter. That the trees had teeth and the mist had memories. That the forest was not a place but a hunger.

And still - you entered.

You were no warrior. No curse-breaker with runes tattooed on your knuckles. You were a healer's apprentice, barely twenty, with an aching back from hauling poultices and salves across three provinces. But the sleeping sickness was spreading through the outer villages like ink in water, and no magic had cured it.

Only the Moonblossom, whispered about in texts too ancient for wandwork, could hope to break the fever.

You found it in the margin of a moldering apothecary ledger: "Moonblossom grows where the cursed boy sleeps."

You asked the apothecary what it meant. He spat into the fire and said: "It means the forest eats what it likes."

But you had held too many limp hands, pressed cool cloths to too many burning brows. So you packed your satchel with wards and wolfsbane, whispered goodbye to your sleeping mentor, and crossed the edge of the old woods just after dawn.

The light changed almost instantly. Greener. Older. You could smell things that didn’t exist outside the trees - sweet rot, ozone, blood in the bark. The path wound like a serpent and refused to stay straight. You marked the way with trailing ribbons, like the books told you, though half of them vanished when you glanced back.

Still, you pressed forward. Through damp glens and nettle thickets, past moss-choked statues and thorny groves. Days may have passed. Or hours. Time, here, wore a different skin. It stretched and folded in on itself, curling like burnt parchment at the edges. You slept in a hollow tree once. Dreamed of wolves.

You dreamed of teeth.

The birds did not sing. Only the wind spoke, and it had no kindness in it. Once, you saw bones braided into the roots of an old elm, and you stepped carefully around them. Once, a fog rolled in so thick you could barely see your fingers. You tied a bell to your wrist, just to hear yourself move. Just to be sure you were still real.

It was the mist that brought you to it.

Not so much a place as a painting, shifting and gleaming in the morning hush. The enchanted estate was overgrown and half-sunken into the land, ivy strangling the old stone, wild roses curling over shattered stained glass. A memory of opulence. A ruin made beautiful by time.

You stepped through the broken archway, breath caught in your throat. There were carvings on the pillars - old magic, etched deep. A shield with a wolf and moon. A Latin inscription so faded you had to squint to make out: "Dormit lupus in aeternum." The wolf sleeps forever.

But the wolf was awake.

The moment you crossed into the courtyard, the air shifted. Thicker. Hungrier. You felt it in your chest, in the roots of your teeth. The sound of branches snapping echoed like gunfire. Something was moving.

Too fast. Too dark. A growl like gravel grinding in bone.

You turned.

And it was on you.

Not a wolf, not a man. Something in between. Fur matted, eyes ember-bright, breath steaming like smoke. Its weight pinned you to the moss, claws raking your cloak, and you knew you were going to die. You didn’t scream. Just looked into its eyes and whispered, "Please."

It paused. Something flickered.

The claws loosened.

And the shadows fled.

You lay in the moss, breath ragged, heart hammering, mouth full of leaves. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The mist rose around you again, soft and gray and humming with strange lullabies.

And then darkness.

Collapse.

You didn’t know you had been spared.

But he did.

The creature - the boy, the curse, the beast - watched from the trees.

It had taken everything not to finish it. The scent of blood had flared sharp in his nose. The fear in your voice, not shrill, not panicked - just quiet. Just human. A whisper like a memory.

Please.

He had heard that word before. Not from prey. From people. From the part of himself that still knew the shape of a name. He crouched in the shadows, panting, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

Still alive.

That was wrong. He didn't leave things alive. Not unless. . .

He snarled at himself and turned away, disappearing into the trees. He told himself it was because you were no threat. That you would die on your own. The forest would finish what he didn’t.

But the next morning, when the mist lifted, and you still lay curled like a broken bird in the weeds, he returned.

And that time, he carried you inside.

You woke to a room that felt as though it had been untouched by time - faded, beautiful in its ruin. The floors were covered in claw-scratched scars, deep grooves worn into the wood from years of neglect. The light was dim, filtered through heavy drapes made of dark, moth-eaten fabric. The scent of old paper mingled with the ever-present musk of the forest.

There was a basin beside you, warm water steaming gently in the cold air. A cloth sat neatly beside it, stained with the remnants of your earlier weariness. The warmth of it was grounding, like a breath after too many years of suffocating silence.

You had no idea where you were. The last thing you remembered was the attack - the sharp, predatory weight of the creature on top of you, the gleam of amber eyes, the growl vibrating in the air. But now, you were here - alive, alone, and in a place so still that even the silence seemed to press against your skin.

As you sat up, you saw it. A table, cluttered with papers, broken quills, and half-finished meals. Faintly, you caught the scent of stew, burnt in places, but still warm. It made your stomach twist, desperate for sustenance after days of trudging through the forest, of surviving on little more than water and the forest’s scattered fruit.

But the most striking thing about the room - besides its quiet loneliness - was the books. Shelves upon shelves, some of them made of old stone, others of rough-hewn wood, all packed with books. Some were ancient, with pages yellowed with age, others were newer, the bindings worn but still intact.

You were drawn to them immediately, fingers grazing over the titles, half-forgotten spells and healing potions and strange fables written in languages you hadn’t learned. It felt like an entire world lived here, locked away in these walls.

You glanced over your shoulder, expecting nothing but shadows, and found yourself staring into the dim corner where an unlit fire still held the ghost of warmth. The man - or the beast, perhaps - had been watching you. You weren’t sure when or how he had come, only that he had.

His presence hung heavy in the room, though he remained as distant as the night. You caught a flicker of movement at the door - his shadow, tall and shifting. He’d brought food and left it, the bowls already scraped clean by the time you noticed them. And then, just as quickly, he was gone again.

Days passed in a blur. He avoided you, as though your presence was some uncomfortable thing he had never planned on, never wanted. You didn’t mind - his silence was preferable to the low growls that had rumbled through the trees when he first attacked.

But you couldn't help but notice the small details: how he had placed fresh herbs beside the fire, how his footsteps were lighter than you expected for someone who had survived alone for so long.

You started to leave notes. At first, they were simple - just a line or two, asking if he was alright, if he was angry. But as the silence stretched between you, the questions grew bolder.

Why are you here?

Why haven’t you killed me?

At first, there was nothing. But then - just as the darkness began to feel too heavy - there was a response. Written in a sharp, almost sarcastic hand: You ask too many questions for someone who should be grateful for the chance to survive.

You could almost hear the bitterness in those words, a quiet edge of mockery that stung more than you expected.

You wrote back: You have a library. I didn’t know beasts read.

Another reply came quickly, terse: I’ve stolen more books than you’d care to know. If you want to learn, stop asking stupid questions and start reading.

It was a challenge.

And so, you did.

The more you read, the more you realized just how wrong your first assumptions had been. He wasn’t just a beast. No, that much was too easy. There was a clarity to the way he had organized these books, an intelligence in the way they were arranged. It wasn’t wild chaos or madness. It was methodical. Careful. Thoughtful, even.

Every day, you poured through his books - spells, histories, journals. You learned that the Moonblossom wasn’t just a mythical flower; it was a part of the very forest that surrounded you, a root that dug deep into the earth, hiding beneath layers of shadows and ancient magic. You learned about the curse that bound him. How it was not just the wolf, not just the monster he feared, but the life he had been forced to live because of it.

You started to leave more notes - longer ones. You told him about the villages, about the sick children, about the lives slipping away because no one had the answer to this strange, deadly sickness. About how the Moonblossom was the only chance they had to survive.

The responses grew colder, sharper: It doesn’t concern me. You aren’t my problem.

But still, the food appeared. The books continued to be left for you to read. It was the strangest kind of cruelty - he was there, but not there. A presence just out of reach, his voice only heard through the ink of his responses.

One day, you wrote something different.

I won’t take the Moonblossom. Not if you let me live.

The reply came swiftly, as expected: You think your life is worth saving?

You didn’t hesitate before answering. It’s not my life I’m worried about. It’s theirs.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken things. He didn’t reply for days. When he did, it was with a single word, cold and final: Fine.

But you could hear the doubt in it, the hesitation. Something had shifted. A crack in the walls, deep inside the beast, where something human had been buried long ago.

And in that silence, you learned the one thing you hadn’t expected: The forest might have taken everything from him, but he wasn’t completely lost. Not yet.

And neither were you.

The house didn’t creak. It breathed.

Walls expanded with the sighs of memory. Shadows moved without wind. The ivy clawing through the stone trembled to rhythms no living thing could track. He had built this place with bleeding hands and broken magic - stone by stone, claw by claw. It had taken years. Years of silence. Years of rot and rage and the kind of loneliness that didn’t just eat away at you, but carved itself into your bones like moss through mortar.

It was the forest that did it.

Too ancient to understand time the way men did. It stripped him of seasons, of certainty. Days blurred into moons. Moons into claws. Hunger never left him. Not truly. Even when he was fed, even when he was calm, something inside still gnawed.

So, to keep from vanishing into the growl of it all, he started talking to ghosts.

Or - no. Not ghosts. Worse.

He imagined them.

The Marauders.

At first, it was small. James’s laugh echoing down a corridor. Sirius’s boots thunking on the steps. A glint of ratty blond hair ducking out of sight. Harmless. Familiar. Until they answered him back.

He told himself it was harmless. A coping mechanism. A mental trick to keep the beast at bay. They’re not real, he would mutter to the walls. I know that. I do. But the forest didn’t just twist paths and steal sound - it fed delusion. Encouraged it. And deep down, a part of him wanted to believe they hadn’t left him behind.

So they came.

James arrived first, of course it was James.

All laughter and light, even when memory tried to dim him. He’d lean in doorways, arms crossed, smirking like the world was still theirs to ruin. His eyes held the same brightness they had at the very young age of seven - only, these ghosts grew old with him.

The delusions were so elaborate that they aged as he did and he had managed to picture a grown-up, more mature version of the friends he left behind.

He always showed up when Remus was most bitter, most weary. When his claws still stung from the shift. When the girl left notes he refused to read right away, though he always did eventually. James would appear then, tilting his head toward the cracked window, the one that looked out toward the part of the woods that never thawed.

“She’s brave,” James would say, like it was a dare. “Smarter than you were, at least.”

“I didn’t bring her here for company,” Remus would mutter.

James would grin. “No, but you didn’t let her die, either.”

He would disappear before Remus could answer.

Sirius came after.

He never knocked. Just sauntered in - coat half-draped off one shoulder, boots scuffed, the ghost of smoke curling at his collar like a lover’s hand. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t have to. His voice was velvet and broken glass.

“She’s pretty,” he said once, lounging across the ruined armchair that no longer had legs. “Too soft for this place. Too much light.”

“She’s stubborn. She’ll survive.”

Sirius smiled like sin, teeth sharp in the gloom. “You don’t want her to survive. You want her to stay.”

Remus didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

Sirius laughed, low and wicked. “You’re still human enough to want her.”

Then, quieter - meaner: “Still beast enough to lose her.”

The shadows swallowed him whole.

Peter came last.

He didn’t speak. Not anymore. He appeared only as flickers - his face half-formed, like fog catching the shape of a boy who never quite made it to manhood. Sometimes, he hovered in the corners of the library, fingers twitching toward books he never picked up. Sometimes he paced the corridor outside the locked cellar, his eyes wide, unblinking. Sometimes Remus didn’t know if he was real, or just guilt given form.

The Marauders came and went like tides. Memory bound to stone, to claw marks and candle wax. They were pieces of him still too tender to bury.

And she - she was the new variable. The unknown.

He watched her sometimes, through cracks in the wall or from the safety of the upper floors. She was clumsy in her curiosity, brave in a way that wasn’t loud. She didn’t flinch when the floorboards howled. She didn’t cry when the forest’s hunger turned toward her. She read his books like scripture. Left notes like prayers.

I won’t take the Moonblossom if you let me live. It’s not my life I’m worried about. It’s theirs.

He hadn’t answered at first.

But the forest had.

It coiled around her but did not bite. Its branches curled protectively over her roof. The mist grew warmer. The wind turned gentle.

She had been chosen. Or spared. Or both.

And Remus - he was no longer sure what he wanted. The beast snarled whenever she smiled. The man ached when she didn’t.

He heard her footsteps now, light and slow, tracing the edges of the room below. She was learning the house.

James’s voice rose again, this time from the mirror near the stairwell.

“Careful, mate,” he said, soft but sure. “You’re building a life again. Even if you don’t mean to.”

And Sirius, from the broken clockface in the parlor: “Tell her the truth. Or she’ll find it. She’s the sort who digs.”

Remus leaned his head against the stone. Closed his eyes. Tried not to think about her laugh. About the softness in her throat when she’d call out to him.

The house grew quiet.

But the wolves inside him did not sleep.

The house knew the moon was rising.

Not that it was really a house. Not like the ones you left behind with shingled roofs, windows with glass panes, and tidy hedges trimmed every other Sunday. No, this was something different. Something older.

It had been built by grief and survival, not blueprints. Bones and bark, ash and stubbornness. A hearth of soot-black stone stood at its center like a heart that's forgotten how to beat, cobbled together from rocks dragged across the forest floor by calloused, unrelenting hands. Timber walls leaned in on themselves like secrets being whispered through the years.

They were crooked and groaning, patched in places with mismatched pelts, slabs of bark, and whatever remnants of fabric or metal he could salvage. The roof sagged low, bearing the weight of moss, old leaves, and the weight of memory too heavy to shed.

The floor was not a floor. Not really. Just cold-packed dirt, worn smooth in patches from pacing.

But it felt like a home. In the way dens are homes. In the way wounds are. It had been made with intention and with some care. With hands that knew how to destroy, choosing instead to build.

Tonight, it shuddered.

The air inside grew tight. Too still. Shadows no longer simply lingered - they bristled. They shifted with the tension of a held breath. Even the fire, usually robust in its greed for wood and warmth, cowered low in the hearth, flames curled inward like fists.

And on your door - a slab of uneven wood lashed to a bent iron hinge - he had left a note. Scratched hastily into the grain with the tip of a blade.

Stay in. Lock door. Don’t follow.

But you couldn’t stay in.

You had tried. Truly. For as long as you could bear the silence, you sat curled by the fire, pretending your hands weren’t trembling, that the creaks and snaps outside were nothing more than the forest settling into slumber. You clutched one of the stolen books he’d left by your bed, but the words blurred. The pages rattled with each gust.

You looked at the door too many times.

And finally, you crossed the threshold.

Outside, the woods were not the same as they were in daylight. They were alive. Not just with creatures, but with presence. The trees loomed tall and skeletal, bark silvered by moonlight, branches reaching like arms toward something unseen. M

Mist crept along the underbrush, clinging to your ankles like it wanted to pull you back. The wind whispered in a language you didn't know but somehow understood.

Don’t go. Don’t look. Don’t see.

But something deeper called you forward.

A low, mournful sound that stretched across the trees like a violin string pulled too tight. You followed it without knowing why. Or maybe you did. Maybe it was the tremor in his fingers earlier that day. The way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours, too full of something ancient and ashamed. The way he tore bread with his teeth like it was a punishment.

The change was coming.

He had tried to keep you safe. You knew that. Wards surrounded and hummed lightly around the house. Charms hung like broken promises from the trees. But none of it could stop the ache inside you.

You stepped past the line.

The forest wasn't quiet. Not tonight.

The leaves didn’t rustle so much as hiss. The wind wasn't a breeze but a warning. Your feet made no sound, but you could feel every twig snap in your bones. It was as if the forest itself had turned into a cathedral of dread, holding its breath alongside you.

You followed the sound of breaking.

Not trees.

Him.

It led you to a hollow tucked behind a crescent of boulders. You'd never been here before, though it felt sacred. As if this was where he came to fall apart.

And at its center: him.

He had torn off his shirt. His skin glistened with sweat and something darker. Blood. Already streaked along his ribs, under his nails, smeared across his chest. Some of it his. Some of it from other nights. His body shuddered, curled in on itself as if trying to hold back the inevitable.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

His spine arched violently. The sound it made was not human. His fingers clawed at the earth. His face - contorted, jaw clenched so hard you swore you could hear teeth crack. His muscles twisted under his skin like waves being pulled by some monstrous tide.

He hadn’t noticed you. Or maybe he had, but couldn’t afford to care. The pain was too much.

And you - you felt it, somehow.

You couldn’t explain it. But the moment you saw him break, something inside you cracked in sympathy. This wasn’t a transformation. This wasn’t magic.

It was annihilation.

And still - you did not run.

Your legs shook, but you stepped forward. Just enough to really see him. The moss was cold under your knees as you knelt. You sat still, like prey offering peace. And then, you hummed.

Soft. Uncertain at first. No words.

Just a tune. Something old. Something from before. Something you didn’t even know you remembered until now.

The kind of lullaby passed from mother to child, through blood and breath. The kind meant to soothe frightened animals and children alike.

His head snapped up. His eyes glowed - gold rimmed in red, unearthly and sharp. The beast had surfaced.

But it didn’t lunge.

It looked.

At you, and for a heartbeat - just one - it wasn’t a beast.

It was a boy. A man. A name buried under all the blood and fur and fear. His breath hitched.

The recognition in his eyes was like lightning behind clouds. There - then gone. But real. He stumbled back, half-beast, half-broken. Limbs too long, joints bending wrong. Fur beginning to spread across his skin like wildfire. Teeth bared. But not at you.

For you.

He snarled - a confused, keening sound that held more warning than threat. His whole body trembled. He turned sharply and he ran.

Not toward you. Not to hurt. Away.

He returned just before dawn.

Collapsed at the edge of the clearing like the forest had finally let him go. Naked, bloodied, barely conscious. You didn’t speak. Just moved toward him slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

Because that’s what he was. You draped a pelt around his shoulders. He flinched at first - then leaned into the warmth.

Back at the house-that-wasn’t, you guided him to the hearth, eased him down with care. Cleaned the worst of the wounds with water gone cold in the basin. Your fingers were gentle, steady, even when his weren’t. He didn’t speak, but his eyes followed your every move. Watching you like he didn’t deserve it. Like this was mercy he hadn’t earned.

But you didn’t look away.

“You always come back alone?” you asked, your voice soft, but not timid.

A pause. Then a nod. You dipped a cloth into water again, wrung it out.

“Must get lonely,” you said.

Another pause. Then, hoarse: “You get used to it.”

You didn’t push. Just pressed the cloth against a bruise blossoming beneath his collarbone.

“I didn’t.” He glanced up, confused. “Get used to it,” you clarified. “The loneliness.”

The fire cracked. The house groaned. Something in him shifted.

And you spoke - quietly, steadily - as if unraveling something knotted too tight for too long.

About the city you’d left behind. The sister who braided your hair, the father who stopped coming home. The teacher who told you girls like you asked too many questions, and the night you stopped asking them out loud. About the time you ran. The ache of hunger. The thrill of freedom. The winters that bit through skin. The boy who tried to steal from you and the way you learned to steal first.

You told it like it wasn’t your own story. Like it belonged to someone you used to be.

Remus didn’t interrupt. He just listened. Fully. Like each word you offered stitched something inside him a little more closed.

Eventually, the silence curled up between you like a cat too tired to fight sleep.

You watched the fire. Then you said it. . . your name.

It felt strange, foreign in your mouth after so long. Like speaking it made you real again. Like saying it meant choosing to be seen. He turned his head, eyes catching yours in the flickering light.

He repeated it slowly. Testing it on his tongue like a language he hadn’t spoken in years and when he said it - it didn’t sound like a name.

It sounded like a spell.

You laughed, not a bitter one like before. A real laugh, which was soft that made his ears perk up ever so slightly.

And the sound of it made his heart ache. Like a wolf remembering a song it heard once in a dream. It was then he finally decided - “Remus. Mine, I think.”

You weren’t looking for anything in  particular. Not in the way you usually wandered through the trees - seeking space, seeking escape, or even just the warmth of the late autumn sun that filtered weakly through the heavy branches.

No, tonight was different. The air felt sharp with something that had no name, pulling at your insides, pushing you to move when you’d rather be still. A pressure, a heaviness in your chest that clung tighter with each breath, making everything feel too loud, too sharp.

So you walked. You didn’t think much of it - just put one foot in front of the other, your boots crunching lightly in the brittle, scattered leaves underfoot. You passed the tree line, where the woods grew thick and oppressive. The ground beneath you shifted from a blanket of melting snow into slushy, cold mud that sucked at your shoes like it wanted to hold you there.

Fallen logs - twisted and cracked by time or something far older - loomed like the remnants of forgotten giants. You had no idea what might be lurking in the shadows, but the cold air seemed to steady your nerves, clearing your head from the mess of thoughts that cluttered it.

You didn’t mean to stray this far.

But the moon tonight - it was unlike anything you’d ever seen. It hung low in the sky, bathed in a crimson red as if the very light had been bled out of it, staining everything it touched. The trees shuddered under its weight, casting long, dark fingers across the forest floor. It felt like the sky was watching.

There was no breeze. No sound, save for the distant crackle of the dying branches. You’d reached a place so quiet, so impossibly still, it seemed sacred.

And then you saw it.

The flower.

It stood there, in a small clearing just beyond a stretch of low-hanging branches, glowing silver under the blood-washed moon. At first, it looked like a trick of the light, a whisper of mist or a shimmer of frost caught in the air. But then you saw it - clear and unmistakable.

A blossom.

So delicate. So impossibly delicate, it could have been a dream. Soft silver petals unfurled slowly, as if responding to the moonlight itself. The faintest pulse of light emanated from it, slow, measured, almost like a heartbeat. The edges of the petals glowed blue, curling inward, as though defying the red world around it.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe - it was finally beyond reach, the one thing you needed, why you entered this place.

You knelt slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile tranquillity of the clearing. Every part of you felt like it was holding its breath - waiting, wondering if the world would pause long enough to let you understand what you were seeing.

You weren’t reaching for it to claim it or to steal it.

But the urge to touch it - just to feel the warmth of something that felt so alive in a place that was so full of shadows - gnawed at you. Not to mention that you had been searching for it originally - only, you can’t bring yourself to pluck.

Your fingers hovered just inches above the petals. You could feel its pulse in your fingertips - barely perceptible, but unmistakable, like it was breathing along with you.

But before you could let your skin graze the flower, his voice shattered the quiet.

“I told you not to wander alone.”

It cut through the silence with a jagged edge, snapping the moment into something sharp and bitter. You jerked upright, heart slamming against your ribcage. There, standing in the dim light, was Remus. 

His eyes were wild - almost feral - as he stepped into the clearing. His features were sharp with tension, but his eyes - they were full of something else. Something darker. Something hurt.

You opened your mouth to speak, to explain, but before the words could form, he spoke again, his voice low and laced with accusation.

“That’s it, then? You wait until I trust you. Until I let you in. And then you steal from me?”

The words hit like a slap. A crack in the chest, a painful twist of betrayal that you hadn’t been prepared for.

You blinked, trying to swallow the confusion that surged up like bile in your throat. “I wasn’t - ”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, cutting you off, his voice sharp enough to make the air between you both crackle.

The Moonblossom, trembling slightly in the sudden weight of the conversation, seemed to watch both of you. The way the light from it flickered - a soft, eerie dance of shadows and gleaming silver - felt like it had taken on a life of its own. The flower was suddenly a thing in the world of accusations.

“You can’t lie about this,” he continued, his eyes never leaving you. “No one finds that flower unless they’re looking for it.”

You shook your head quickly, as if shaking off the weight of his words. “I didn’t even know it was real until now,” you said, the words rushing out, desperate for him to understand, to believe you.

But his laugh - it stopped you.

It wasn’t a laugh you knew. It was harsh, cruel. There was nothing left of the kindness he’d shown you, the warmth he had once given you in the quiet spaces between his secrets. This laugh was hollow. Empty.

And it broke something inside you.

“You wouldn’t be the first to pretend,” he muttered. His voice had quieted, but the accusation still echoed in the space between you both. The fire in his gaze burned through you, and it felt like he was already seeing someone else - someone who didn’t belong here, someone who was just as false as the others who’d come before. “You knew it was forbidden.”

And you did.

He’d warned you once - carefully, almost in a whisper as if the forest might be listening. The Moonblossom was dangerous, sacred. He never spoke of it in earnest - just a soft warning, a fleeting mention as he adjusted his pack or the fire crackled.

But then, finding it was the original plan all along.

His words tangled in your throat, but the weight of his eyes was unbearable.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t intend to take it. I swear. I didn’t even touch it.”

But it didn’t matter.

The words hung in the air, thick and useless. His gaze, that wild, furious gaze, hardened into something you couldn’t place - something that made the space between you both feel miles apart. He stepped back slowly, his features unreadable, his body trembling - not from the cold, but from something deeper.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost sad. “You thought about it.”

And then he turned.

Without another word, without a glance back, he vanished into the trees, swallowed by the night.

You waited.

The shelter felt hollow without him. The fire in the corner, which had been warm and bright with his presence, now struggled against the darkness. You sat beside it, knees drawn up to your chest, feeling every moment stretching out endlessly. The food remained untouched, the pack abandoned. His absence echoed louder than the wind that whispered through the trees.

You waited, telling yourself that he’d return - that this was just a moment, a passing shadow in a dark forest.

But the nights dragged on.

The fire flickered weakly. The shelter, once a shared space, now felt like a tomb. The weight of the silence, the emptiness of the air, pressed down on you until even the smallest noises seemed unbearable.

You left his food where he always left his pack - waiting. Hoping.

The moon had moved on, but the memory of the red sky, the blood moon, lingered in your mind. It felt like a curse. A warning you’d ignored. The forest had whispered to you, and you’d chosen not to listen.

The silence stretched on, unbearable. The fire sputtered weakly, throwing erratic shadows against the walls of the shelter. The air was heavy, thick with the absence of him. You sat still, the knot of tension in your chest slowly tightening, curling in on itself.

You had waited long enough.

The forest around you had grown colder. The moon, once a dark-red sliver in the sky, now hovered above like an unblinking eye. It made you restless, made you question your decisions, the choice to stay alone in the depths of these woods when everything felt wrong.

But the wind - there was something different about it tonight. It had a bite to it, colder than the usual chill, colder than the whispers of a winter that was still months away.

Then, through the bitter wind, you heard it.

A distant rustle. The crack of branches breaking. A low, guttural sound, like something - or someone - stumbling through the trees.

Your breath caught in your throat. You were on your feet before you could even think. You stepped outside the shelter, eyes scanning the darkness. The familiar weight of fear, of longing, settled in your stomach.

And then - 

He appeared.

Remus.

But not the way you remembered him.

His figure staggered into view like a shadow in the mist, broken and bent. His clothes were torn, dirty, stained with something that looked too dark to be simply dirt. His eyes were distant, feverish, flicking nervously in all directions as if the forest itself were out to get him. His gait was uneven - half-walking, half-crawling - barely holding himself up.

He didn’t even notice you standing there at first, his mind clearly elsewhere. He took a few unsteady steps before his legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto his knees, gasping for air as if every breath was a battle.

You rushed to him without thinking.

“Remus - !” you said, the shock breaking through your cold reserve. You knelt beside him, grabbing his shoulders, trying to steady him. “What happened? You’re hurt.”

But he barely looked at you. His eyes were glazed over, his face pale as bone, drenched in a cold sweat that made his skin seem almost translucent. His breathing was ragged, strained, like he was suffocating on the very air he was trying to inhale.

“Don’t -  don’t touch me,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion and something darker - resentment, maybe. He winced when you tried to help him sit up, his hand weakly batting yours away. “I don’t want your help.”

You froze. His words cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

“Remus, you’re bleeding,” you said, swallowing the panic that rose in your throat. “You need to rest, you need - ”

“I don’t need anything from you,” he snapped, his voice a low growl. He was shaking now, the tremors rippling through his frame. “I’m fine.”

You could see the cracks in him. His muscles were trembling with the effort to stay upright, his skin flushed and hot to the touch. The wound on his side was deep - dark blood staining the cloth of his shirt, seeping through his fingers where he pressed them against the injury to stop the flow. His expression was one of defiance, but it was laced with a kind of vulnerability that he couldn’t hide.

But you weren’t going to leave him like this.

“No,” you said softly but firmly. “You’re not fine. And I’m not leaving you out here to bleed to death.”

He gave you a bitter, disbelieving laugh - a harsh, wet sound that made something cold settle deep in your bones. “You think you’re just going to fix me? Like I’m some. . . some wounded animal?” His gaze hardened, but it lacked its usual fire. It was dull, distant.

“I fought everything in the woods tonight - everything that moved. I didn’t care who they were. Who it was.”

His eyes flickered briefly to the ground as if remembering something gruesome.

You felt a shiver run through you at the admission, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Why?” you asked, your voice trembling despite yourself. “Why would you do that?”

His lips pulled into a thin, bitter smile - if it could even be called that. “Why not? The forest doesn’t care. It never has. Nothing cares.” His eyes met yours, raw and untamed, but there was no warmth left in them. “So why should I?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. How could you? How could you reach someone who had already given up because the world gave them up first?

His gaze faltered, his breathing ragged again. He leaned against you as the tremors intensified, and before he could push you away once more, you gently lifted him, half-carrying him inside the shelter. You settled him against the wall and began to work quickly, your hands moving with a practiced urgency.

The cold was creeping into your bones, but there was no time to think about it. His blood stained your hands as you removed his torn shirt, cleaning the wound and patching it with what little supplies you had.

He winced as you pressed a cloth against the injury, and for a moment, his eyes softened. Not much - just a flicker. A whisper of something buried too deep for him to grasp.

“Right,” you said, trying to lighten the air, trying to push past the tension. “Were you always an angry child?”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and empty.

“I think the forest forged that one,” he said. His voice was so quiet that it was almost lost beneath the crackling of the fire.

You didn’t know how to respond to that either. It felt like a secret you weren’t meant to hear. A truth you couldn’t possibly understand.

And then, without warning, there was silence between you both - thick and oppressive. The world outside felt distant, like it no longer mattered. You continued tending to him, your hands steady despite the storm of thoughts that raged in your chest.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

But you could feel it - the shift between you both. The distance that had always been there, but now felt even more insurmountable.

The next morning, Remus was still unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. You stayed by his side, watching over him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. You couldn’t shake the image of him - broken and angry - fighting things in the woods, letting his rage consume him. It was like he had forgotten the forest wasn’t something to fight against. It was something to survive.

But you couldn’t fix him.

You couldn’t undo the damage that had been done.

And then, another disturbance in the woods - this time, not Remus.

The rustling was louder. More insistent. You could hear someone - or something - moving swiftly through the trees, intent on reaching the clearing where the Moonblossom had once bloomed. You stepped outside, your breath catching in your throat when you saw the figure.

A man. Tall, cloaked in shadow, moving too quickly for comfort. He didn’t see you at first, but you stepped forward, calling out.

“Stop!” you shouted. “You can’t take it. It’s forbidden.”

The man turned - eyes cold and wild, a sneer twisting his lips. He didn’t answer, but he lunged at you.

But before he could reach you, Remus was there - weak, but still fierce enough to fight. His movements were jagged, stumbling, but he tackled the man to the ground with enough force to make the earth beneath them shake.

The struggle didn’t last long. The man, surprised by the wolf-like fury that Remus possessed, quickly backed down and ran off into the woods.

Remus fell to his knees, gasping for air, barely able to hold himself up. His strength was fading, his wounds too much to fight against. But he didn’t care.

“Does it really matter?” he rasped, staring into the forest where the man had vanished. “No one cared for me. Why should I care for them?”

You froze, the question settling over you like a weight.

How could he not see it?

You thought of the villages you had traveled to, the people you had seen withering away under the weight of sickness and disease. How many more had to die before someone did something?

And then, you thought of your sister - fading away, slowly, painfully - her breaths shallow, her skin too pale.

And you knew.

You had no choice.

That night, while Remus slept, his feverish mutters blending with the crackling of the fire, you made your decision.

You slipped out of the shelter, as quiet as the wind. You made your way to the clearing where the Moonblossom had once stood, and this time, you didn’t hesitate.

You reached out - no longer uncertain, no longer afraid.

The flower pulsed in your hands, and you took it. You stole it. And in that moment, you didn’t feel guilty. You didn’t feel anything. You just ran.

You didn’t look back but you left behind a letter.

A simple message.

I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice. I treasure you more than you’ll ever know. But this was the only way.

It was almost painful, the way the ink smeared slightly from the tears you’d allowed yourself to shed before setting it down, the words becoming harder to read the more you thought about what you were doing. The quill had felt too heavy in your hand, the weight of it not only pressing against the paper but against your chest.

But in that moment, with the Moonblossom tucked carefully in your bag, you knew there was no other path left to take. Your sister, the villages, the lives slowly withering - everything demanded it. It was the only way to save them.

But as the words formed, a quiet resolve replaced the panic, and when the letter was finished, the air felt still around you, as if the forest itself had waited, holding its breath. You sealed the parchment carefully and left it on the table where it would be the first thing he would see when he returned.

Then you left.

No looking back. No hesitation.

When Remus returned, the quiet of the woods felt like a heavy shroud, and it was a soundless ache in his chest. He had never truly expected it to be easy, but as he stumbled back to the shelter - his wounds still aching despite his best efforts to ignore them - he had hoped. . . hoped for something.

Something to tell him you had been waiting, still here, even after everything.

But as he stepped inside, something felt wrong.

It was the silence that hit him first. The kind of silence that made the world outside feel distant. As if the forest itself had swallowed everything - the gentle hum of life, the wind rustling through the trees, the soft rhythm of the world - had all gone still in your absence.

The fire was dead. The hearth that had once held a comforting warmth now lay cold and abandoned, its embers reduced to nothing but dark ashes.

His heart, which had been beating at a chaotic, frantic rhythm as he’d fought his way back, suddenly stilled in his chest.

You were gone.

The shelter was empty. The place where he had spent countless nights, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of your presence, now lay bare. Every small trace of you - your scent, your warmth - was gone.

His eyes darted frantically around the room, seeking any sign of life, of you. But the only thing that remained was the letter.

He moved toward it, his legs weak, his body yearning for rest, but a force greater than exhaustion drew him closer to the desk where the letter rested. The familiar handwriting - your handwriting - was stark against the paper.

And for a long moment, he just stood there, his mind running in circles, unsure if he should reach for it, afraid of what the words might mean.

But his fingers trembled as he unfolded the letter. The words were short - too short - but heavy in their simplicity.

I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. I treasure you more than you’ll ever know. But this was the only way.

A dull throb started in the back of his mind, reverberating through his skull. His eyes fixed on the words. It was as if they were etched in stone, something permanent, unchangeable.

His chest ached - tighter, deeper with every breath. And before he even realized what was happening, he crumpled the letter in his hand. No.

No, this couldn’t be real. You couldn’t have left. Not like this. Not without him, without any warning, without a fight.

The forest outside had taken on a deeper silence, an oppressive weight that pressed on his shoulders. The soft wind felt colder now, like the very air was mourning your departure, just as he was.

He collapsed onto the floor, the crumpled letter falling from his hand, landing beside him like a silent reminder of what he had lost.

No words left him. No curses. No screams. No tears. There was only the stillness of the world around him. The space that had once felt full of life - of your laughter, your quiet murmurs, your presence - now felt empty.

Remus was alone.

And the forest, the place he had once found solace, now felt like the loneliest place in the world again. Just like that little boy, barely 9 who was abandoned.

. How dare you think it's romantic, leaving me safe and stranded?

end. masterlist

[dantes-jacket]

Wanna take a peak

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #5!! You walk in on Dante naked, and he’s cocky about it (I mean who wouldn’t when you’re built like a Greek god) anyways this gets a little heated towards then end, oh and obviously nudity lol. This was so fun to write

There’s only a handful of times you’re ever running in a full sprint. Sadly today is one of them because you’re running late to work. Not that your boss would care, Dante is super chilled and laid back. Most of the time when you get to Devil May Cry the man is still sleeping.

Today was Friday and you wanted to surprise him with a box of different strawberry treats for working so hard this week. He’s had a lot of missions back to back and barely had a second to even breathe. He had no mission lined up today so you knew today would be a perfect day to surprise him.

You look down at your watch mid sprint to see it saying 9:45, shit you promised him you’d be there at 9 to answer any calls. You turn the corner and see the shop in all its glory. You sprint the last hundred yards and stop right in front of the door. You try to catch your breath and fix your messy hair before walking in.

You open the door and head in. The shop is dark meaning Dante is still sleeping and didn’t open up shop. You set your things down on his desk then go turn on the lights and flick on the infamous sign. You walk back over to grab the box of pastries to put them in the kitchen.

You flick on the light in the kitchen to see where you are going. Dante loves to raid his fridge after missions so he always leaves his stuff on the ground in here and the last thing you need to do is trip on some demonic thing. As the light flickers on you hear a groan.

You quickly look around to see Dante standing behind the fridge door that is open. “Ugh turn those off.”

“Good morning Dante.”

He looks over at you and you watch the tiredness wipe from his system. He looks really happy and excited to see you. “Hey! You’re early, thought you were going to be here at 9.”

“It’s 10 now, so I’m actually late.”

“Oh you sleep in too?”

“No.” You show the box to him and open it up, “I stopped and got you some different strawberry pastries to surprise you. They are a little reward for the long hard week you had.”

He lightens up even more and slams the fridge close which was covering which makes you see everything. Dante is completely naked. With no shame. You’re so shocked you don’t even move. Your eyes run over his body. His muscles are so sketched that he looks like a Greek god has sculpted him.

He’s got a trail of white and silver hair leading down to… your breath hitches when you see it. His dick is thick and long. No wonder why he acts so cocky, he actually has the asset to back it up. Then you realize you’ve been staring.

You cover your eyes and screech, “DANTE!”

“What?” He grabs the box from you and obviously takes a bite of one of the pastries because he’s moans. “Man this is so fucking good.”

“WHERE ARE YOUR CLOTHES!?!”

He swallows another bite, “Oh yeah guess I forgot to put something on after my shower.”

You spin around so you can open your eyes. “How do you forget to put something on? What if someone else came in and saw you?”

The thought of someone else seeing him in all his glory makes you burn with jealousy. You two aren’t together but you’d like to say you are close. That does help the delusional part of your brain for justifying you liking your boss.

You didn’t hear him come up behind you after setting the box down on the counter. You feel a warm hand wrap around your waist and pulls you back into a warm embrace.

Dante has you lined up with his thigh so his uncovered dick doesn’t touch you. He’s already getting a hard on after you ogling him. He doesn’t need to explain to you why he’s hard so he’s making it easier for the both of you. He leans down and whispers deeply into your ear, “Are you jealous?”

Your face heats up and you definitely know your blush is reaching your ears. You also 100% know Dante can see it. You push yourself out of his hold, “As if! Just go put some clothes on.”

You keep your face hidden from him while you walk back to the office. Dante chuckles to himself, “Man thought we were finally going to get somewhere that time.”

You stand at his desk and try to sort through all the different reports he has on his desk. It’s hard to focus because all that comes to mind is his perfect body. Any time you blink or you close your eyes you’re blessed again with seeing his body. It sends a warmth to your core. You try to push those feelings aside and focus.

You let an annoyed sigh out and drop the papers back on his desk. How the hell are you suppose to focus today? It’s going to be a very long day.

You see two arms get placed around you on the desk and a warmth at your back again. He snuck up on you again! How did you let that happen? Now you gotta figure out how to get out of this, even though you don’t really want to.

“What’s wrong?” A deep voice rings in your ear again.

Playing it off and not telling him that his perfect body is the only thing in your head now, you talk about work. “I’m just confused on how to organize all these reports. Morrison is picky and the last thing I want is to be yelled at by him.”

Dante puts his chin on your head and mumbles, “I can help.”

He grabs different reports and skims over them. “Okay so if the report has more to it and actually has useful information put it in this pile,” he points to the pile on the right. “If it’s basically useless put it in this pile,” while pointing to the left side now.

You nod and grab more reports. You and Dante stay in this position while sorting them. It only makes you more antsy. You want to feel that body against yours, you want him to- you shake your head to snap you out of your thoughts again.

“What’s wrong?” Dante asks again.

You play it off once more, “Uh I’m confused on this one. Not sure where it should go.”

Dante lightly takes the report from your hands and skims it. “Eh don’t know either. I’ll just put it in the keep pile.”

“Okay. Better him yelling at you than me,” you laugh.

Dante leans closer to you and basically engulfs you with his body, “I hope you know I’d never let him yell at you. I’d protect you from anything.”

His words are so sweet, basically everything you want him to say. This only adds to your need of having him though. This time you give in. You lean back against him, “I know and I appreciate it.”

You look up and him and he’s already looking down at you. There’s a silence between you two, each waiting for the other to do or say something. You both slowly lean in until the front door swings open and slams against the wall.

You jump out of his hold and look at the customer. It’s a woman wearing a very revealing outfit. She’s looking straight at Dante, maybe they know each other?

“Dante!”

You didn’t know Dante was looking straight at you when you jumped away and didn’t even look at who came in. At the call of his name he looks to see who is calling him and he just rolls his eyes. Not this chick again.

“Hi Miss. Have another demon I need to take care of?”

“No, I came here to see youuuu.” She slowly struts over trying to pop her hips out. Oh so that’s what she is doing here. She wants Dante. It makes your blood boil but you can’t help but applaud her confidence.

“Why?” Dante says disinterestedly.

“I need to repay you for helping me.” She walks over and stands toe to toe with him not caring for his personal space. “How about dinner?”

“No thanks.”

She doesn’t stop instead she places her hand on his chest and run it down his pec and towards his abs, “Oh so we can’t just skip the foreplay.”

Your throat feels dry, how can she just walk in and suggest this? You reach for the random water bottle on Dante’s desk and take a big sip to try and help the lump forming in your throat.

Dante doesn’t let her touch him for long, he smacks her hand away and steps back. “Not interested. The only girl that can see me naked is her,” and points to you.

You choke on the water you just swallowed. You finish hacking up a lung and look at the man who is smirking.

The lady moves to stand in your direction to try and block Dante from looking at you. “Look at me! I’m much prettier, I can actually give you a fun night-“

“Get out.”

“Huh?”

“I said, get out. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

“I don’t understand-“

“Don’t you ever talk bad about her again. You’ll never amount to her. Now get the fuck out of my shop.” Dante says in the most threatening voice you’ve ever heard him use.

At the tone of his voice the lady quickly makes her way out of the shop and slams the door on her way out. You watch the door and laugh, “Well that was something. She really had guts-“

You’re cut off by two hands on your face and the feeling of soft lips on yours. Dante’s kissing you…. DANTE IS KISSING YOU!?!

Once it clicks in your head that he’s kissing you, you eagerly return the kiss. It started off soft and slow but now it’s getting more heated and clash of teeth and tongues.

Dante pushes you against the wall and starts to kiss down your neck, “Thank god she left, been waiting to do this.” He continues to suck at your neck drawing out little moans from you.

You place your hands on his chest, “Dante-“

He unattached himself from your neck and looks back up at you. “What is it baby?”

“More please.”

He smirks, “Now you wanna take a peak?”

You flush at his comment and hide yourself in his chest. Dante lets out a deep laugh and holds you close. You two stand there hugging until the phone starts ringing. You try to break out of the hug so you can answer it but Dante won’t let you budge.

“I gotta answer the phone, let go for a second.”

“No can do. Today we are off and we are going to spent the entire day in my bed.”

The phone stops ringing once it does Dante steps away from the hug and closes Devil May Cry. He walks back to you and throws you over his shoulder, carrying you like a sack of potatoes.

“Dante, put me down!” You try to yell but it ends up just coming out as a laugh instead.

Dante joins you in the laughing and simply stating, “No, you and I got a date in my bed. Let’s make it fun.”

[ha-rinrin]

Little Brat

summary: She blew up your kitchen. Time to make her pay.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 3k

Note:

WELCOME BACK I missed all of you so much, hope you guys didn't forget about me. I'm sorry for disappearing — I was focused on my academic comeback. I think I might be able to post more often (but no promises).

I noticed there's been a shortage in the Jinx x Reader tag, and a lot of you asked me to come back — and who am I to say no?

Anyway, I'm really happy to be back, even if I don't post daily like before. I hope you enjoy this new fic, which, by the way, was HARD to write. I'm really bad at writing smut, but I did my best.

TW: NSFW, overstimulation, strap-on, orgasm denial and control, top!reader x sub!Jinx, light degradation, teasing, and I think thats all, if I forgot something, im sorry

The fire alarm’s going off when you unlock the door. Again.

You don’t even flinch this time, just toss your keys onto the hallway table and step into the smoke.

It’s coming from the kitchen. Of course it is.

You walk in and see it: your custom-built, voice-controlled, top-of-the-line Piltover microwave blown wide open. The front panel’s cracked, the inside is scorched, and something definitely exploded.

Jinx is sitting on the counter like nothing happened—legs swinging like a child, soot on her cheek, a little too proud of herself.

“Hi, babe,” she says sweetly, waving a tiny screwdriver at you.

You blink. “What. Did you do.”

“Okay, so–” she starts, already smiling, “I was trying to make popcorn.”

You just stare at her.

“But then I thought… what if I gave it a boost? Just a little chemtech.”

She lifts a small, still-glowing power cell––clearly modified. “Y’know. To speed it up.”

The fire alarm shrieks again. A soft pop comes from the microwave.

“You blew up my microwave,” you say.

She shrugs. “I improved it. Technically.”

You don’t laugh. You don’t even blink.

You take one step closer, and Jinx’s smirk falters just slightly.

“Do you think I’m impressed?” you ask.

She leans back on her hands, still trying to play it cool. “Thought it might at least make you look at me.”

You glance at the mess, then back at her. “Oh, I’m looking.”

She quiets.

You place a hand on the counter beside her thigh, lean in just enough to make her press back against the cabinets.

“This what you wanted?” you ask, voice low. “To blow up my kitchen just so I’d come home and deal with you?”

Her eyes flicker. “Maybe.”

Another step and your knee’s between hers.

“You’re going to clean this up,” you say. “After.”

Her breath catches.

“Now get off the counter.”

She moves fast. Obedient. Like she’s been waiting for that tone all day.

She hops off the counter, but doesn’t move. Just stands there with that smug little tilt to her head, eyes flicking up and down like she’s deciding whether to listen to you at all.

You don’t give her the chance.

Your fingers close around her jaw–– not hard, but enough to stop her in her tracks. “Try me again, and you’ll be on your knees before you make it to the bedroom.”

She grins, breath hitching just a little. “Kinky threat. You sure you’re not the one who blew up the microwave?”

You don’t flinch.

“Keep running your mouth,” you murmur, “and I’ll make sure you’re too sore to use it later.”

That wipes the grin off her face. Almost.

Then she shrugs, deliberately slow. “Guess I better make it worth it, huh?”

You let go of her jaw.

“Bedroom. Now.”

She turns around with a smirk, strutting like she owns the place. “God, finally. I was starting to think you’d just let me get away with it.”

You follow, watching her every step.

“Not a chance.”

The bedroom door barely clicks shut before you’ve got her on the bed.

You don’t give her time to settle. You grab her wrist and push her downing the bed and onto her back, climbing over her like she’s already yours.

“Hands up,” you say––low, firm.

She obeys, too quickly, too eagerly, eyes flicking up to yours with that defiant spark still burning.

You drag your fingers slowly up her stomach, just under her shirt, and she shivers.

“You wanted attention,” you murmur, leaning in close. “Now you’ve got it. Let’s see how much of it you can take.”

Her breath catches, and she swallows hard, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t dare.

“Try anything bratty,” you add, hand sliding higher, “and I’ll make sure you don’t get to come tonight.”

And just like that, she’s quiet.

Not behaving––but quiet.

You don’t bother with slow.

Clothes come off in quick, practiced movements––yours first, then hers––until she’s bare beneath you, except for her panties. You leave those on.

On purpose.

She arches slightly, like she expects more, like she wants more, but you don’t give it to her.

Not yet.

Instead, you slide your hand down, press your palm flat over the soaked fabric, just enough for her to feel it––your heat, your control––without giving her what she really wants.

She squirms, breath shaky. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Of course I am.”

Your fingers move slow, dragging along the thin fabric, teasing the wet spot already blooming there. You circle her clit with maddening precision, just enough to make her whine.

She bucks her hips up, impatient.

You pin them down with your free hand. “Uh-uh. You don’t get to be greedy.”

Her hands tighten in the sheets above her head, body tense beneath yours.

“You blew up my kitchen,” you murmur, mouth brushing her jaw. “You’re lucky I’m even touching you.”

Your fingers press harder against her clit, slow and controlled. But you’re not done.

You tug her shirt up with the hand that was previously pinning her hips down, exposing her chest. She shivers, nipples already hard.

Her hands leave the sheets––one flying up to grab the pillow beside her head, the other fisting the blanket like she needs to hold on to something, anything, just to stay grounded.

You lean down, tongue dragging across her right nipple before wrapping your lips around it and sucking deep.

She gasps––loud, unrestrained––her hips jerking as your fingers rub tight, wet circles against her clit while your mouth teases her chest.

Your tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, then you bite––just a little. Just enough to make her cry out.

“F-fuck––” she moans, her body arching up into your mouth, down into your hand. Caught between both.

Her free hand flutters for a second, unsure, then lands shakily on your shoulder––digging in, nails pressing hard.

Your fingers don’t stop. Your mouth doesn’t either.

“Still squirming,” you murmur against her chest. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

She doesn’t––can’t. Her breath’s a mess. Whimpers leave her mouth with every stroke and suck.

Then––just as her breathing stutters––you pull your mouth away.

And slow your hand.

She lets out a broken sound, high and needy.

She’s already dripping through the fabric.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her panties and peel them down slow––just to watch her squirm. She lifts her hips to help, breath stuttering as the cool air hits her soaked skin.

You toss them aside.

Then, without warning, you slide one finger into her pussy.

She gasps, sharp and breathless. Wet. So wet, you barely have to try.

You move slow. Intentionally slow. Just enough to make her ache, slick already coating your knuckles.

“Please,” she whispers, almost desperate.

You add a second finger.

Her thighs jerk, twitching hard, hips rocking before you press her back down with your free hand.

“Still so impatient,” you murmur.

She whines, eyes wide and glassy, her breath catching every time your fingers curl inside her.

You lean over her, lips brushing her jaw. “What happened to all that attitude, Jinx?”

She doesn’t answer, just bites her lip, thighs trembling as you pump your fingers a little deeper, a little rougher.

Then you add a third.

She gasps like she wasn’t ready for it, body tensing all over again, then melting into the mattress, legs shaking under your grip.

The slick sound of it fills the room––hot, messy, desperate.

You lean in closer, voice low and wicked against her ear.

“Next time you want attention,” you whisper, “just ask.”

She moans, helpless and breathless and already so close.

And you don’t stop.

You drag your thumb up and press it firmly against her clit, circling it slowly while your fingers move inside her––deep and deliberate.

She moans the second your thumb finds its rhythm––high and shaky, like she’s trying to hold it back but can’t.

Her thighs twitch with every stroke, already slick and trembling. You keep going, curling your fingers just right, then pulling back before she can get too close.

“Ah––god,” she gasps, hips bucking up. “Don’t––don’t stop––”

But you do.

You slow down, just slightly. Just enough to make her whine.

“No,” she breathes, voice cracking. “Please, don’t do that.”

You hum like you’re thinking about it, but your fingers are still moving––just barely, just enough to keep her strung out and desperate.

Every sound she makes now is a mess.

Tiny whimpers.

Breathless gasps.

The occasional broken “fuck” when your fingers hit just the right spot––then pull away again, cruel and calculated.

“Still think blowing up my kitchen was a good idea?” you murmur.

She shakes her head fast, eyes glassy, thighs clenching around your wrist.

“Then why,” you whisper, mouth brushing her ear, “should I let you come?”

She groans––loud and wrecked. “Please,” she begs, hips rolling, trying to chase your hand. “I’ll clean it––I’ll fix it––just please––”

You smirk, watching her fall apart.

“Not yet.”

And you keep going. Slow, deep pumps, curling just right so that they touch that spongy spot inside her that makes her see stars––then pulling back again.

Your thumb flicks her clit harder now, tight little circles that make her whimper.

But it’s not enough.

You lean down, catching one of her nipples between your teeth, biting gently as your fingers start slamming into her.

She yelps––loud and raw––back arching off the bed as the sudden overload of sensation hits her hard.

“F-fuck!”

Her whole body jolts.

You suck hard on her nipple, tongue dragging over the bud as your fingers pound into her and your thumb teases her clit in tight, wet circles.

Her back arches off the bed, hands clutching the sheets like she’s about to tear them. You don’t let up––your mouth, your fingers, your thumb––all working in rhythm.

“God––oh my god––” she cries, voice rising in pitch. “Wait––wait––”

You don’t.

Her thighs are shaking now, soaked and twitching, her head thrown back against the pillows.

She’s falling apart. Fast.

The shift from teasing to ruthless ruins her. Her hips jerk without rhythm, no control left in her body at all.

“Too much––” she gasps, voice cracking. “It’s too––”

“You can take it,” you growl, curling your fingers again. “You’re gonna take it.”

She sobs––loud and wrecked and completely undone.

And you keep going.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

Exactly how she likes it.

She cums around your fingers.

No warning––just a broken cry and her entire body seizing up beneath you. Her back arches, mouth open in a silent scream before the moans finally catch up––loud, raw, and completely helpless.

You feel it the second it hits––her walls clenching tight, fluttering, pulsing around your fingers, squirting.

But you don’t stop.

Your mouth is still on her nipple, tongue dragging, sucking, teasing while your fingers keep going.

She gasps––sharp and panicked. “N-no––wait––”

You keep going.

Her hips jerk away from your hand, but there’s nowhere to go. You hold her there, pinned and trembling, pumping into her over and over while her legs shake and her voice breaks.

“Too much––too much––” she whines, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. Her hands claw at the sheets, one arm flinging up to grip your wrist, not pulling you away––just holding on.

Like she’s drowning.

Like she can’t take it, but she doesn’t want it to stop.

The overstimulation hits hard––her cries turn to sobs, every breath hitching, every sound wrecked and slurred and ruined.

You lean close, lips brushing her ear.

“Still think you can act like a brat in my kitchen?”

She shakes her head frantically, breathless.

“I didn’t hear you,” you murmur, fingers never slowing.

“N-no––no, I’m sorry––fuck––I’m sorry––”

You smile against her skin.

But you keep going. Just a little more.

Just until she breaks again.

Her moans and whimpers fill the room as she cums, but you’re not near finishing, as Jinx’s going down her hight ––thighs covered in her own juices–– you’re already moving, grabbing the bright blue strap-on, 4 cm of girth and 18cm long. 

Jinx’s a small girl, you're probably about to break the poor little thing in half.

She's still recovering when you hover over her, she's already so wet you don't even need any lub, she doesn't have time to register what is going on till she feels the tip of your blue cock already pressing at her entrance.

Her eyes widen, she has been dying to try the new toy, but now she's just so sensitive she isn't sure she can handle it.

“Wait–– I cant–– Too sensitive––” 

You don’t hesitate “You should’ve thought about that before blowing up my kitchen”

She lets out a soft, broken sound as the tip circles her entrance, slow, relentless. Not pushing in––just dragging, spreading the slick around, rubbing right where she’s sensitive. Rubbing your cook between her pink puffy folds, rubbing her clit a few times. 

You chuckle, taking your time. Running the shaft up and down her slit. Not pushing in. Not giving her what she wants.

Just watching her squirm.

Her hips twitch up, trying to take it, but you move just out of reach.

She groans in frustration, tears welling up in her lashes. “Please––fuck, just––”

You finally lean in, lips brushing her ear.

“You want this?” you whisper, dragging the head back to her entrance. “Beg for it.”

She moans––half pain, half pleasure, everything too much. “Please, please––I want it, I need it, just fuck me––”

And that’s when you push in.

Not gently.

Your cock slips past her slick entrance in one smooth, firm thrust, making her scream.

“Ah––too much––I can’t––”

“Oh, you can,” you growl, holding her hips tight. “And you will.”

She gasps, her body tensing, arching, trying to take the stretch as her walls clench around the thick toy. Her thighs are twitching again, eyes closed shut with overwhelmed pleasure.

You don’t move just yet.

You stay buried inside her.

Letting her feel the fullness.

Letting her realize just how deep you are.

She whimpers, completely wrecked already. “F-fuck, you’re gonna break me––”

You smirk.

And then you start moving.

Slow, deep thrusts at first––dragging your hips back just enough to make her feel it before slamming back in, harder, deeper each time.

Her body moves with it, pushed up the bed with every stroke. Her moans spill out helplessly, one after another, breathless and sweet.

A melody you never get tired of.

Jinx can feel the faux veins of your cock dragging against her walls, touching all the spots that make her dumb, the tip hitting her cervix. 

You can see the bulge of your cock inside her.

And then you start pounding.

Fast. Deep. Ruthless.

Her moans turn to cries.

High-pitched and broken.

The slap of skin against skin fills the room, echoing with every sharp thrust. Her whole body jolts with each one, pushed into the mattress like she weighs nothing.

You’re relentless now.

No mercy. No pause.

Just the thick strap-on slamming into her, deep and fast, grinding her deeper into the sheets.

She’s gasping for air, nails digging into the bed, her mouth open in a silent scream that only catches up a second later.

“F-fuck––too deep––too fast––”

You just growl, thrusting harder. “That’s the point.”

Her hands claw at the sheets. Her body can’t keep up. Every nerve in her is on fire, pleasure rippling through her in waves so intense they border on pain.

She’s soaked––completely, impossibly wet––slick pooling beneath her, dripping down your thighs, smearing between her legs with every thrust.

You grab one of her legs and throw it over your shoulder, angling deeper.

Her scream is immediate.

“God––oh god––please––”

You lean over her, one hand gripping her throat, thumb pressing just enough to make her whimper.

“You wanted this,” you growl against her ear, your cock still driving into her, hard and deep. “So take it.”

She sobs, overwhelmed, shaking, but she doesn’t tell you to stop.

Her hips meet yours on instinct now, trying to keep up, trying to take everything you give her.

Jinx a mess beneath you, mascara staining her face, lipstick smudge, tongue out like a dumb dog while her hands grab the pillow where her head is laying like a lifeline. 

Her clit’s begging for attention––swollen and flushed, untouched but throbbing.

You reach down between her legs and rub your thumb over it.

She screams.

The second you touch her, her body goes rigid, her back arching so hard it lifts her off the mattress. Her moans twist into helpless, choked sobs.

Her eyes roll back.

She’s so far gone.

You don’t stop.

Not with your cock, not with your thumb.

Circling her clit fast and tight, keeping the rhythm of your thrusts brutal and deep.

“Gonna come again?” you murmur darkly. “Already?”

She nods frantically, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Y-yes––please––please––I can’t––”

“You can,” you snarl, voice low and rough. “Come on my cock, Jinx.”

And she does.

She cums with a scream, her whole body convulsing. The orgasm rips through her like a shockwave––intense and shattering. Her thighs clamp around you, walls fluttering violently around the strap-on, soaking it all over again.

But you don’t stop.

Not even for a second.

You keep fucking her through it––deep, brutal thrusts that don’t let her catch her breath.

She sobs, completely gone, babbling your name between cries. “N-no––too much––’s too much––”

You grab her hips, slamming in harder. “I said you’d take it. So take it.”

She screams again––half-cry, half-moan–and comes again, barely a minute later.

A second orgasm, sharper than the first.

This one wrecks her, more than the three ones you already gave her.

Her whole body goes limp beneath you, twitching, broken.

And still––you don’t stop.

Just a few more thrusts, slow now, grinding in deep with every roll of your hips. Letting her feel it. Letting her drown in it.

By the time you finally pull out, she’s shaking.

Covered in sweat, lips parted, tears dried on her cheeks, body completely ruined.

You toss the toy aside and lean down, brushing her cheek with the back of your hand.

She’s barely conscious––blissed out and wrecked, blinking slowly as she looks up at you.

“Still think blowing up my kitchen was worth it?” you whisper.

She doesn’t answer.

She just moans softly––wrecked and dazed––and nods.

Like the little brat she is.

[joaosnovia]

Hii, first of all I want to say that your writing is 🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼. Could ypu please write something for Pedri?

❦ - the concept of an orange.

summary:: oranges are everywhere. and who knew a single orange could lead to a life you never expected.

warnings:: none

writers notes:: idk why this took so long but yes ofc i’ll write for pedri! this is just fillers bc i have gcses in a few weeks?? hello ong im lit gonna sob but i managed to get all my reqs done before then so here we are! maybe i’ll post some drafts from like march but we shall see.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @universefcb @nngkay @mariejuli

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you met pedri in a grocery store where all the oranges keep rolling off the stands.

he’s crouched down, chasing one, and you’re doing the same, two strangers, one citrus fruit, and a shared laugh that sounds like you’ve known each other in other lifetimes.

months later, you still joke that the orange chose you for him.

he says,
‘nah. gravity just wanted us in the same place.’

you live together now.

not in a house. not in an apartment.
but in a greenhouse.

you found it by accident, abandoned, cracked glass, ivy spilling like secrets across every surface.
you both looked at it and saw something.
you didn’t say what. you just started cleaning.

now it’s yours.
a greenhouse filled with mattresses on the floor and tiny cups of tea and the smell of lavender soap.

no clocks. no mirrors. just windows.

you paint the windows.

not in color. in words.

little messages with your finger in the condensation when it rains.
quotes from books neither of you finished.
dumb things pedri said in his sleep like
‘snails deserve rights’
and
‘your elbow is my favorite elbow in europe’

he trains. he travels.
but he always comes back.

and every time he does, he brings you something small.

once, it was a pinecone from the parking lot.
once, it was a hotel pen he swore smelled like you.
once, it was a dream.

he said,
‘i had a dream you forgot me, so i had to fall in love with you all over again. it was kind of beautiful. kind of awful.’

you kissed his forehead and said,
‘you’d better bring me that dream next time. wrap it in a ribbon.’

he brought you a ribbon. red. said,
‘you can pretend the dream’s inside.’

you still keep it on the shelf next to the pinecone.

your bed isn’t a bed.

it’s just a mess of pillows and sun-warmed blankets that smell like orange peels and shampoo.

at night, pedri wraps around you like a comma.
not an end. a pause. a breath.

he presses his cheek to your shoulder and says things like,
‘i think you were invented just for me,’
and
‘i want to eat time with you. like a pastry. like we tear it open and it’s soft and warm and ours.’

you laugh. every time.
but you never stop him.

you want to remember every word.

one morning, he asks:

‘if we were characters in a book, what kind of story would it be?’

you sip your tea.

‘a magical realism love story. but slow. like really slow. like the kind where readers think nothing’s happening, but then cry anyway.’

he blinks.

‘…so normal us?’

you grin.
‘exactly.’

someone once asked you how long you’ve been in love.

you said,
‘depends. do you mean in this life, or in all of them?’

you don’t have clocks.

you have oranges.

and window poems.

and the boy who thinks time bends when you touch him.

and maybe, just maybe,
you believe him.

[alltimecharlo]

More alpha Mack/omega will?

ohohohoho, certainly. this is swiftly becoming one of my favourite universes to write in for these two🥹💗 fic under the cut!

Mack hears the sound before he sees it happen.

A sharp crack of blades. A muffled grunt. The screech of a body sliding across the ice. His head whips around instantly, adrenaline pumping before he even fully processes what's going on.

Will is on the ice.

Down.

His omega is down.

Mack's vision narrows, heart thundering. He doesn't remember moving, but suddenly he's there, dropping to his knees next to Will, hands already skimming over his arms, his back, checking for blood, for broken bones.

"I'm fine," Will says, breathless and a little winded but upright, propped on one elbow. "It was just a weird fall—"

Mack doesn’t hear it. Not really. His head is swiveling around, locking on the rookie who clipped Will's skates trying to make a play.

"You," Mack says, voice dangerously low, muscles coiled.

The rookie backs up like he knows he's stepped on something sacred.

"Mack," Will says again, louder this time, reaching up to curl fingers around Mack’s wrist. "Hey. Look at me."

Mack's jaw is clenched so tight it aches. His alpha instincts are howling — protect, defend, eliminate threat. He doesn't even fully realize he’s standing until Will tugs him back down.

"I'm okay," Will says gently, dragging his gaze back down to him, eyes soft, steady. "I'm okay."

Mack sinks again, knees hitting the ice hard. He cups Will's face like he's not sure he believes him. Will’s eyes are clear, though. Bright. There’s no panic, no pain beyond a bruised hip and some ice rash along his elbow.

The other players are watching from a distance, no one daring to speak. Coach is talking to the rookie off to the side, probably giving him a firm but quiet lecture.

"Mack," Will says again, nudging their foreheads together.

Mack exhales shakily, and his hand slides to Will’s waist. "He could’ve hurt you."

"He didn’t."

"He could’ve."

Will smiles a little, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re sweet when you’re feral."

"You’re mine," Mack mutters. "Mine."

"Yeah," Will murmurs, brushing their noses together. "I know. You think I forgot?"

Mack licks his mating mark instinctively, the place just beneath Will’s jaw that still runs a little warm, still hums with the promise they made. Will shivers a little at the contact but leans into it, letting Mack fuss.

"C’mere," Mack says, standing slowly and hauling Will with him. He wraps an arm securely around Will’s waist. "We’re done for the day."

Will snorts. "You’re pulling me off the ice for a bruised hip?"

"I’m pulling you off the ice because I need to hold you somewhere not cold and made of concrete."

Will doesn’t argue. He lets Mack escort him to the dressing room like he’s made of glass, even though he’s rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath about overprotective alphas.

Once they're alone, Mack pulls Will into his lap on the bench and buries his face in the crook of Will’s neck.

"You’re everything," Mack says quietly.

Will hums, threading his fingers into Mack’s hair. "You’re not so bad yourself."

Mack’s arms tighten around him. "I don’t want to feel that again. That sound. You going down."

"I know," Will says. "And I love you for it. But I’m okay. And I’ll always be okay, especially with you looking out for me."

They sit like that for a long time, Mack curled around Will like a shield, Will soft and warm and safe in his arms.

It’s only when Will starts wriggling that Mack lets out a reluctant sigh.

"Come on, Alpha," Will says, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Let’s go home."

Mack carries his gear in one hand and keeps Will close with the other the entire way out of the rink. And later that night, he curls around his omega in their bed, nose pressed to the mark on Will’s neck, chest finally uncoiled, calm.

Will is his. Safe. Loved. Home.

Everything is right again.

♡

[mer-acle]

What's your interpretation of the story https://www.tumblr.com/kdpartworks/781572593138450432?source=share

hii sorry I wanted to do something with this ask, either art or a snippet but I forgot what my idea was and now I'm late lol

So, Zeus and Metis...

Okay so my main difference in logistics is that my Metis didn't actually fully get eaten, as in absorbed into the stomach. Mainly cos ew I don't wanna write that. What Zeus did instead was trick her into a smaller form (a fly in my case) bc that gave him the power to trap her for long enough to sever her spirit from her body. He basically made her into an amber btw, I would attach one, but the insect ones tend to look a bit freaky. But yeah he used a magically infused resin to trap her, absorbed her spirit and ate the drop of resin which didn't get digested but stayed inside of him like a prison within a prison. hence why Metis, the spirit-version of her that lives in a non-physical plane closer to Zeus' mind, cannot get her body back but can give Athena a physical body at the cost of her own essence. Cos while godly pregnancy looks largely the same as in humans, they don't have a physical form until basically at birth (yes I am cruel and evil but nobody ever says I don't do anything for my characters, my goddesses' pregnancy and birthing process is much less painful than for humans. Also no periods lol) So Zeus couldn't trap baby Athena's body in the resin cos there wasn't one yet.

(gods I hope this is internally consistent I had to spontaneously fill some gaps lol)

welp now I talked about lore for ages when the comic really is about their relationship lol. (I can talk about their Modern AU relationship in another post, let's focus on the ancient timeline) Zeus loves Metis, respects her way more than Hera. In my ancient timelines, he actually didn't cheat on her, crazy, I know. They got together during the Titanomachy after working together for ages to free the Cronides before that. The likelihood it was Metis being in danger and Zeus going like O.O no, my wife! is about 100% I have a few different timelines, let me break down what happens after the prophecy about Athena (that both parents get, and it's about a daughter OR a son in my version): - Fighting to be Loved: Metis is worried, but they just fought Cronos the childeater for like literal years so clearly, Zeus knows doing anything to your own child is wrong, and in her opinion, there are worse things than giving your son the throne - Slipping through my Fingers: Metis is completely sure that the baby will be a girl, because she can hear baby Athena's thoughts, so she isn't worried at all. Zeus acts as if he believes her, and her buying that is probably the biggest lapse in judgement that she ever had. - Zeus' Favorite: Metis gets extremely worried, she knows Zeus cares a lot about his power. She tries to get a clarifying prophecy from the fates, hoping to be told that her child will be a daughter. I can't reveal any more than that, but it's Zeus' Favorite, so you can guess everything went in the worst way possible.

So yeah, in essence, my interpretation of their story also boils down to "I love you, but I love my power more."

[originalgenshinscenarios]

Everyday, I go insane about how little content there is of Baizhu (and when there is it's just so fucked up 😭 no shade to those who like it but how on earth is Baizhu tag on AO3 looking like just a list of trigger warnings in DMMD)

So I'm being the change I wanna see, his bday letter inspired me.

Baizhu's S/O helping him rest up

Reader here is gender neutral

Dating Baizhu had always been quite an interesting experience, but with time you quickly got used to his quirks. One of them being Changsheng telling on him when he's neglecting himself.

You were preparing a small surprise for his birthday, nothing too extravagant but still a sweet gesture for your beloved...

That is until you noticed the adepti slithering your way. Your attention went to her right away as she explained what's going on.

With Gui being out of commission and Qiqi caring for patients, Baizhu's fatigue- although his own doing- was something that worried you.

So while it wasn't like he was sick, due to his condition it sometimes feels like it's one and the same. Besides, if he'd listen to anyone that would be you... Sometimes.

And once he saw you with Changsheng around your arm he already knew what the snake was up to.

Despite your worried expression he only laughed and tried to reassure you that he was okay... Emphasis on tried because he looked like he was going to pass out any second.

You walked up to his desk and took his hands, placing away the brush he was writing with "You're impossible..." Was the only thing you said at the moment before he started with more excuses.

After all this season changing makes it so easy to get sick he was only trying to write up a list of remedies... Maybe make some sort of pamphlet or advertisement with his advice and some easy to make remedies and recipes...

Speaking of which he was just done thinking of one. He wrote down the special tea blend and yet he hasn't made it to check if his curse of bitter medicine touched also on tea as well.

As he kept on talking you decided to agree to taste test the tea, but only if he rested afterwards. That compromise he could agree to.

You went on to follow the written instructions and by the time you were done he actually fell asleep on his desk.

(If you're strong) Rolling your eyes, you pick up your lover gently. Trying to not jostle him awake and took him to his home which was pretty much a part of the pharmacy. His work really is his whole life...

Once he's settled in his bed you take off his glasses and look closely at his handsome face. Adoring every wrinkle and yet... Finding yourself worried upon looking at the dark circles under his eyes.

He probably forgot it was his birthday too, which wouldn't be the first time. You lay down next to him and tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear and just let him rest. It was still pretty early so you'd get to spoil him for his birthday later today anyways.

For now, you just enjoyed the silent moment. You wanted to be with him when he wakes up. As you thought about your plans however you tried to think of a way to make him follow you. Of course he's not THAT stubborn... But you never know what his priorities will be once he wakes up. Especially since today looked like "work priority" day for him.

(If you're not strong enough to lift him) You didn't like how he was positioned and yet you didn't know if you wanted to gamble waking him up and then trying to argue with him to sleep. Because despite his promise you had a feeling he'd think of a way to do as he pleased.

After a moment of hesitation you decided to trust your lover's word and woke him up. He apologized for his drowsiness and went ahead to ask you questions about his medicine.

You answered his questions quickly to change the subject to his promise. Which he remembered and his little nap made him aware of his lack of arguments.

He leaned onto you and together you walked to his home. Of course he didn't fall asleep the moment he laid down. The two of just talked for a while. Holding each other close until he drifted away.