#he just has a secret one that he plays when he can

[batboysanonymous]

Soft Like Shadows

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has never been good with words, but he never needed them with you. In the quiet hours of the night, when the world is still and his shadows retreat, he finds comfort in the warmth of your touch—the one place where even the most feared spymaster can be soft.

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The stars were sharp tonight, cutting through the inky night sky like diamonds scattered across velvet. The wind, crisp and biting, swept through Velaris, rustling the sheer curtains of the open balcony doors. But inside, wrapped in the thick warmth of blankets and Azriel’s embrace, you couldn’t feel a thing except the steady heat of his body pressed to yours.

The bedroom was cast in soft light from the fireplace, its golden flicker dancing along the dark walls, illuminating the faint glimmer of his blue siphons. They pulsed faintly in the dimness, their glow mirroring the steady beat of his heart—calm, steady, unhurried.

Azriel lay beside you, his broad frame relaxed in a way it rarely was, one wing draped partially over you, as if to shield you even in sleep. You weren’t sure when this had started, this quiet need he had to keep you tucked under his wings, but you never complained. How could you, when it made you feel so undeniably his?

You shifted slightly, reaching up to run your fingers along his forearm, tracing the fine scars that marked his skin. Your touch was featherlight, reverent. Azriel hummed low in his throat, the sound more vibration than voice, as he nuzzled closer.

And then—he bumped his forehead against yours.

It was so soft, so gentle, that for a moment, you thought you imagined it. But then he did it again, a light press, as if requesting something without words.

A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah, baby?” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to meet his hazel eyes.

Azriel muttered something under his breath, the words too soft to catch.

You huffed a quiet laugh, trailing your fingers up his arm and into the thick waves of his hair. “Use your words, big guy.”

A slow roll of his eyes—dramatic, almost teasing. “Don’t make me say it,” he muttered against your cheek, voice laced with that familiar rasp.

Your grin widened. “C’mon, Shadowsinger. Say it.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, as if put upon by your antics, but the ghost of a smile still tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your nose before whispering, “Can you play with my hair, please?”

The softness in his voice, the way he said it like a secret meant only for you, had warmth blooming in your chest.

You tapped your chin in exaggerated thought. “Hmm…”

A shadow slithered up your arm, a teasing nudge. Then, before you could react, Azriel poked your side, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at his lips.

“Y/N.”

“Alright, alright,” you relented, laughing as you shifted slightly so he could fully settle against you.

The moment your fingers found his hair, Azriel sighed—a deep, bone-melting sound, like he had been waiting for this all day. His body relaxed instantly, his weight pressing more firmly against you as his head rested against your chest.

Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, the touch lazy and soothing. His breath hitched for a moment before he melted, a low hum slipping from his lips.

“This is your weakness, isn’t it?” you teased, dragging your fingers through the silky strands, watching the way his lashes fluttered against his sharp cheekbones.

Azriel mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like you’re my weakness, but when you tried to lift his head to look at him properly, he just buried his face further into your neck.

Your heart clenched.

No one ever saw him like this. No one ever got to see the way he melted under gentle hands, the way his entire being sighed in relief when he was held like this, cherished like this. The feared spymaster, the shadowsinger, reduced to a content, sleepy puddle in your arms.

“Can you just read my mind next time?” he murmured against your collarbone.

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I could. But then I’d miss out on watching you beg for it.”

Azriel huffed, but the arms wrapped around your waist tightened, his grip firm and secure, like he never wanted to let go.

You traced slow patterns across his bare back, following the contours of his muscles, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. He was solid beneath your touch, strong and unyielding, but here, in your arms, he was soft.

“I don’t think I ever let myself imagine this,” Azriel said after a long moment, voice quiet, almost unsure.

You frowned, pausing your ministrations. “Imagine what?”

His breath fanned against your throat. “This. You. Us.” His fingers traced lazy circles against your hip. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have something like this.”

Your heart cracked. “Az…”

His arms tightened around you, as if he could physically stop the sadness from seeping between you. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, curling your fingers into his hair again, tugging just enough to make him lift his head. When his hazel eyes met yours, you cupped his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing lightly over the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

“You deserve this,” you told him, firm and unwavering. “You deserve love, and softness, and a place to rest.” You ran a hand down his cheek, watching the way his expression softened, the way he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. “And you’ll always have that with me.”

Something flickered in his gaze—something raw, something so deep it nearly stole your breath.

Azriel didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he kissed you.

His lips moved against yours in a way that made the world blur around you, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head, holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever known.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart swelled, full and aching. You brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, smiling softly. “I love you more.”

Azriel made a soft sound, something close to a scoff, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted, pulling you even closer until you were practically tangled together, his head tucked beneath your chin, his wings curling around you protectively.

His shadows, usually restless and ever-present, were still.

And in that quiet, in the warm cocoon of blankets and whispered affections, you let yourself drift, your fingers still tangled in his hair, his breath steady against your skin.

Because here, in the safety of your arms, Azriel could finally rest.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Azriel: @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains

[melodyreads]

Our Little Secret

You and Hamzah are in a secret relationship. While you guys kept each other a secret to protect one another, was it really what you both wanted?

Contains: fem reader, angst, confused reader, lack of communication, arguing, happy ending <3

a/n: I appreciate all the love I've received for my most recent works. Hope you guys enjoy this one, it's definitely my best yet.

---

From an outside perspective, there was nothing out of the ordinary about this situation. Just two couples out on a double date. Me, Mandy, Martin, and Hamzah grabbing dinner at our usual pizza spot. Nothing suspicious. Nothing complicated. Just friends catching up.

Mandy waved kindly as she saw me approach their group. Martin stood next to her seemingly making a joke to Hamzah as he stood there with his hands in his pockets wearing a neutral expression on his face. That was, until he saw me arrive.

A familiar feeling of excitement filled my stomach at the look on Hamzah’s face. I wanted to run up to him and throw my arms around him while greeting him with a kiss. He would smile down at me as his left hand placed itself in my back jean pocket.

Except, of course, Martin and Mandy were the only couple actually together. 

I guess you could say me and Hamzah were together too. We basically lived at each other's apartments, always leaving clothes in each other's space. I would wake up to Hamzah’s messy curls aghast on the pillow next to mine. I would plant his face with kisses as he grabbed my waist and pulled me on top of him.  

We were together, but in a, “we don’t want to put a label on it” kind of way. No commitments, no pressure—just what we wanted.

I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

For me, it was about not wanting anything serious right now. I wanted to protect my relationship with Hamzah, what we had was different than anything I had experienced with boyfriends in the past.

For Hamzah, it had more to do with his online image— he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with their fans' inevitable perceptions of you if you two were to date. I joked that he was just playing up the “I’m available” act for his followers. He would always roll his eyes but I’m sure this was part of it.

If people found out we were together, it’d ruin the whole thing. Which is why I had to be extra careful. Even around our best friends.

So imagine my horror when, halfway through dinner, Martin suddenly narrows his eyes at me.

“Hey… isn’t that Hamzah’s sweater?”

The table goes silent and my stomach drops.

I freeze with my pizza halfway to my mouth, my brain scrambling for a response. The oversized grey hoodie I’m wearing is definitely Hamzah’s— the words “nap queen” in black letters I envisioned on my chest made me want to laugh and bury my head in my hands at the same time. I didn’t even think about it when I threw it on before leaving.

It even smelled like him.

I set my pizza down trying to brush it off, “Am I not allowed to wear your guys merch anymore? Y’all should be grateful.” I say acting offended.

Mandy’s eyes flick between me and Hamzah, who—thank god—keeps his expression cool, shoveling food into his mouth as he nodded his head at my response..

Martin, however, is still staring. “I swear that one is yours though, isn’t it Hamzah? It has the exact same material as the one you wear. ”

I let out a short laugh, trying to play it off. “I’m not sure why because this one is mine.” My voice started to shake

Pull it together.

“It looks exactly like Hamzah’s,” Martin insists. He turns to Mandy. “Doesn’t it?”

Mandy shrugs, sipping her drink. “A lot of those hoodies look the same.”

Hamzah finally speaks, his voice casual but just a little too fast. “Yeah, man, it’s just a hoodie. All those hoodies look the same, part of the reason we sold so many.”

Martin still looks unconvinced, but he lets it go, turning his attention back to his food. My entire body is tense, and across the table, I can feel Hamzah suppressing a smirk.

Under the table, his finger interlocks with mine, a slow, deliberate touch that sends a jolt up my spine. I flick my eyes toward him, and there’s something smug in his gaze—something knowing.

I roll my eyes at him, trying to ignore the way my face feels hot.

That was too close.

But the truth is, I kind of love the risk. I love the way we sneak glances at each other when no one’s looking, the way my body reacts when he’s just close enough to touch but doesn’t. I love the late nights, the whispered conversations, the fact that we’re both holding onto something we’re pretending we don’t want to name.

God I wanted him bad.

---

The party was loud—too loud. Music pulsed through the walls, and the mix of voices, laughter, and the occasional clatter of a drink being set down filled the air. Mandy and Martin were off in their own little world, and I had lost track of most people in the crowd.

Hamzah settled next to me "How're you doing?" he asked, leaning down to meet my ears while looking out into the sea of people.

I sighed in response, "Alright, I guess..." I snapped my head to meet Hamzah's dark eyes, "...Can we go home soon?" I asked sticking out my bottom lip. He chuckled before leaning down once more.

"Come with me," he murmured, his voice just low enough for only me to hear.

I barely had time to react before his fingers brushed against my wrist—just a ghost of a touch, but enough to send a jolt through me. Before I knew it, I was being pulled down the hall, away from the noise, away from prying eyes.

He didn’t stop until we were inside an empty room, the door clicking shut behind us. The sudden quiet made my pulse hammer in my ears.

"Wait, what if someone sees?" I whispered, even though I was far too gone to start moving away from him.

Hamzah exhaled, leaning back against the door with a sly look covering his face. His eyes were dark, and the dim lighting cast sharp shadows on his face. "I don't care," he said.

That was a lie. He did care. We both did. That was the whole reason we were keeping this secret.

And yet… here we were.

The tension thickened in the air between us, something unspoken crackling like a wire about to snap. Hamzah's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, stepping closer.

I barely had time to breathe before his hands cupped my face, his touch gentle despite the desperation in his eyes. This was the last look I could register before his lips were on mine.

A slow, deep kiss started, stealing the air from my lungs, and making my heart stutter.

I wanted this. God, I wanted this.

But before I could get too carried away, I thought of where we could have been. Kissing in the middle of a crowd, unwavering concerns about what others around us thought. His hand in mine not hidden beneath a table, but revealed proudly.

The weight of it—the secret, the hiding, the way we only allowed ourselves these moments in the dark—it was all too much.

A sharp pang in my chest pulled me back to reality. Before I could stop myself, I tore away, my breath ragged.

“Hamzah, I—” My voice broke, my hands shaking as I stepped back. “I can’t keep doing this.”

His brows furrowed, his hands hovering in the empty space between us like he wanted to pull me back but knew he shouldn’t. “What do you mean... what's wrong?”

I forced a swallow, blinking hard. “Being with you in secret... it just hurts too much.” My voice was barely above a whisper, but the way Hamzah flinched made it clear he heard every word.

His lips parted, like he was about to say something, but I couldn’t stand there and let him try to fix it with more whispered reassurances, more stolen touches that would only leave me aching for something real.

Before he could even get a word out, I was already out the door.

I pushed past the crowd, the music and chatter barely registering. My chest was tight, my pulse racing. I needed air.

I needed to get out of here.

The cold night air hit me as I stepped outside, but it didn't stop me. As I started to come to terms with what just happened, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill. I sucked in a sharp breath, hugging my arms around myself, trying to shake the feeling of Hamzah’s hands still lingering on my skin.

Then, I heard determined footsteps tracking behind me.

“Wait.”

Hamzah’s voice.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to turn around. But then his hand caught mine, stopping me in my tracks.

I exhaled shakily as he moved in front of me, his brows furrowed, his expression torn between frustration and desperation. Whatever it was caused your whole body to shudder.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he said, his voice rough, his grip tightening just slightly, “Not if it means losing you.”

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. “What about your whole ‘single guy’ thing? What about—”

“Screw all that,” he cut me off, shaking his head. “None of it matters if it means I can’t be with you. I don’t care who knows.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of me.

I searched his face, looking for hesitation, for doubt. But there was none. Just him—bare, vulnerable, real.

A shaky laugh left my lips, part disbelief, part relief. “Are you sure about this?”

Hamzah let out a soft chuckle, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from my face before resting gently against my cheek. “Yeah, I mean it.” His thumb traced my skin, slow and reverent. “I want you. For real.”

I didn’t need any more convincing.

This time, when I reached out and kissed him, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. About who was watching or who would care. What came next and what the future held.

From now on, we came first.

---

a/n: Hope you'll enjoyed this!!!!! It's so hard to end stories, but I think I'm getting better at it lol. Lmk if you guys want a part two????????

[twistedpink]

nsfw below the cut! 1/2

This is the rewrite because I BOMBED the first draft, thinking I’d be too vulgar,, But I’m hoping this is what the people want! Sooooooo many unrealistic sexpectations polute smut and I’m hoping to be more lifelike. The format is character/length (inches) /sex skill (is unaffected by length!)

Trey Clover - 6. Exactly 6. - 7/10

-First measured it as a late preteen, and left the ruler in his bathroom!!! Got caught right away, his family still jokes about it,,

-He’s trimmed but not shaven (can’t avoid razor bumps no matter how hard he tries), with little moles near the base that give him heart attacks whenever they grow. Once tmi’ed Cater drunkenly with a “They’re on my money makerrrr :(“ then threatened him into taking it to the grave

-Trey is FANTASTIC at fingering, and talks about ass like he’s kneading dough but in sexy way!! Loves doing it while spooning, he says there’s no better way to stay close <3

Cater Diamond - 5ish - 4/10

-Cater takes PREMIUM nudes, and knows how to hide them real easy! He’s got this alternate network rigged up by this ignihyde kid, and- Oh! More pics and less talking? Blocked :D You’re required to listen to his rants for any play (not that it’s good)

-He is FULLY shaven and always keeps moisturized- he looks wayyy too much at his own balls to be normal, but at least he tastes clean! (Also talks about being uncut a LOT, everyone knows)

-Your poor boyfie gets SO sweaty when he’s on top, it’s a mercy to let him lay back and get spoiled,, I mean, can you blame him? The closest he’s gotten to penetration was some blowie he paid for on snapspell.. Please keep touching him! He’s got a spankbank to feed!

Leona Kingscholar - 4 - 2/10

-You can describe sex with Leona in one word. Sloppy. There’s just sweat and slick everywhere!! He might not have the highest libido, or any creative positions in his repertoire, but he’s a professional at laying down and taking it!

-For any regular sessions, you have to be the one to initiate- It’s not that he doesn’t want it, but time passes pretty quickly when you’re asleep,, Some good morning fun’ll perk him right up! (He’s started to blame you for being late to practice. It’s getting harder to hide your “secret hacks” from Epel,,)

-Nobody has time to stay shaven when you only get six hours of daylight. You are SO lucky that the hair’s thin, but unless you’re doing it in the shower there’s no way to avoid the sweat :(

Vil Schoenheit - 6, closer to five - 4/10

-The ONLY reason his ss is so low, is his inexperience! He’s the perfect man in every other aspect, but do you really want to sneak off set after set for mid hookups? Is it even worth it?

-Once he’s in a groove, sex with Vil is amazing- But the aftercare is what you’re really after. A warm compress and fruity snack is just what you need after “oral” or “digital” (He doesn’t let you use the fun words like “blowie” or “handy”. Sex is deadly serious with him, excluding a few giggles!)

-Vil may start off with a slow sex drive and high standards, but the lure of quickies is too strong!! Suddenly he needs your mouth on his daily, and he feels pathetic :( So long as you don’t make fun of his “perfectly normal sexual appetite”, you’ll continue being gifted with his presence. Be very careful what you say and touch!

[ghostgirl-22]

If you saw me post this and accidentally delete the ask and everything, no you didn’t 😭

But yeah anon. Patrick would do anything for him.  Make a mess of him before his first hook up with the prettiest girl in school. Just because he feels like it, just because he can. Because Art’s his best friend. His.  

He’s an amazing friend.

CW: 18+ NSFW 

——-

“Is it okay?” Art asks. He’s dressed up so nice in one of Patrick’s smaller sweaters, its cloudy blue like his eyes. He’s got on fitted black jeans, and a brown leather jacket. He looks so good, smells so good, like black cherry and tobacco, this expensive cologne that he only wears when he thinks he might get laid. 

He’s visibly nervous. Chewing incessantly on spearmint gum. Always nervous about his first time with a new girl. Patrick doesn’t know why, if he was a pretty girl he’d be wet the moment Art turned that shy little smile in his direction. He doesn’t need to dress up, pretty boy. He got Kennedy Sawyer’s attention in sweatpants and a t-shirt while he was arguing with Patrick over final fantasy play styles at breakfast.

But that’s not important. What’s important is Patrick just wants to help. Art is his best friend after all. He sits up on his bed, dropping his game controller. “Come ‘ere,” he says. Art checks his hair in the mirror for the third time and then approaches Patrick, eyes dilated, nerves making him run his sweaty palms awkwardly over his jeans.  That’s when it catches Patrick’s eye. He teases his finger tips up Art’s thighs up to the bulge along his hip, it’s not obvious but Patrick knows him so well, knows how he tries to hide it, but Patrick can tell that he’s hard. “I can’t calm down,” Art admits quietly. 

“You wanna know my secret?” Patrick asks, gripping at either side of his unzipped jacket and pulling him closer. “Like how I stay cool when I’m out with a beautiful girl?” 

Art looks hopeful that Patrick’s about to tell him the secret to life. “How?” 

Patrick tugs Art a little bit closer so he’s got a leg on either side of one of Patrick’s thighs. “I like to rub one out first…  just to help my nerves.”

“I um—really?” Art studies him, trying to decide whether Patrick means it or if he's full of shit. “No fucking way,” he decides, followed by that stupid pretty smile of his, the one that makes Patrick want to get on his knees. 

“I’m so serious,” that smile is contagious even when Arts annoyed. Patrick keeps his grip on Art’s jacket to hold him in place. “It helps, I promise. Especially if she’s really pretty, like Kennedy is. Plus it helps so I don’t finish too fast when we…” he looks up at Art's pretty blue eyes, letting him fill in the blank.

He’s chewing again. Anxious. He definitely has that “too fast” issue. He gets so excited. Patrick still touches himself remembering the night Art asked him, red faced and shy to please show him how to French kiss. Not even two minutes with Patrick’s tongue in his mouth and he’d already cum in his pants and got so embarrassed he nearly cried. Doesn’t even get how gorgeous he is. 

Oh. Patrick just wants to help him. Wants to help him so bad. He’s his best friend after all. Patrick can just imagine Art, soft and sweet and so gentle with her. Fucking into her, losing it too fast and promising he can do it again. Tears of shame in his eyes. God, Patrick kinda wants to be her. 

“I guess I should…” Art says quietly, bringing Patrick back from his thoughts. His expression thoughtful, his tongue, eager as he plays with his gum in his mouth. 

“I mean… what could it hurt?” Patrick shrugs, grabbing at Arts belt buckle.

“Um…” Art blinks, confused. He’s so smart but stupid about some things. He gets with the program fast enough, once Patrick’s got his hands on him. God, he’s hard. So fucking hard he’s already leaking into his boxers, can’t calm down. Let’s Patrick pull him onto his lap as his breathing picks up. “Patrick, no, it’s late. ‘m gonna be late,” he sounds a little panicky, but he’s gripping at Patrick’s biceps as they both look down at his lap, Patrick’s hand working inside his boxers. 

“No, it’s okay, I promise,” Patrick whispers. Not sure what he’s promising, he’s already lost the plot. Art smells so good. Patrick always wonders if he tastes as good as he smells in this cologne. He licks a stripe up the side of his throat, kisses his way up to Art's lips. Petal soft and minty, Art opens up right away. His mouth heated and… oh so wet. He scoots closer, his neatly ironed shirt getting wrinkled because he’s pressed up against Patrick’s body. His fingers tangled in Patrick’s hair. The kiss getting sloppier, sticky gum sliding back and forth between them. He’s chaos. So good at keeping it all in until he can’t. 

If Patrick wasn’t hard from the moment Art got back to the room to get ready for his little date he’d be gone by now. Patrick is dizzy, swallowing on Art’s helpless little gasps, the kinda kissing that can make Art come untouched. But Patrick wants to touch him,  bucks his hips up so Art can feel him. It’s not too long before Art is just mouthing him, no technique no nothing, just opened mouth moaning against Patrick’s lips. Patrick’s heart is racing, the blood pounding in his ears. He’s on the brink. 

“Tell me what you wanna do to her?” Patrick mutters hot, against his lips, hand gripping tighter, moving faster. You’ve been so patient for two months. So good… I bet you can’t wait to fuck into her wet dripping cunt…”  

“God Patrick…I want it so bad,” He whines. “I wanna— wanna fuck— fuck—” 

“Yeah?” Patrick coaxes, as if any of this is coherent.

“God Patrick, Patrick,” it’s all he can manage before spilling it everywhere, heated sticky pearls of white all over that neatly pressed blue shirt and black jeans. The image of it makes Patrick lose it, breathless in his pants. They’re both sitting there, catching their breaths. A soft sheen of sweat visible on Art’s forehead, his skin mildly flushed.

”Fuck,” Art whispers after a minute. “My…my clothes.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, leaning back on the bed, letting the mess on his palm spread onto his sheets. “Shoulda done it before you got dressed probably…” 

Art takes a deep breath and pushes himself up to his feet, while simultaneously trying to straighten himself out. Patrick watches him, mildly amused. “I have to change… do you um… do you have another shirt?”

”I mean… I think what you were wearing is perfect. God. It really brings out your eyes.”

”Well I can’t wear it now, and I’m already late, god I’m supposed to meet her out front in ten minutes. We’re gonna miss the movie and the next show is not till 8 and we won’t make dinner before curfew and Ms. Henderson will be sitting outside the girls dorm and—” He’s started talking so fast he’s getting pitchy.  

“Hey I got a crazy idea,” Patrick interrupts and Art stares at him, so pathetically frustrated but also covered in jizz. It almost makes Patrick laugh but he stops himself. “This is supposed to be special, right? Why don’t you wait till tomorrow night? You can wash everything and you know… we can do it before you get dressed next time.”

”No we are not doing that again,” Art says determinedly, because he’s so sated and in his right mind.  

“Well you can then,” Patrick shrugs, smirking. 

Art rolls his eyes and goes to pick up his phone from the charger to text her the change of plans. Patrick goes into the bathroom to clean up a bit. 

“I’m gonna be hungry, should we order pizza?” Art calls from the room. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, smiling to himself in the mirror. “Definitely.” 

[chapel-of-rizztual]

It was Dew’s turn to cook dinner for everyone, which meant it was actually Aether’s turn to cook while Dew sat on the counter and watched. It was nearing 6pm and slowly ghouls would start filtering their way into the den. Rain had already made his way to the den, heading upstairs to shower the lake water off his skin. 

“Bets on who’s in next?” Dew asked, his feet swinging off the counter. 

Aether stirs as the tomato sauce he’s making. 

“Mountain, I think.” He reaches for the salt. “He’s never normally far behind Rain.” 

Dew let out a giggle. 

“Are you going to pat him down like you threatened last week.” 

Mountain was notorious for rescuing injured animals and nurturing them back to health, that was no secret, everyone around the ministry knew him be Snow White. But when Aether had found out that he’d been sneaking little animals, mostly lizards and snakes, into the den and keeping them in an empty fish tank he had, Aether had threatened to do a tsa style search on him before he was allowed inside. They weren’t allowed pet, they all knew that, it was made very clear to them, and Aether didn’t want to get on the wrong side of anyone. He’d seen first hand what happened if you pissed off the higher ups. 

“Depends how sneaky he is when he comes in.” 

He flicks the kettle on to boil water for pasta. 

As if on queue, the back door opens. Mountain tries to sneak in, he really does, but he’s tall and clumsy and speed isn’t something that comes naturally to him so him trying to rush past Dew and Aether ends with a spatula being pressed to his chest and him being pressed up against the fridge with Dew laughing maniacally behind him. 

Aether presses the spatula to his throat.

“Empty your pockets.” He demands. 

“I-what? Why?” Mountain stutters. 

Aether narrows his eyes. 

“You know why.” 

Mountain holds his hand up in surrender. 

“I have nothing this time, I promise.” 

“We're demons from hell, promises mean nothing to us.” Dew chimes on from behind them. 

Mountain glares at him over Aethers head. He was on his side when he was playing with one of the lizards he’s snuck in. 

Aether takes a step back, lowering the spatula.

“You promise.” 

“I prom-“

“I can see it moving in your pocket, you lying little shit!” Aether’s trying his hardest not to laugh.

Mountain smirks at him.

“Maybe I’m just happy to see you.” 

“He does like being pinned down, we all know that.” Dew pipes up again. 

Mountain does a silent cheer, Dew’s back on his side. 

“See?” 

Aether shakes his head.

“Pockets. Empty them.” 

Mountain sighs and digs into his pocket and pulls out a frog? Or a toad? Aether isn’t sure but it’s some kind of amphibian. He places on the counter, right next to Dew making the smaller ghoul scream, loudly, and jump from the Counter and into Aethers arms in an almost scooby-doo  like way. 

“What the fuck is that fucking thing?!” He screeches. 

Mountain beams at him. 

“It’s a frog, Specifically a Moor frog. I found him in the lake when I went to see Rain.” 

“Mount, you can’t keep him, we’ve talked about this.” Aether says, trying to balance Dew in his arms. 

“He’s too ugly to keep anyway.”

 Dew’s still eyeing the frog suspiciously as it hops along the counter.

“Well your ugly and we kept you.” 

Dew glares at Mountain with a small growl. 

Mountain ignores Dew and pouts at Aether. 

“Can’t I keep for today? And tomorrow I’ll go to the lake with Rain and return him?” 

Aether, never being able to say no to Mountain or his damn puppy dog eyes, sighs.

“Just for tonight. I mean it, he better be gone by tomorrow.” 

Mountain smiles at him, wide and full of fang.

“I promise.” 

He scoops the frog up in his hands, still smiling, and heads towards the stairs to go to his room. He has absolutely no intentions of returning the frog. It was his now. 

[pixiexdusts-world]

The last game

Chishiya x reader

Summary: A carefree girl earns Chishiya’s respect through her charm and unpredictability in a deadly game.

Word count: 741

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

I knew he was trouble the first time I saw him—tall, cool, and looking like he could read my mind. But I didn’t mind. Honestly, I liked the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to figure out. I’m not dumb, but I guess I don’t exactly come off as the smartest person in the room, either. That’s fine, though. I don’t need to be brainy to keep up with him.

Chishiya’s the kind of guy who doesn’t waste words. He says exactly what he means, and when he smiles, it’s like he already knows something you don’t. He’s a little scary, but I like it. He has this way of making everything feel like a game—a game I don’t always understand, but I play along.

He usually leaves me out of the really dangerous stuff, the mind games and the strategy talk. He knows I’m not good with that—hell, half the time I don’t even get what’s going on. But he doesn’t mind. Or at least, he never shows it.

It was during one of those endless nights when the games seemed to drag on forever that I found myself sitting beside him in a dark corner of the building. Everyone else was fighting, plotting, scheming. But me? I was just… existing. Trying to look cute. Trying to make him smile.

He didn’t look at me, not at first. His eyes were focused on the game screen, his mind already miles ahead, analyzing the next move. I was used to it by now, the way he just… tuned me out when things were important. It didn’t bother me.

But when I shifted and bumped his shoulder, he looked up, those sharp eyes locking onto mine.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, his voice low, like he was testing something.

I smiled, my fingers playing with the hem of my shirt. “Just thinking… about us, I guess.”

Chishiya didn’t react right away. His gaze lingered, as if trying to decipher what I meant. But I didn’t care. I liked being mysterious sometimes. I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t always predictable.

“Thinking about what?” he asked.

“About how I can make you smile,” I said with a grin, leaning a little closer.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that your strategy?”

I shrugged, flipping my hair and making sure he caught the way I looked at him. “I guess you could say that.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His lips quirked up into a half-smile, the kind of smile that made you wonder if he was mocking you or just playing a game you didn’t quite understand.

“You know, I’ve been watching you,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not as dumb as you seem.”

I laughed, brushing it off. “Hey, I’m not stupid. I just like to have fun.”

His smile turned a little more genuine, and it made my heart race. “Fun can be dangerous,” he said, but there was a softness in his voice that didn’t match his usual cold tone.

I blinked at him. “Is that why you like me? ‘Cause I’m dangerous?”

He tilted his head, considering the question. “You’re not dangerous. But you’re unpredictable. And that makes things interesting.”

The next day, things went south. As usual, the game was twisted and brutal. The other players were ruthless, fighting for their lives in the most twisted ways. I kept close to Chishiya, though. He was my shield, my secret weapon. Not because he wanted to protect me, but because I kept him entertained. I had a feeling he liked keeping me close for the challenge, for the puzzle I presented.

“You’re not like the others,” he said when we managed to hide away from the chaos. “You don’t try to fight. You just… let things happen.”

I smiled, flipping my hair over my shoulder. “I don’t need to fight to win, babe. I have other ways.”

He studied me for a moment, that unreadable expression on his face. “You really think that?”

I nodded, proud of myself. “Of course. I have my charm.”

Chishiya’s lips twitched into a smirk, but there was something different about it now. He wasn’t laughing at me, not anymore. It was like he finally understood me. He knew I wasn’t just a dumb girl in a messed-up game. I was a player, too, in my own way.

And for the first time, I thought maybe, just maybe, he respected me. Not for my brain, but for the way I played the game.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said, turning to leave.

I watched him go, my heart fluttering for reasons I didn’t fully understand. I was smart enough to know that with Chishiya, I was always one step behind—but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to play. And if that meant being the unpredictable, carefree girl who kept him intrigued, then so be it.

Because in the end, that was the game we were both playing.

[leonscottwolfkennedy]

WOLF VIKING (UPDATED)

NORMAL OUTFIT

He wears this when stepping into the ring. Right before throwing that shit off SOME PICTURES BEFORE INFO.

Just his faces. YA!

His hand without his gloves or bandages.

(name thing made by my homie, homeslice @levsguy THANKS BRAH!!)

WOLF VIKING (WORLD CIRCUIT)

Luke Johansson

25 years old

Swedish Luke is 5 '9,  He is very quiet, and cold. He never really enjoys other people unless they gain his trust. As well as he can be pissed off pretty easily. He doesn't have a good temper nor good anxiety. He has a panic disorder aswell. And he is always on edge.

He has a problem with biting himself due to stress, anxiety and other complications and or just a way of not freaking out. As well as making scars on his body. He does take pills to calm himself, too much. 13-3 Win to lose ratio

Light Welterweight Class. SPECIAL MOVE He has an illegal special move which is called the WOLF POUNCE. Just like Aran Ryans headbutts and shoulder jabs, He presses himself up on the ropes, climbing on them. Then just jumping up and head-punching the enemy. If dodged it will make WV fall to the canvas and the timer to his get-up starts. Not dodging with will get an instant knockdown which is harsh but bro puts all his force into that single punch. Intermission During intermissions, usually he just sits there growling. Yet Round 2 and 3, he will be sitting there Wheezing. He has a breathing problem, Not asthma, Just a general problem he won't let anyone know about, not even medical. 

Out of the ring. 

Luke never comes near the locker room to change, Yet he has his own locker. He always disappears after matches, the only times he is in the locker room is if he's already in his boxing attire and or is just waiting his turn. 

Attributes

His eyes can dilate, almost owl like when he Uses his special move or just panics and or rages. He has a fanged tooth, a tooth which grew out of his gums due to the other tooth not falling out just yet. 

He has bite marks everywhere on his arms. He does lick his wounds sometimes if the medical is taking too long. He has three moles on the same side of his face, Freckles also. He growls, and can mimic an actual wolf growling.

He wears eyeliner!!!

Infractions

He has 6 infractions, some are wearing makeup Eyeliner, Wearing an undershirt. Wearing more padding underneath his gloves, Having braids that could whip and or injure people.

LIKES

Luke really enjoys alot of things, His friends mostly. Piston Hondo, Marie. He likes blue raspberry slushies, swedish fika, Blodpudding (Blood pudding a swedish dish.) Coconut oil, Lotion, Music. 

Midsommar, Horror movies, peppermint candies. And cold like ice cold drinks. And eating ice. AND PEACH TEA!!

DISLIKES

Super macho man, Aran ryan, Cheaters (Like he isnt one.). Being called pretty, being touched. People touching his things, Muzzles (He had to have one on. Due to his biting.) His father, and younger brothers. 

Paparazzi, the smell of strong perfume. Super macho man. 

He has made alot of enemies in the WVBA due to his fast progression to the world circuit. Before getting overthrown by Aran ryan. (Luke still blames a certain manager.) He has no trust in other people that he has never interacted with. He also dyes his hair black, his original hair color being blonde.

He also has many secrets he wont even let people know about. He can't trust people enough even if they are close to know who HE actually is.

.

Born in Gothenburg to Jennifer Johansson and Christian Johansson, a former Swedish boxing champion. He was diagnosed with depression early on, he never had energy to do anything other than watch his dad on the tv. Since his dad liked boxing and was a boxer, he also aspired to be one. But his dad always told him that he was too soft for that, too delicate. So he never pursued it, just played play-boxing with his friends. He lived near the cities of Gothenburg, Yet it was always dull to him. He lived in a normal suburban house with his mom, Older brother, And 2 younger brothers. 

And during his childhood as I said he really enjoyed watching boxers on TV. Even though he wasn't allowed to box, His mom always gave him boxing merch. His father lost his champion belt when Luke was 9, and that made his father not want to mention anything about boxing. Not even allowed on tv if he was home.

Getting older, he defied his own father and went out to box. Going to secret classes and training and he always said that he was studying more with friends to become a doctor.

He had to keep up that lie, by saying that he was studying to become a doctor. And his father never knew about who he actually was. 

After 18 years he flew out to America, training even more. Still up-holding the lie. He worked part time jobs to up his money so he could pay rent, and after a few years when he turned 24 he was accepted into the WVBA after the managers scouted out random fighting rings and Luke was there. Seeing the money worth on one of his illegal moves, they took him in. Joining other random Boxers. 

Yet fears of his secrets being discovered puts him on edge in this team.

NOW ONTO THE OTHER BOXERS RELATIONSHIPS WITH LUKE! (Going in actual boxer game order)

Glass Joe: They have exchanged a few words, yet nothing really much. WV respects Joe and almost let him win, before he had to go on. Von Kaiser: Friends, they speak alot. Due to WV knowing german, They respect eachother aswell. Sometimes making sarcastic jokes about eachother. Disco Kid: Homies, close enough to have WV crack a smile around him but not close enough to let Disco even nudge him. Respect eachother. King Hippo: Never got along so never spoke to eachother. Piston Hondo: Close friends, almost the only boxer whom didnt say anything just was amazed and respected Lukes boxing techniques (If he ignores the special move) Luke lets Piston touch him, after all he trusts him. But not too much. Piston mostly helps with making Luke stop being in is locked in state for too long. (Its by pouring cold water on him.) Bear Hugger: They have exchanged a few words, nothing really more. Yet Bear hugger always comes in and gives Luke something to eat because he says ''You look very tired.'' Ya Great Tiger: They are okay, Great tiger always scares Luke with his clones. They talk yet not too much. Don Flamenco: Hate, too much perfume too much ego. Too much of everything, Luke wont even talk to him only if hes forced to. Aran Ryan: HATE HATE HATE, 'Bastard cheater..' - Luke. He doesn't like him at all, he freaks him out. His look, his appearance and even his own aura just makes Luke gag in fear. Yet Aran thinks they are almost friends, and Luke always climbs the lockers to make sure Aran doesnt touch him. Soda Popinski: Just both dont like eachother, Luke doesnt trust him and doesnt like his excessive drinking which makes him sticky (His glove got stuck on Soda popinski's chest once when he accidentally bumped into him) Bald Bull: Too much anger, reminds luke of his father, and he just doesnt wanna get his skull cracked if he tries to fight him. Super Macho Man: Luke HATES him out of everyone, He has an Ego and smells like shit, too much tanning oil and too much perfume. Hes just disgusting, he doesnt like how he treats girls. Mr Sandman: Intimidated, will run if seeing him. (Got his shit rocked, he could only land his special move on mr sandman which only stunned him) Doc Louis: Hes alright (They say both at the same time) Little mac: Lots of respect for the kid, doesnt mind him. Carmen: Who? (They both say) Referee: They are alright with eachother, atleast Luke isnt more insane than the others. https://open.spotify.com/track/7HcNDEjIeXPfcIgSNR0ZjK?si=4a5c110d66ae4b94

HOPE YALL LIKE HIS REDESIGN!! I SPENT HARD MAKING THIS, now... Its time for the ocs again!! When I have my energy DONT WORRY THEY ARE BEING MADE!! Still hope you all enjoy this, I tried making a drawing out of the punch out style :3

[little-glitter-kitten]

I Think The Apple's Rotten Right To The Core Pt 2

Prologue: As your brother, Caleb always took great pride in the fact that he was always the first to notice the little things when it came to you. When you were hurt, when you were sick, when you were lying or keeping a secret. What will Caleb do when he notices just how much his precious little adopted sister has grown? Can he fight the filthy, rotten feelings threatening to ruin all he holds dear?

(Caleb x Reader, no use of 'Y/N, AFAB reader, size difference.)

TW: Pseudo-incest, dub-con, possessive Caleb, Obsessed Caleb, Yandere Caleb.

YOUR POV:

The TV played quietly to itself in the background as the grandfather clock in the corner chimed 11 P.M. but you and Caleb were too distracted to notice the late hour. Grandma had retired to bed hours ago, leaving you and your adoptive brother to catch up in the living room.

"...needless to say, he didn't last long." Caleb laughed as he regaled you with tales of his work in The Deepspace Aviation Administration.

"I can't imagine he would." You laughed next to him on the cosy couch. "Who would ever trust him to fly again?"

Caleb's smile dropped slowly as his eyes drifted to where your hand was resting on your midsection.

"Something wrong?"

"Hmm?" You realised where his gaze was and removed your hand that had been placing pressure on your belly. "No, I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me, Mèimei." He warned, with a slight smirk. "You never did know when you to slow down with my braised chicken wings."

Chuckling, he scooted down to rest his head on the arm of the couch and stretch his legs.

"Come here." Caleb smiled softly, patting his pectoral for you, indicating for you to rest your head.

Carefully, you positioned yourself to lay down on your side next to him, your head on his chest and leg bent over his. Bringing his long arm around you, he pulled you in close as his hand slide over your hip to rub soft circle on your tummy.

"It's not my fault your cooking is so delicious." You groused. "I have to make the most of it because I don't know when I'll be able to taste it again."

Yawning, you closed your eyes and relaxed into his soothing ministrations when you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Fishing it out, you looked at who on earth would be texting you at this time of night.

"Zayne?" You felt Caleb's chest rumble under your ear. "You still talk to him?"

"Of course. He's one of my closest friends." Before you could unlock your phone it was snatched from your hand. "Hey!"

"Uh-uh" Caleb chided. "Your tired and need your rest. He can wait until morning."

You watched as Caleb slid your phone into his pocket. He must have been dead-set on not returning it as his hand stayed in his pocket, your phone held captive in his grasp.

Too tired to argue, you gave him a slight "hmph" but relaxed even more into his touch.

"Good night, Gēge."

"Good night, pipsqueak." You heard him respond, your eyes drifting shut.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, you woke to find yourself tucked away in your childhood bedroom. You smiled to yourself, realising Caleb must have carried you back to your bed after falling asleep on the couch.

'Some things never change.' You smile, remembering all those times as kids when he would have to do the same thing.

You hauled yourself from the warmth of your bed and padded your way over to your bag to grab some clothes before making your way to the door of the bathroom that you and Caleb and shared.

Stripping off, you throw your clothes in the dirty clothes basket and step into the shower to get ready for the day ahead.

Making your way downstairs half an hour later, you lean against the door and take a moment to appreciate the scene before you. Your Grandmother and your your big brother, sitting at the breakfast table, completete with all your favourite dishes, talking quietly and laughing.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." Caleb smirks. "Sleep well?"

"Amazing, thank you." You said taking and seat and plating up some waffles. "How about you?"

"Good. I've just been stuck here waiting for somebody to quit hogging the shower." He says, clearing his plate and cutlery. "Now if you'll excuse me, I finally get to go for a shower."

You scoff but ignore the bait, instead choosing to talk with Grandma about the day ahead.

Eventually, you lean back, your belly full and sigh contentedly.

"Dear, would you mind grabbing the dirty laundry from the bathroom?" Your Grandmother asks. "Put it in the washing machine and I'll do a load of washing."

"Sure thing." You say, getting up from your chair and making your way upstairs.

You knock on the bathroom door, ensuring Caleb isn't still inside. When no answer comes, you make your way in and grab the dirty clothes basket before heading back down stairs to the laundry.

Absent-mindedly, you begin throwing yours and Caleb dirty clothes in the washing machine when you suddenly frown. You take all the dirty clothes from the machine and begin to take stock.

'Jeans, top, bra...' You sort through them with a confused look. 'Where are my panties?'

You threw the clothes back in the machine and retraced your steps back upstairs, intent on finding the missing delicates that you assumed had fallen on the floor.

"Watch it, pipsqueak." Your brother grunts as you run head first into him on the landing.

"Sorry, I was looking for..." You trail off.

"Looking for your hairbrush? So you should be, what a rats nest."

Annoyed at his teasing, you push his chest, when he wrestles you into a headlock. Laughing, you are both snapped out of it when your Grandma calls up the stairs.

"You two, remember Mrs Lee, from next door?" She aks, her face smiles but with a hint of something you couldn't quite place.

Looking down, you see your Grandma and the lady from next door at the bottom of the stairs. You feel Caleb's arms slip from your body as you both greet the woman.

"Caleb, could you help me with something?" Grandma asks, ushering Mrs Lee into the kitchen as Caleb makes his way down.

Turning around, you go into the bathroom, determined to find your missing clothing item.

[holyhaech]

hiiiiii!!! can i request Jisung with the 3rd prompt please

stupid cupid

f!reader x park jisung (fluff, secret admirer)

you wake up on a random monday, normal as ever. everything following your regularly scheduled programming. well, until you get a text. it’s probably just your friends, asking you to join them at the party on friday, it’s valentine’s day after all! you already told them you’d go, but maybe they were just double-checking?

you open the text to see that it’s from a random number with the contact labeled “smu cupid”. what kind of stupid prank was this? i mean sure, you had no valentine. but this was just ridiculous. one of your friends must’ve signed you up for this.

you sigh as you read the text.

“you are beautiful, i love your smile. i see you smile from the back row of prof. lee’s lectures, usually when you talk to your friends. god, i wish i could be the one to make you smile like that one day. - andy.”

odd. i mean, it’s sweet and all, but it has to be written by a bot. there’s no one in your lectures named andy. not to mention the whole back row is usually too busy playing roblox to notice anything in front of them.

so you make it your mission for the next 2 days to track down this andy guy. you look back during your lectures, glancing at the back row, which confirms your suspicions. no one in the back row does anything but play video games.

little do you know, there’s a guy directly behind you 2 rows back. he looks at you every lecture, then hides behind his macbook once you turn around. he wishes he wasn’t so shy. but alas, that’s who park jisung was. the quiet nerd in the back of the lecture hall.

you gave up on the third day, thursday the 13th. there’s no chance that someone was going to as you to be their valentine. you convinced yourself that you were okay with that. the messages didn’t stop though, one per day.

tuesday: “i love the way you did your hair today, if i was yours i’d braid your hair every day if i could.”

wednesday: “you’re so smart it boggles my mind! how did you know the answer when no one else did? you amaze me everyday.”

and now, thursday: “this sounds weird but could you go to the big lawn at 4pm? i get out of my last class at 3:30, so i want to ask you something.”

well here you are, 3:58, standing in the middle of the big lawn, looking like a loser. the clock keeps ticking down, with you doubting this whole thing more and more every second.

at 4:02 he shows up, out of breath with flowers in his hand. your secret admirer was none other than park jisung? the boy you had a crush on for all of freshman year? this had to be a joke.

“you’re…andy?” you ask, suspicious.

“uhh yes! it’s my english name. my korean name is park jisung.” you extend his hand holding the flowers, handing them to you.

“i can’t believe this.” you say incredulously.

“did i do something wrong? ireadthatflowersaregoodforconfessionsandtheseremindedmeofyouand.” he rushes through his words, panicking

you cut him off with a kiss on the cheek. “it’s perfect jisung, thank you.”

his cheeks turn crimson. “oh, you’re welcome.” he responds meekly.

“i just wanted to say that i’ve had a crush on you since two years ago, in english 101. and at first i thought it was just a fleeting thing, i don’t know i’ve never been in love before. but my feelings just kept growing the more and more i saw you. i was just wondering if you would like to be my valentine? sorry that all sounded really creepy.” he stops himself to find you making eye contact with him with a bright smile on your face.

“i like you too, jisung or should i say…andy.”

he looks back at you with wide eyes, obviously not expecting this reaction.

you pull him in for a soft kiss. he melts into your lips, sinking into you with every passing second. you pull back to take a breath, with him panting in front of you.

“i love you, yn.”

“i love you too.”

you come together in an embrace, slowly rocking back and forth, enjoying the sunset behind you both.

a/n: title is inspired by nct dream's stupid cupid. hope you like this anon! i feel like it kinda sucks but oh well! we're our harshest critics ig. made this bc i'm tired of the fuckboy jisung allegations!!! that man is a capital L LOSER. he would cream his pants from just a kiss, its true!

[dumbgoondog]

Mahito Watches

MDNI +18 NSFW

Mahito watches you and gets your clothes dirty… rude.

Cw/Tw - Dubcon, stalking, being watched masturbating without knowing, underwear sniffing/licking, Mahito is a tw

Mahito has a habit, where he breaks into your room and lays in your bed. That’s it, he just lays there, and smiles staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he reads though, sometimes he just rubs himself all over your bed to take in your smell or rub his smell off on it(residuals too!) Once or twice he’s jerked off in your bed edging himself to completion and stopping to ride the pleasure and slight ache of stopping.

Today was like almost any other time, he broke in and hopped into your bed was about to get comfortable but a discarded garment caught his eyes. A grin peeled his lips back and showed off his gums as he giddily snatched up your underwear. Without any hesitation he pulled it to his face and breathed in your smell, warm still so you had to have just been wearing these,

“Well, don’t mind if I do! It’s a treat left for me after all!” He muses to himself pulling down the front of his pants and a cock forming. He wraps your underwear around his hand and begins stroking himself, sniffing your pillow for your shampoo and scent while his eyes watch the cloth rub along his length. His cock twitches excitedly and is already dripping everywhere, making his cursed energy pulse inside of him watching it stain your underwear.

Creak-! “I’ll be right back! One sec!”

Your voice cuts the air of panting and Mahito’s eyes snap to the door his expression pulling from pleasure to giddy excitement. He’s up and quickly moving to hide, somewhere anywhere, beneath the bed or in the closet anything works! His energy is racing, his weeping tip aches twitching and leaking thick droplets he’s imagining on your face.

Then you come in, opening and closing the door behind you but you move in and drop on the bed with a groan. You look stressed, just life getting to you as it seems to do more often than not. With a heavy sigh you breathe in and smell that faint metallic and foul smell stinging your nostrils, “damn it, it broke in again!”

Mahito’s smile crinkles at his eyes hearing your displeasure but he can’t help but tilt his head cursious, why weren’t you getting up? You’ve said he smells bad, wouldn’t you get up to wash your sheets or just get up to not be in them? So why are you still laying in them and not doing anything about it, you’re even starting to undress!

…

Mahito’s proverbial heart nearly leaps from his chest, his cock also jumping, when you start to undress. He felt like he was going to explode when your hand moved down and touched along your core. The slight noise you made, a hiss and gasp followed by words of annoyance, “ah- stupid, curse! Stupid work! Mm-Mahito you-you asshole..!”

The involuntary shiver that ripped up Mahito’s spine hearing you moan his name and the way his tip squirted with overwhelming excitement. Both of his hands were back to rough pumping, your underwear rubbing against his cock soaking up the cursed sticky fluids. His tip aches and weeps wanting to be buried into you and from the blood dripping down his lip from biting it so hard he wanted you just as much.

The whimpers you give while trying to be so annoyed, it reminds him of your annoyed huffs with him! Now he’s thinking, you’re touching yourself and thinking of him, you’re just playing hard to get then, you’re just shy! He doesn’t mind, he likes the chase, he likes this secret moment of vulnerability between you two, your feelings coming out in confessions of actions.

Pulling away the hand wrapped with your underwear he pulls it up to his face to smell it, the way your smells mixed is his drug and he’s an addict. Your body moves and twitches, he’s watching you touch and rub, squeezing, greedy for pleasure to relieve yourself. His hand is moving faster now, squeezing as he pulls to the tip to milk every ounce he can out.

You floor could stain and he wouldn’t care, he’s really just marking his territory at this point. His cock throbs and the symphony of panting, moans, and slick noises is building to its crescendo. He can’t yet, not without you, so he slows his pumping his hips jerking forward displeased by the coming down but he’s determined.

Instead he focuses on your two’s smells, the way your rooms smells, how he wonders how you smell right now. He wants to just come out and bury his face between your legs sniff and pleasure you. A giddy giggle escapes him as he imagines how you’d react, scolding him probably, or calling him names while being so embarrassed.

The way your cheeks flush, your hand speeds up, and your twitches become more frequent is cinematic so much so Mahito almost forgets to continue touching himself, entranced by you. But his hands excited return to his desperate and starved dick, stroking and stroking as his tongue lols from his mouth drool slipping off his tongue and onto his cock. He can’t help but lick your soaked garments pulling it into his mouth to muffle his own sounds and both hands return to his dick.

“Mngh-! Fuck, fuck- ah-! Fuck!” His eyes widen as he watches before his own eyes rolls back and he groans around the wad of dirty underwear. Thick sticky ropes of cum squirt out, and he’s milking it in time with your whines and whimpers. He’s imagining all of his hot cum burying into you, marking your insides and staining them as his own and he groans again shivering.

Finally both of you are relaxing back, he’s still lazily and lustfully teasing and pumping his cock as you push up. You shuffle for tissues, clean up, and redress with a more pleased sigh now. You fix your hair quick check yourself in your phone camera, Mahito watches and he’s smiling, he wants to say you always look good but you are a mess right now, to him it looks good though!

His gorgeous ugly human.

You finally leave, and he slips out from hiding, smiling at your bed and to the door. You’re perfect and you don’t even know it! He laughs, tucking your dirty underwear in his pocket, taking his leave as well.

[soangelbaby]

❤︎ you love when i hate you ; vinnie hacker

‹𝟹 synopsis ; vinnie hacker has always been your academic rival, but on valentine's day, when he sees you with a date at his PR event, he's not having it and he'll remind you who truly owns you.

vinnie holds up his glass in a casual toast, still staring at you with that dangerous glint in his eyes. “to lust, to power, and to the people who know they’re not afraid of either.” he takes a sip, his eyes never leaving the crowd, his presence magnetic, as if he’s already won, already claimed everyone’s attention. “now, let’s make tonight unforgettable.” you roll your eyes, spinning around in your seat back towards ryan, who’s standing there, awkwardly trying to hold his own in this unfamiliar world of power plays and subtle challenges. he’s nervously sipping on his drink, eyes darting between you and vinnie, clearly trying to make sense of the tension in the room.

the air between you and ryan is thick now, charged with the aftereffects of vinnie’s words. ryan’s brows furrow, unsure whether to push further or let it go, but you can tell it bothers him. “is he always like that?” he asks quietly, clearly uncomfortable. you shrug, offering a tight smile. “you have no idea.” you hope that’s the end of it, but the silence that follows is almost unbearable.

the luv & lust event had been meant for indulgence—for whispered secrets in dimly lit corners, for reckless flirtations and champagne-fueled confidence. but now? it felt like a battleground. It was the kind of event where reputations were built and destroyed in a single night, where connections mattered more than credentials, and where power didn’t come from what you knew—it came from how well you could own a room.

and no one owned a room like vinnie hacker.

he was in his element, all effortless charm and quiet confidence as he stood at the center of it all, hosting the event like he had been born for it.

“oh, so this is supposed to be my replacement for tonight?” vinnie’s voice was low, smooth, and dripping in condescension as he tilted his head, eyes flickering between you and the guy standing beside you. ryan—blissfully unaware of the sudden shift in the atmosphere—was trying to impress a small group of people, animatedly talking about some recent academic conference he had attended. his words were confident, sure of himself, but you see it—the slight hesitation, the way his hands fidget on the table. he knows who vinnie is. everyone does. your rival, the arrogant genius who has never backed down from a challenge, especially when it comes to you. and tonight? he had already heard enough.

he blinked, caught off guard. you let out a slow breath, already feeling the tension coil in your stomach. “vinnie,” you started, your voice laced with warning. “don’t start.” but he just smirked, ignoring you completely as he turned to your date, taking him in like he was some fascinating little experiment he was about to pick apart. “what’s your name, man?” his voice is smooth, dripping with amusement, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. your date squared his shoulders, trying to regain some ground. “ryan.” vinnie let the name hang in the air for a second before he gave a slow nod, feigning interest.

“ryan,” he said, dragging it out like he was testing how it felt on his tongue, stepping closer, his gaze cold and assessing. “major?” he asks, like he’s already decided it’s not going to matter. ryan stiffens, his brows knitting in slight confusion. “economics,” he responds, trying to sound composed. vinnie lets out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, as if the answer is beneath him. “economics? that’s cute. you think you can make it in a world like this with that? bet you’ve got all these big plans in your head, all these ideas, but you don’t even understand the first rule of this game.” vinnie’s gaze darkens, the amusement in his eyes slipping away, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he steps forward again, the space between them narrowing.

ryan bristles, squinting his eyes as he tries to bite back the sting of the words. “i don’t need your approval, vinnie. i know what I’m talking about.” vinnie tilts his head, that signature smirk of his spreading across his face like he’s about to enjoy a show. “no, you don’t get it. you think that major is gonna get you somewhere? trust me, man—nobody gives a shit about theories and numbers when they’re busy playing with power.”

ryan’s jaw tightens, his posture defensive. “i don’t need a lesson in humility from someone who thinks he owns the world.” vinnie’s lips curve into that signature smirk, the kind that says he’s always ten steps ahead. “i know you don’t need a lesson. you need perspective. you think you can waltz in here and impress anyone? you’re not even on the same playing field.” he lets the words sink in, savoring ryan’s reaction. ryan scoffs, trying to hold his ground. “i’m here to have a good time, not compete for a spot in your little playground. but you clearly can’t handle anyone in your space who isn’t part of your perfect little world, huh?”

vinnie steps even closer, practically invading ryan’s personal space. “you’re damn right. this is my space. and you? you’re a tourist in it. you want to pretend you’re important? you want to play with the big dogs? you better learn the rules. or get out.” ryan clenches his fists at his sides, trying to keep his cool. “rules? i don’t answer to you, man. i’ve worked my ass off to get here, and i’m not gonna let you try and belittle me just because you think you’re entitled to everything around you.” ryan’s eyes snap to you, the frustration and humiliation from his confrontation with vinnie simmering just below the surface. his jaw clenches, and his fists tighten at his sides as he tries to maintain his composure. his gaze is sharp, searching yours for something—an apology, an explanation, maybe even some kind of reassurance. but all he finds is your silence.

you can feel his disappointment like a weight on your chest, and yet, you don’t know how to respond. you should say something, anything, to defend him, to make it clear that you don’t agree with vinnie, but the words refuse to come. ryan’s expression hardens, his lips pressing together in a thin line, and without a word, he shakes his head, looking away from you as if the tension in the air between the two of you is too much to bear. “i thought this was supposed to be a fun night,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the hum of the room, “but it looks like i’m just a pawn in your little game.”

the words sting, and you feel a pang of guilt shoot through you, but you still say nothing, caught between the pull of loyalty and the weight of your own emotions. ryan’s eyes flicker to yours one last time, his expression softening just a fraction, but then, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd. you’re left standing there, the space between you two heavy with unresolved tension, the sounds of the event blurring into the background as the silence between you lingers. as ryan walks away, the sharp sting of guilt and anger crashes over you like a wave. you’re pissed—not just at vinnie, but at yourself, at the whole fucked-up situation. you can’t stand it anymore. you can’t just let it slide.

you spin on your heel, frustration boiling over, and shove vinnie hard, your hands slamming against his chest with more force than you intended. “you’re such a damn asshole!” you snap, your voice low but filled with fury. vinnie barely flinches, a look of amusement flashing across his face as he watches you, all too aware of the power he holds over you in this moment. he steps closer, unbothered by the shove, and before you can move again, he’s got a firm grip on your arm. “yeah, i know,” he mutters with a grin, his tone dripping with mock sweetness. “but you’re not exactly in a position to lecture me right now.”

you try to jerk away, twisting in his grip, your heart pounding in your chest. “let go of me, vinnie. i’m not going anywhere with you.” he ignores your protests, his hold tightening, and with a single tug, he drags you toward the private lounge. your shoes skid on the polished floor as you dig your heels in, but it’s no use. his strength is too much, and the space between you and the rest of the party shrinks with every step he takes. curious glances and knowing smirks, past people who wouldn’t dare to question him. because this was his event. his rules. the moment you reached the private lounge, vinnie didn’t hesitate. the door clicked shut behind you, muffling the music, the noise, the world outside. you barely had a second to catch your breath before your back hit the cool leather of the vip couch—before he was on you.

“you’re mad at me?” his voice was low, edged with mockery, with that infuriating, arrogant amusement that made your stomach twist. “what, for putting that guy in his place? for doing what you should’ve done the second he started running his mouth?” you push against his chest, but it’s weak—your body betrays you as it reacts to him. “shut up, vinnie. you don’t get to do this. not like this.” his hand moves to your neck, fingers gripping with a possessive edge, forcing your head back, your throat exposed to him. you struggle to breathe, your heart racing at the intensity in his eyes. the air between you is electric, thick with the tension that’s been building for far too long.

“you brought him here.” his voice is a growl, barely contained, laced with an anger you haven’t seen from him before. “i don’t care who the hell he is. you walk into my space with him, expecting me to just pretend i’m not here? pretend i don’t know what this is?” the weight of his words hits you like a punch to the gut. his jealousy isn’t just about the guy you brought to the event—it’s about you, about him not being in control. his eyes bore into yours with the force of an accusation, like he expects you to bow down, to submit to him. a shiver runs through you at his words, but it’s not just from fear—it’s from the dangerous, intoxicating pull he has on you, from the way his touch sends jolts of heat coursing through your veins.

you gasp as his thumb traces your skin, large hangs slipping under your dress, “you’re an asshole. you always have to make everything a game.” he laughs softly, the sound rich with arrogance, his fingers skimming your ribs with that familiar teasing touch. “isn’t that what you love about me?” his lips hover dangerously close to yours, teasing. “tell me you don’t love when i win, even when you think you hate it.” you grip his shirt, pulling him in harder, your chest rising and falling with the heat between you. “i don’t—” your words break off into a soft moan when he presses lips against yours harder, taking the words from your mouth. his tongue slips into your mouth, arms slipping around his neck tugging at his collar. you could hear him fumbling with his belt, hands working quickly to feel you.

his dick brushes your thigh, causing you to gasp into his mouth. he tugs your thong aside swiftly, pressing into you rough, not giving you anytime to adjust—or catch your breath. “shiit, vinnie—” you whine into him, your hands claw at his back, desperate for something to hold onto as he sets the pace, moving with an intensity that leaves you breathless. vinnie chuckles as his lips move to your jaw then your neck, “think you deserve this, bring another man to my event? there’s gonna be consequences.” you try to push against him, but it’s pointless. your body betrays you, responding to every inch of him, every stroke. “fuck you,” you mutter, but your voice wavers with the tension building between you. vinnie’s smirk widens, like he knows exactly how you’re feeling, exactly how much control he has over you. “i think you like me like this. you can say whatever you want, but your body’s telling me a different story.”

every word he says fuels the fire of your frustration, but you’re losing the battle—body and mind are at war, and right now, vinnie’s winning. but you refuse to give in. you can’t. “i don’t like you,” you snap, but it’s weak, your words lost in the mess of tension between you two. “i fucking hate this. i hate you.” you choke out, his tip pounding against your cervix, your stomach tightens in pain and pleasure, and you knew you were close already. he leans down, his lips ghosting over your ear, whispering darkly, “you feel so fucking good around me. i could stay like this forever.” you arch against him, your mind a haze of frustration and pleasure, knowing he’s right—no matter how much you want to fight it. “shut the fuck up, vinnie,” you hiss through clenched teeth, trying to keep the last bit of pride intact. “you don’t own me.” he just smirks, but there’s something darker behind it now. “you keep telling yourself that.”

rini’s note ; omg this is so much longer than i expected it to be LMAO ts barely got out brooo but idk i kinda like it might make a series similar academic rivals is such a hot trope 😩 idk it was rushed af but its kinda cute whatever 💔 (excuse any typos grrrr)

[m1kawrites]

2000+ 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌, 𝖫𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝖭𝖲𝖥𝖶 𝖺𝗅𝗉𝗁𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗍

2000+ word G/N reader :3 I haven't wrote in ages so sorry if it's not that good AGHH!!!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

This man is a sadist both in and out of bed, but when it comes to aftercare? He’s an entirely different demon. Sex with you is his best stress reliever, a way to loosen up and relax after a long day of his brothers antics alongside the stress of paperwork. But no matter how rough or gentle he was, he’s always attentive afterwards watching you closely to make sure you're okay.

If you need a drink, he won’t hesitate to fetch one while you clean up. If you’re too exhausted, he’ll help, even running a warm bath if you're still sore afterward. if you're the type to drift off to sleep, he’s more than happy to wrap you in his arms, holding you close until you’re settled only then will he quietly return to any unfinished work. B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

For his favourite body part of his own... I’d say his hands. He is the type to take great care of his hands using some hand care products Asmo gifted him to keep them soft and smooth. One of the main reasons he likes his hands is how nicely they look against your body, tracing over your skin as you shiver from his touch.

(A close second would be his hair. Okay hear me out but I can totally see this old man being ridiculously picky about it. If he's having a bad hair day well he'll be in a foul mood all day)

Now, when it comes to his favourite body part of yours, I’d say he would love your neck. The mere thought of marking up your neck just ever so faintly and seeing the marks slightly being visible out from your uniform drives him wild. Seeing the proof of his love on their skin fills him with pride. Oh and when he teases you? he would feel up your neck with his lips just to feel your little human pulse quicken beneath his lips? That’s just the cherry on top and his favourite thing to do! C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) I don’t see Lucifer being the type to play with or eat cum, it’s just not his thing. However, creampies? That’s a different story. The pride of seeing you completely fucked out, oozing his load? Yeah, he loves that.

That said, I do think he’d prefer using protection. Mostly for the convenience of an easier clean up and, if his partner is AFAB, to prevent any risk of pregnancy. So while he mostly sticks to condoms, he might occasionally indulge himself

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Before you and him got together, he has fantasized about you walking in on him at just the right moment of him pleasuring himself. The idea of being caught in the act and seeing your shocked or flustered reaction, was something that crossed his mind more than once.

Now, if you or worse, someone else accidentally walked in on him? That's something else.. He would hate that, His pride would be absolutely shattered. But if he wanted you to catch him? If he planned it, knowing exactly when you’d be doing your usual nightly check-ins? That’s a different story. Just the thought of you walking in, seeing him like that.. would you freeze up? Be shy and embarrassed? Would you get turned on? or... maybe just maybe you would join him? The anticipation alone was enough to drive him wild. E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Lucifer is definitely experienced, but not in the same way as Asmo. He’s not the type to sleep around with every demon or human he meets he has a reputation to uphold! His experience comes from an understanding of pleasure. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Reading your body language, watching every twitch of your expression as he thrusts into you~ he uses it all to push you right to the edge, only to pull back at the last moment hehe.. It’s almost infuriating how well he knows your body… maybe even better than you do yourself. F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

He’d love doggy. being able to grip your hips as he pounds into you, with the perfect view to spank you to his heart’s content as he watches your ass slowly turn red. Doggy makes it so he can easily grab your hair or press your head down into the pillow or desk, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

That said, he’d also enjoy any position that lets him see your face. watching every little expression you make as he drags you closer to the edge, taking in every reaction and lip quiver as he makes you feel way too good. G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Definitely serious but teasing.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) fully clean-shaved and very well-groomed if not fully shaved. He has nothing against body hair and wouldn’t mind if his partner kept things natural down there. However, for himself? He’d definitely prefer to be shaved just something about the clean, smooth feel that he enjoys. I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s a sadist who enjoys being rough in bed, degrading his little brat but there are still nights when he can be romantic where he is slow and passionate. On those nights, he’ll take his time, moving gently inside you as you’re both perfectly in sync, savouring the feeling of both of your bodies interlinked while He’ll whisper sweet, romantic words into your ears.

But if you decide to act up and be a little brat in bed during it? Well, he won’t tolerate that. He’ll make sure you know who’s in control.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He doesn’t do it often, he’s simply too busy with work. But if he’s had a particularly stressful week, I can see him jerking off to release some tension, most likely in the shower early in the morning so he won’t have to worry about cleaning up.

As I mentioned in my "dirty secret" section, I feel like he’d enjoy the idea of you catching him or even giving you a little “punishment” under his desk. As he spills his load deep in your throat, making sure you’re completely under his control. K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He loves the Dom/Sub dynamic and of course, he’s always the Dom. You can try to make him the sub, but good luck with that he’ll quickly put you back in your pathetic place

Bondage is something he absolutely enjoys. The thought of you completely tied up, at his mercy, with red ropes wrapped tightly around your body, gets him going. The way you look, so helpless and pathetic, only adds to his excitement.

And he’s 100% the type to edge his lover. Watching you come undone, crying and begging for release, especially if you've been stubborn lately, is the perfect form of punishment. He’ll watch you slowly lose control, turning into nothing more than a babbling, desperate little slut. L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

His study is one of his favourites, the thought of you bent over his desk as he pounds into you, being able to spank your ass over the desk, or even you under his desk, choking on his cock? That’s perfect for him.

Another favourite of his is the bedroom, where he can just rut into your body in any position with ease M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

If he sees you acting up in public or around his brothers, he won’t give in easily. He knows exactly what you're doing, trying to rile him up and he won’t let it work. Instead, he’ll ignore you, letting you stew in your frustration of defeat. But once you finally give up, that’s when he’ll come to you.

I can also see you getting touchy with him as a sure fire way to rile him up. He’s a touch starved man, after all. The moment you start being forward, it's bound to make him excited.. he won’t be able to resist~

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

If something upsets you, he wouldn’t do it, he values your feelings and wouldn’t cross that line. I also see him as one who won't like pegging, I don’t think he’d be into it. His pride wouldn’t allow it, and even if he agreed to try, he wouldn’t find himself turned on by it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He definitely has a preference for receiving oral, but that doesn’t mean he dislikes giving it. He’d much rather see you looking up at him as you take him deep into your throat, warming up his cock in your throat while he work. He’ll tell you to be a patient little lamb, and wait for him to finish before you can get what you want. Once he’s done, he’ll guide your head up and down, watching with satisfaction as you choke on him, enjoying the tears in your eyes from the stretch of your jaw. P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It all depends on his mood. If he's had a stressful day and you’ve riled him up, he’ll be fast, hard, and rough, his pace matching his frustration. But if he’s in a good mood and a bit tired from work, he’ll slow things down. His movements will be sensual, as he whispers romantic words in your ear.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He doesn’t mind quickies, but it’s not something he does often. He prefers taking his time with his partner, savouring every moment. After all, how can he turn you into a babbling overstimulated mess just from a quickie? Well he could easily do that if he wanted too but he much likes longer. For him, the thrill is in the control, and that requires more time.. more opportunity to tease and torment, to slowly push you to the edge before pulling back.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s willing to try certain things once, especially if you ask him nicely. He’s not the type to constantly seek out risks, but he won’t play it too safe either. If he's feeling bold, he might send you to R.A.D with a vibrator inside you, turning it on throughout the day just to watch you squirm while you try to stay quiet and composed.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Oh, he could go for multiple rounds, all night if he wanted to. Especially if you’ve riled him up or if he’s been stressed. But you’re human, after all, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you or push you past your limits. He knows exactly when to stop or when to take breaks for your sake. Especially after he’s thoroughly overstimulated you, making you cum more times than you can count. T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He owns toys, but not for himself as they're to be used on you. If you ever wanted to try one or had your eye on something new, he’d oblige without hesitation, making sure you get exactly what you want. After all, it’s going to be used on you~

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves to tease. He’d spend all night tormenting you, whispering about what a desperate little slut you are for riling him up just so he’ll fuck you. He’ll humiliate and degrade you, reminding you that all you had to do was ask if you wanted his cock that badly. But no, you had to be needy, had to push his limits so now? He’s going to make you regret it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not loud, but he’s not completely silent either, somewhere in between. You can definitely hear him, but if you moan too loud, you would just drown him out. He’s the type to let out deep grunts and soft gasps with his heavy breaths right against your ear, letting you feel what you’re doing to him.

Though, when he finally cums? You might catch a quiet, breathy moan slipping past his lips.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He enjoys your tears. not from genuine discomfort and fear of him, never that. But the ones that spill when he’s fucking you so good you can’t hold them back. The ones that come from sheer pleasure, from desperation, the pain from his whip, from the overwhelming need to cum. Yeah, those tears? He loves them. X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Lucifer’s got a big cock, though I feel like he might be lacking a bit in width, not that it’s anything to complain about since he still has a nice width just not as girthy as Beel’s. However his length more than makes up for it. 8 inches, His tip is a very light pink, and his cock has a slight curve up rather than to the side.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I’d say his drive is pretty high (have you seen him in the game? LOL). He can control it, sure, but when he goes too long without relief? He gets pent up and I mean pent up. So well.. the next time he has you beneath him, he’s taking it all out on you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He wouldn’t fall asleep until you do and he didn't have any work to do. He’d make sure you were okay, watching over you until you drifted off before slipping away to his study to finish up any lingering paperwork. Only once everything was in order would he finally allow himself to pull you back in his arms and fall asleep

A/N: I hope you enjoyed!! Haven't written in ages.. I feel rusty so I hope I can get back in my game. I'm planning on doing another one of these so which brother do you want to see next?

[swagyalastorwife]

Hazbin hotel as parents Part2

Author notes : hiiii guysss (^-^)/❤️so this is part 2 I'll put part 1 just below if you have any other ideas don't hesitate to tell me ans sorry for the spelling mistakes 😓❤️

⚠️warning⚠️: sex and drogue mention in angel part

Part 1 here

Charlie🌈

○ Charlie She will probably be a loving mother who wants the best for her child, she will support her child whatever happens and will try to be as kind as possible, however you have to be careful that this kindness does not turn your child into a mean and spoiled child, so I think you will have to be the bad cop while Charlie the good cop your children will say some things like "you have to ask mom she will definitely say yes" but she doesn't do it to be mean but to make them happy, her mother was never there for her and the relationship with her father was quite difficult so she will do her best to be present in difficult times

8/10

Vaggi❌️

● Just like Lute she will be a fairly strict mother who would want her child to give the best of themselves, however unlike Lute she will be a mother who listens to the needs and desires of her child and she will never force him to do something he does not want. she will be the kind of mother willing to kill for her child, she will MOST LIKELY be the bad cop and your children will be afraid of her

8.5/10

Angel dust🕸

♡ His child will probably be his best friend, they will do stupid things together, they will play pranks on you just to see you angry. Since Angel has both of you in his life he feels happy and safe you are everything to him he would do anything for you both so I think he will be an overprotective dad, I want with Valentino and all that shit he is obliged to protect his baby he will never recover if something happens to him. “hey bro come on let’s prank y/n”

9/10

Husk🍻

◇ Husk will probably be a father who listens to his child and his child will confide to him all these most serious and intimate secrets, husk will be a father who will protect his child and support him even if he doesn't always show him his affection (words of love and hugs) he really loves him and will be ready to do anything for your child, never doubt it “hey dad can I talk to you about something?”

8/10

Sir pentious🐍

◇ No matter how old you are, Sir Pentious sees you and will probably see you all your life like his little baby snake, he will be a dad madly in love with his child, he will prepare his snack after school and help him do his homework and lots of other things like that. I also think that he will ask Frank (one of those eggs) to watch him when he is at school so your little baby snake might get bothered, if that is the case he will be ready to kill these idiots but fortunately you are there to calm him down Overall he is a loving father who will do anything for his child.

8/10

Lucifer🦆

♤ With the disaster of his relationship with Charlie he will do anything and everything to win the love of this child I mean EVERYTHING, he will spoil her, cuddle her, kiss her and tell her every day how much he loves them more than anything overall he will be a loving father who will try to spend time with his child however you have to be careful that the child does not become unpleasant

8.5/10

I hope you like it (^-^)/❤️

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 34: If We Are to Be Lost

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.1k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

There was a time when you would have enjoyed the opportunity to sit with Karlach and Wyll again, but there is little joy to be had at the small table. The tavern is alive with the guttural hollering of infernal creatures, but somehow, the silence at the table seems to drown out the cacophony. Karlach leers at Astarion with an unconcealed sneer, and Wyll watches him judiciously as if he might sprout horns and leap across the table. Astarion shuffles food around his plate apathetically, seeming oblivious to their scrutiny. When his fingers brush against yours beneath the table, they tremble with an ever-present jitter that won’t seem to relent.

“This plan is batshit; you know that, yeah?” Karlach’s eyes barely shift to you when she speaks. “Cania is the Nine Hells nastiest icebox. This isn’t some heroic jaunt into the unknown. This is a death wish. You don’t come back from places like that. Not in one piece, anyway.”

Your fingers drum against the table. “I’m aware of the risks,” you counter quietly, barely able to keep your voice from showcasing your increasing frustration.

Neither of them knows what’s at stake or what you stand to lose, and Gods, are you ever sick of fucking losing. 

That perverted hum plays in the recesses of your mind, winding through your thoughts like a serpent. The notes are hollow, a fractured echo that ricochets off your skull and warps into a dissonant song that doesn’t belong to you yet has refused to abate since you opened your mind to Astarion.

The voices are the worst of it. They come in unrelenting waves, each more venomous than the last. Some are frantic whispers, warning of the time slipping away like the shadow of someone you love fading into nothingness. Others are scornful, mocking you with cruel laughter and urging you to surrender to despair. Then, there are the ones that foretell your doom—calm and detached, as though your demise is a foregone conclusion, a story already written in blood. “Are you though?” Karlach leans closer, her broad frame impinging on the distance you wish to keep between you. “From where I am sitting, it looks like you’re charging in blind, starved, and abysmally undersupplied. Cania’s not just cold; it’s... soul-crushing. The air freezes in your lungs, and your blood slows to a crawl. Even devils tread lightly there, Illyria. Fucking devils!” “I said I know,” you repeat, your voice coming out as a hiss between clenched teeth. “I can handle it.”

Karlach’s eyes narrow, and her full attention finally settles on you. “Mephistopheles is not just some run-of-the-mill devil. He’s a manipulator, a puppet master. He’ll twist your words, your thoughts—everything you are. And that’s before you even set foot on his icy doorstep. He’ll know every weakness, every doubt you’ve ever had, and he’ll use them against you. You think you’re ready for that?”

“Illyria, we’re not trying to undermine you,” Wyll adds gently. “You’ve been through more than most could ever endure, but Cania is not just another battlefield. Even if you survive, you might not come back the same.”

The hymn stirs, a creeping vine of frost that scrapes like metallic talons raking across every nerve. Your bones ache as if under duress, and your fingers dig into your thighs as you refocus on the conversation. “I appreciate your concern, both of you, but this is not your decision to make.” You assert as calmly as you can manage, but there is a sharpening of syllables that you can’t quite hide.

Karlach straightens, her cadence sharp with frustration. “We’re not saying this to piss you off—we’re trying to keep you alive! If you think you’re going to march into Cania and come out unscathed, you’re dreaming. What about Astarion?” She gestures toward him. “He’s not… Bloody hells, look at him, Illyria. He’s not exactly in top form right now, is he?”

Astarion’s head lifts at the mention of his name, with his brows pinched in a scowl. His anger drums across the bond like the beat of war drums, and with it, the song swells into a grotesque chorus that makes both of you wince. Before you can move to calm him, he thrusts himself upward with an awkward, jerky motion that does not match his usual elegance.

“Excuse me. It seems I need a moment before I do something... regrettable,” he snaps and strides away, disappearing between the hulking bodies of infernal creatures.

The control you’ve been trying to cling to splinters. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? That I don’t know the risks? You act as though I’m some naive child who doesn’t understand the danger, but you don’t have the slightest idea of what I’ve faced—of what I’m capable of.”

The chant crescendos into a chilling racket of strident riffs that scrape against the edges of your sanity. It’s an anthem of ice and corruption, of something ancient and hungry. You steady the breath you don’t need, forcing the rage back down.

“This isn’t about doubting you,” Wyll says firmly, his eyes still glued to where Astarion disappeared. “We care about you. You’re right—we don’t know everything you’ve faced, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to stand by and watch you throw yourself at death’s door. If you’re going to Cania, we’re going with you.” “Damn right, we are!” Karlach nods, crossing her arms as if daring you to argue. “If you’re hellbent on walking into a frozen deathtrap, then you’re stuck with us.”

The searing heat seems to slam into you all at once, boring through your skin and boiling the blood in your veins. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire and frozen simultaneously. You close your eyes and bite your tongue in a vain attempt to silence the maddening song, but it will not be quelled. 

“Do whatever you want, but stay out of my way,” you say with an icy finality.

Karlach and Wyll exchange uneasy glances, but neither pushes the matter further. You rise to find Astarion as the scratching warble perches at the brim of your rationality. It feels like ice is forming in the marrow of your bones, and the only saving grace is the lingering warmth of Astarion’s presence permeating the bond.

When you manage to zigzag your way through the rowdy crowd, the tavern door slams behind you, cutting off the buzz of conversation. The shift is stark—one moment, the chaotic noise surrounds you; the next, you’re plunged into the subdued murmur of the streets. You cast your eyes around quickly, but where you expected to see Astarion, there is no trace of him. A pit forms in your stomach. It’s not like him to leave you alone, especially not here. A dozen thoughts crowd your mind at once. Did Karlach’s confrontation push him too far? Is he spiralling again? Or worse, has something happened to him? The very notion of it sparks a fear so sharp it takes you by surprise. Your bond, the crooning murmur always at the back of your mind, feels oddly muted. You can sense him—somewhere—but it’s distant and vague, as though he’s withdrawn into himself. You break into a trot, winding down the labyrinthine streets of molten rock and jagged stone. Shadows dance and twist in the wavering red light. You mutter a curse under your breath, hands curling into fists as tension knots your shoulders. The strike of your boots on the uneven stone is devoured quickly by the heat-hazed air, and you wipe the sweat from your brow as you round a sharp corner. As if the Hells themselves are conspiring to test you, a figure steps into your path.

The creature is humanoid, though only in the loosest sense of the word. Its skin is an unsettling shade of mottled purple, veins of orange flickering beneath the surface like cracks in volcanic rock. A long, barbed tail sways idly behind it while it smiles with too many teeth that seem to glint like polished steel.

“Well, well,” it purrs, voice a slick, oily drawl. “What’s this? A wayward vampire wandering Abriymoch alone? You’re far from home.”

You stride forward without bothering to pause, with your focus fixed ahead. “Out of my way,” you order flatly.

It chuckles with a grating cadence. “Feisty. I like that. Surely, you can spare a moment for conversation. Or are you in such a rush to sink those little fangs of yours into some poor fool?”

Your shoulders stiffen as the being blocks your path once more, and your lips press into a thin, bloodless line. “I said, move.”

“What’s the rush, pretty thing? Stay a while, why don’t you? Do you taste as sharp as your tongue, little vampire?”

You growl low in your throat as your restraint begins to slip. “I am not interested in whatever foul proposition you think you’re making.”

“Don’t be like that.” It steps closer, claws tapping lightly against the metal plate of a cuirass. “You’ve got the look of someone who could use… company.”

The hymn rises, sharp and discordant, like shattering glass twisted into music, layered with whispers that writhe and wriggle beneath your skin. You shove past the creature, not sparing it a second glance. A clawed hand clamps down on your arm, hard enough to bruise, and yanks you back a step.

“You think you can dismiss me?” It snarls with spittle flying from its lips, and its molten eyes flare with a dangerous light. “You dare turn your back on me?”

A crescendo of glacial whispers and obscene laughter surges. It twists through your thoughts, feeding on your fury and the primal instinct that screams for blood. It claws at you with promises of violence and satisfaction, and you find yourself tempted to listen.

You yank your arm free. “If you touch me again, you will regret it,” you warn. 

The infernal being snorts, its grotesque lips curling into a mockery of a grin. “Threats won’t get you far in a place like this.”

Usually, you might measure your words and keep your composure, but everything inside feels taut, stretched too thin, and ready to snap.

“Is that so?” you say, your voice frigidly venomous. “Then, perhaps, I’ve underestimated how eager you are to lose your hand—or worse.”

The creature’s grin vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sneer. It straightens to its full height, towering over you. “You dare threaten me? In my domain?”

You don’t flinch. “You mistake my warning for a threat,” you say, stepping forward, closing the gap between you. The firelight flickers across your face, your eyes gleaming crimson. “But if you touch me again, I’ll be more than happy to show you the difference.”

“You’re out of your depth here, bloodsucker,” it hisses like water hitting heated metal.

It lunges, clawed hands swiping in a blur. Before they can find purchase, your fingers close around its wrist, and you hurl it backward with a strength you didn’t realize was bubbling beneath the surface. Your vision darkens at the edges, shadows devouring light as they creep inwards like the ripple of water. The pull at your mind grows stronger—not gentle like Astarion’s, but vicious and demanding. Your body feels detached, moving of its own accord. 

Sink deeper, it whispers, grating and perverse. The song warps through your mind, not just of ice now, but something primal—like the crack of breaking bones and the wet slap of flesh.

You want this fight. You want to feel powerful, to shed the feeling of frailty that clings to you like cobwebs. Fear, doubt, being at the mercy of others—it all feels insignificant compared to the crescendo swelling in your chest.

The creature snarls and lunges again, its claws swiping for your throat. Your reaction is immediate, instinctual, and far from restrained. You raise your hand, the air around you shimmering with heat as your anestral blood ignites. 

“Enough,” you bark, your timbre laced with a deep, draconic resonance.

A torrent of fire unleashes from your outstretched hand, the flames spiralling into the shape of a serpent as they roar toward your assailant. The creature cries out as the fire strikes, wrapping around its torso and sinking in like living, burning chains. It writhes and howls, but you don’t stop. You can’t. The pull grows stronger, and the flames grow brighter and hungrier.

The creature claws at the burning serpents constricting it, but its eyes meet yours, and what little confidence it had left crumbles. You feel the power flooding through you, demanding more—the song zeniths urging you to burn, to destroy, to take your place as something unstoppable.

Astarion’s voice cuts through the haze. “Illyria, stop!”

You barely register the sound of his boots skidding to a stop as he rounds the corner, his eyes darting between you and the creature writhing in your grasp. His gaze lingers on your face, his crimson eyes narrowing at the unsettling curve of your lips—a smile that doesn’t belong to you, one that reeks of something sinister.

The serpents of fire coil tighter, searing through flesh and bone, the scent of burning sulphur and ash thick in the air.

“Stop this,” Astarion commands, though there’s a waver in his voice. “You’ve made your point.”

His words barely graze the edges of your awareness. The voices in your head are deafening now, their hymn harmonizing with the creature’s screams. Each note fuels the tempest of power, roaring like an inferno desperate to consume everything in its path.

Astarion steps closer, his tone softer now. “This isn’t you. Whatever this... thing is, fight it. Come back to me.”

You hear him, but it feels like you’re underwater, drowning in the siren call of destruction. There’s a sharp tug at your psyche, a voice cutting through the chaos like a jagged blade.

Use it.

Your gaze flickers to Astarion at last, but he falters at what he sees in your eyes. He takes a tentative step forward, reaching for you, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice taut.

For a fleeting moment, the words burrow past the storm in your head. The weight of his presence—the bond that tethers the two of you—tries to pull you back, to ground you in something other than this spiralling madness.

But the power begs to be unleashed, and a crooked smile curls your lips. “No,” you state with finality.

The decision is made before you even realize it, a visceral impulse overriding all reason. The fire in your hand shifts, flickering violently before erupting into a searing white blaze. The serpents of flame twist into a single, raging inferno of Hellfire.

The howl reaches a piercing peak as the Hellfire engulfs it, the flames hungrily devouring flesh, bone, and soul. It burns so brightly that the edges of your vision blacken further. The air is filled with the crackling roar of the infernal blaze and the acrid scent of annihilation.

When you release your hold, only ash swirls in the air where the creature once stood, carried by an unnatural wind that chills you to your core despite the heat.

Your hand trembles, still outstretched, as the last ember of Hellfire fizzles out. For a moment, all that remains is an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint whisper of that twisted hymn, still lingering in the recesses of your mind.

“We have to leave. Now."

Astarion's voice cuts through the silence of their room. He doesn't wait for Illyria to respond—he's already moving, shoving whatever belongings he can grab into a bag, tossing clothes toward her with a hurried, desperate motion.

"Change. Quickly."

She doesn't move. 

Instead, she stands in the middle of the room, staring—at the floor, at her hands, at something unseen. There’s a strange quality to her stillness, as though she exists in another place entirely, just barely tethered to the present. Her hair slips over one shoulder as she tilts her head slightly, a slow, languid movement, her lips parting in the beginnings of some absentminded thought.

Astarion stills. His heart hammers against his ribs. He knows this look. Knows it intimately.

"Illyria?"

No response.

Fear slams into him. Not the fear of pursuit, not the fear of devils or retribution, but the deeper, more insidious terror of losing her—to this. To the song that has haunted him, that calls and claws and whispers in his mind, and now it’s inside her.

"What in the bloody Hells were you thinking?" His voice is tight, bordering on frantic. He steps closer, uncertain if he should touch her. "You burned someone with Hellfire, Illyria. Do you have any idea what you have just done? Everything down here would have felt that. Every infernal creature within a mile will be sniffing after you like hounds."

She almost laughs—a soft, breathy thing—wrong. "Doesn't it just feel so inevitable?" she murmurs.

His stomach twists. No, no, no, no.

He takes another step forward, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. "Inevitable?" he echoes, trying to reach her, pull her back. "Illyria, this isn’t you. You need to fight it. Do you hear me?"

Her gaze flickers like a candle sputtering in the wind. Her lips press together, and for a moment, he thinks she might return to herself—but then her eyes go distant again. She exhales in something almost like a death sigh, her fingers trailing absently over the sleeve of her coat as if fascinated by the texture.

Astarion clenches his jaw. "Darling, please," he tries again, softer now, barely above a whisper. "Come back to me."

She hums—an eerie, thoughtful sound—and finally looks at him, really looks at him. A flicker of recognition flashes across her face, fleeting but real, and he seizes on it.

"There you are," he breathes, relief curling around his words. "Now, we need to go. Get changed."

Her hands tighten into fists, shaking slightly at her sides. Astarion watches as she battles it, as she fights to surface from whatever dark abyss she’s slipping into. Just as quickly as it appeared, the flicker of recognition is gone. Her shoulders sag, her body swaying as though the weight of reality is simply too much.

Panic crashes over him. He cannot let her slip. He will not lose her to this.

Astarion crosses the final distance between them in one swift, decisive motion, his hands coming up to grasp her shoulders—not hard but firm enough to ground her.

"Illyria, look at me." His voice is low and steady, but there's urgency in it. “You are not lost. You are still you, and I need you to fight—do you understand? You must fight."

Her breath hitches, and she trembles beneath his touch, the warring conflict inside her. She is teetering on the edge, and he doesn’t know if she can pull herself back. He doesn’t know if he can pull her back.

But he has to try.

Because he cannot do this without her.

And he refuses—absolutely refuses—to lose her like this.

Panic coils tight in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs as he watches Illyria drift further from him, lost in something he cannot see but knows all too well. The song. That godsdamned song. He clenches his fists, resisting the urge to shake her again, to demand she look at him, really look at him, but she only sways in place, staring through him like he is nothing at all.

"My love," he begs, voice hoarse. "Please."

Nothing. Only a small, distant smile that does not belong to her. His thoughts race for a solution—for anything that will tether her back to reality. The realization strikes him—her touch.

When he had been drowning in the song’s call, when he had teetered on the edge of losing himself entirely, she had been the one to bring him back. Her hands, her kiss, and her presence had cut through the madness and reminded him who he was.

But will it work for her?

He hesitates, his hands twitching at his sides, but desperation quickly strangles doubt.

His hands capture her face, tilting it toward him. Her skin is cold beneath his fingers, her pupils wide, unfocused, lost. He does not give himself time to think or second-guess. He presses his lips to hers, pouring every ounce of fear, of love, of raw devotion into the kiss. It is not gentle, not careful. It is desperate, aching. A plea wrapped in the only thing he has left to offer her.

At first, she is motionless, as if he is kissing a statue. She exhales a hitching, startled rattle of breath, and for a moment, she tries to pull away. Her hands press weakly against his chest, but then her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clinging. Her lips move against his, hesitant, but there. Present. Hers.

Astarion feels her return to herself piece by piece, the tension in her body shifting. He deepens the kiss in turn, unable to help himself, his relief bleeding into something else—something heady and frantic and entirely consuming.

A small gasp escapes her, and it undoes him. His hands slide from her face, one tangling into her hair, the other pulling her flush against him. She is here; she is his, and he will not let her slip away again.

Illyria answers his fervour with her own, her hands grasping at him now, desperate and wanting. She pulls at his shirt, yanking the fabric aside as if it is the only thing keeping her from him. He groans into her mouth, his fingers already working to strip her down just as frantically.

There is no patience, no slow undressing. It is a raw, all-consuming need—a hunger not just for touch but for reassurance that they are still here, still them.

Her name is a breath on his lips, a prayer, a plea. He lifts her with ease, guiding her back toward the bed, never breaking contact, never letting go. As she pulls him down with her, fingers fisting in his hair, he knows that tonight, at least, they will hold onto each other as if it is the only thing keeping them tethered to this world.

In a way, it is.

Astarion's hands roam over Illyria's body with a fierce possessiveness, mapping every curve, every hollow, as if to reassure himself that she is truly here, truly his. His touch is reverent, worshipful, but there is an edge of desperation to it, a wildness born of the terror of almost losing her.

She is slipping.

And so is he.

Astarion can feel it in the way her breath moves like a ghost between them, in the way her eyes see something distant—something, not him. It is a sensation he knows too well, this slow unmooring, this drowning in something vast and unknowable.

Drifting. Forgetting. Losing pieces of himself, of time, of her. The edges of his memories fray like old parchment, curling, blackening, and vanishing in the heat of the power that devours him from within. He does not know what he does when he is lost. He does not know how much of him will remain when the song is finished with him.

And now she is backsliding, too.

Her hands are just as frantic, tugging at his hair, raking down his back, urging him closer, always closer. He trails open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse point, eliciting a gasp that sends fire racing through his veins.

He complies with a growl, pressing her into the mattress with the weight of his body, the heat of his skin searing against hers. There is no space between them, no room for anything but the slide of flesh against flesh and the mingling of breath.

His mouth finds hers again, the kiss deep and demanding, his tongue delving past her lips to tangle with hers. A groan tears from his throat as he feels her grind against his aching hardness.

The scent of her arousal is heady and intoxicating, driving him to the brink of madness. With a snarl, he reaches between their bodies, his fingers delving into her dripping folds, stroking and teasing until she is writhing beneath him, mewling with need.

"Please, Astarion," she gasps, her hips bucking shamelessly into his touch. "I need you.”

They don’t have time for this. The city will be hunting them. Devils will be tearing apart the streets, sniffing for the scent of Hellfire. The only sane thing to do is to run, to gather their things, to move. But sanity is a fragile thing in the face of certainty. They are walking into death, into ice, into the unknown, and if this is the last moment he will have with her, then he will not let it pass.

His hips rock forward, gliding his engorged length between her folds. He wants nothing more than to drag this precious moment out, to wallow in it, to lose himself in her for hours, but time… time is something the fates have not gifted them with.

“Look at me,” he instructs gently as he guides himself to her entrance and stills momentarily. Before he can go any further, he must know it is her. Her eyes open slowly, and vivid, cracked crimson meets his, pupils blown wide. Her legs wrap around him, urging him forward, and he finally pushes in, sinking to the hilt inside her molten core. Her walls flutter and grip him like a velvet vice, impossibly tight, and he fears for a second that he might spend himself then and there. His jaw clenches with effort to hold back, determined to make this last, feeling her pleasure before seeking his release. The pace he sets is frantic, wild, and desperate, pistoning into her with deep, powerful strokes that have her whimpering a litany of praises. 

Astarion loses himself in the slick slide of their joining, in the exquisite friction of her tight, wet heat engulfing his throbbing cock. The world falls away until there is only this—the two of them, bodies and souls entwined, reaching for that shining peak together.

The urgency between them is more than desire—it is survival, it is worship, it is the frantic prayer of two souls who know they are already damned but cannot bear to face damnation alone. He moves as though he can brand himself into her, as though he can sink into her body deep enough to leave something indelible, something that even time and blood and ruin cannot take from him.

"Illyria," he groans, his voice gravelly with lust and emotion. "My heart, my love…"

The words pour out of him—endearments and promises—as he drives into her relentlessly. His mouth maps every inch of her skin he can reach, licking, nipping, and sucking, paying homage to her with lips, tongue, and teeth. He wants to devour her, to crawl inside her, and never leave.

Sliding a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, he finds the swollen pearl at the apex of her thighs. He circles it with his thumb, timing the movement with his thrusts, and is rewarded with a keening cry as Illyria writhes, her body bowing off the bed.

"That's it, my love," he coaxes in a husky, dark purr. "Let go for me. Come undone on my cock.”

She reaches up, tangling her fingers in his hair and bringing his lips to hers. Desperation makes the kiss fierce, reckless, a battle all on its own. He doesn’t know if he is dragging her back or simply following her down, but either way, he clings to her like she is the last tether to something real. 

He drinks her in, tastes her, not softly but hungrily, because he needs to memorize this—to sear this moment into his mind so that, if he forgets everything else, if he loses himself, at least some part of him will remember this.

Her slick walls flutter and clench around him as she climbs higher and higher. Illyria breaks the kiss, head thrashing on the pillow, her breasts heaving with each panting breath, the pert peaks begging for his mouth. He leans down to take one into his mouth, grazing the sensitive bud with his fangs, and she shatters with a ragged scream.

Her sex clamps down on him as rapture overtakes her, milking his cock with rhythmic pulses. The sensation is exquisite, almost too much to bear, and Astarion has to grit his teeth against the urge to let go and join her in bliss. He rides out her climax, continuing to thrust through the rippling aftershocks, prolonging her pleasure for as long as possible.

A swell of emotion tightens his throat—fierce love and aching tenderness, shot through with feral possessiveness. This incredible woman chose him, loves him despite the monster he fears lurks beneath his skin. He would slay armies, burn cities, and shatter worlds to keep her safe.

But the fear lingers, curling at the edges of every touch. If he forgets himself too much, will he find his way back? Will she?

His fingers trace the curve of her throat, feeling the absence of a heartbeat beneath her pale skin, and something in him twists. You are already dead, something cruel whispers in his mind. So what does it matter?

But he knows why it matters.

Because right now, she is gasping his name like it is the only one she remembers. Right now, she is tangled around him, grounding him, chasing away the song in his mind with the sound of her voice. 

Right now, she is his.

And he is hers.

He does not know if he will live to see another night.

But this, at least—this, he will take with him into oblivion.

As she slowly descends from her peak, he gentles his movements; his strokes become long and languid, savouring the feel of her walls still quivering around his thick girth. Her eyes blink open, gleaming with a sated afterglow. Her lips curve in a soft, dreamy smile as she reaches up to caress his face, fingertips tracing his sharp cheekbones. 

"I love you," she murmurs.

Astarion turns his head to press fervent kisses into Illyria's palm, his crimson eyes burning with adoration and hunger. "I love you too, my darling.”

There is no future.

Not for them. Not really.

He knows it in the way the air around them crackles with inevitability, in the way blood and ash and ruin have always been their bedfellows. They are walking corpses, dead before the final blow is ever struck, and yet—gods, yet—when she looks at him, it is the only time he feels alive.

He kisses her again—fierce, aching, desperate. Like she is the last ember in the dark, and if he does not hold her tight enough, she will go out. 

Astarion groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest. His hips start to move again, slowly withdrawing until just the tip remains in her before sliding back in with a long, deep thrust. He sets a steady, powerful tempo, the thick ridge of his cockhead stroking that secret spot inside her. 

She moans into his mouth, and it is not enough.

It will never be enough. His hands roam over her, grasping and pulling as if he can make a home for himself inside her. She is so tight, velvety soft, and dripping around him. Her breath hitches, her body arcing beneath him, and Astarion feels something like a sob rise in his throat. He presses his lips to her shoulder, the shell of her ear, anywhere he can reach, as if he can chase away the ghosts that linger in the spaces between them.

But the ghosts are always there.

He has lost so much already. Too many years. Too many selves. He is slipping through his fingers, dissolving into something he cannot control, and the only thing keeping him tethered to this world is her.

Astarion rises on his knees, gripping Illyria's hips as he drives into her slick, grasping sex with relentless purpose. His eyes blaze scarlet, lit with an inner inferno as he stares down at where their bodies are joined, transfixed by the erotic sight of his shaft disappearing into her. 

She mewls, lost to the exquisite sensations radiating from her core as Astarion drives in and out, his heavy balls slapping against her ass with each powerful thrust. He can feel every ridge and vein of his engorged length dragging along her fluttering walls. It’s almost too much, too good, and he lets his eyes fall shut against the pleasure radiating up his spine.

He shifts the angle of his hips, and she whines as he hits that perfect spot. Her toes curl, and her thighs start to tremble uncontrollably as her orgasm builds, cresting higher and higher until she comes with a breathless cry.

Astarion is not sure when he lost control—only that it is long, long gone.

He is usually measured, composed even at the height of indulgence. He has spent centuries perfecting the art of seduction, wielding pleasure like a blade, keeping himself just a breath removed from the edge.

But this—her—shatters him. Every gasp, every arch of her body, every delicious, aching sound she makes unspools him thread by thread until he is nothing but sensation, nothing but need.

He does not try to hold it back.

He cannot.

With a low growl, he hooks Illyria's legs over his shoulders, changing the angle of his thrusts to plunge even deeper. "Illyria," he pants. ”My Illyria.”

A devastating thrust punctuates each word, and he loses himself in the divine ecstasy. Sweat mists his skin as his muscles flex and strain, pouring all his desire, all his desperation into this. Gods, he is starving for her. It is not the hunger of his kind—not blood, not sustenance—but something deeper, something that gnaws at him from the inside out. He needs her hands on him, her body pressed close, the proof that she is still here, still his, still Illyria.

Every moment, every movement, every breath she gives him sends him spiralling higher, stripping away whatever remains of his restraint. He does not care. If he drowns, let it be in the sound of her voice, in the way she gasps his name like a prayer, in the way she clings to him as if she needs him just as desperately.

Astarion's climax barrels towards him like an unstoppable force, building with each slick glide into Illyria's exquisite heat. Her walls ripple around his aching cock, drawing him deeper, gripping him tighter. The coil of pleasure at the base of his spine winds tighter and tighter until it feels like his entire being is focused on where they are joined, on the sheer ecstasy of moving inside her.

There is no thought now, no past, no future.

Only this.

His head falls forward, lips parting around a moan he does not try to stifle. Gods, her.

The pleasure is unbearable, devastating, tearing through him like a live wire. He is losing himself in her, in this moment, in the sheer ecstasy of it.

And he wants to be lost.

Because if he must slip away into oblivion, then let it be like this.

With her.

Always her.

"Astarion!" she whimpers, nails digging into his thigh. "I'm so close. Come with me, please!”

He can feel himself breaking. Every inch of her, every desperate sound from her lips, every slow, burning drag of her body against his is too much—and yet, not enough.

It will never be enough.

He grips her tighter, as if he can hold onto this moment, hold onto her—as if she might slip through his fingers like everything else. She is fire beneath his hands, consuming him whole, and he welcomes it. If he must burn, let it be in her.

She rolls her hips, and his head tips back with a moan he cannot stop, cannot even think to stop. There is nothing in the world but her, and he is utterly, helplessly lost. She gasps, kiss-bruised lips part around keening cries of bliss, and he shatters.

Because it is not just pleasure that rushes through him, not just the unbearable ecstasy of it—

It is relief.

"Illyria!" he shouts. 

With a roar of ecstasy, Astarion surrenders to the tidal wave of rapture crashing over him. His cock throbs and pulses as he spills himself deep inside her. Jet after jet of his seed coats her quivering walls as her climax detonates, her velvet heat clenching around him rhythmically, milking every last drop.

He collapses onto her, their sweat-slicked bodies still intimately joined. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her intoxicating scent as aftershocks of pleasure course through him. His hands tremble as they move over her skin as if his body remembers what his mind refuses to acknowledge—how many times he has reached for her like this, how many times he has needed her like this.

She is the only thing that has ever felt certain. 

For a man who has lived centuries, he has never known time to move so fast. Each second slips away too quickly, and he is greedy for them—wants to stretch them out, savour them, hold them between his teeth, and devour them. She is a prayer he does not deserve to speak. A salvation he cannot believe in, and yet when she gasps beneath him, when her fingers tighten against his skin when she whispers his name like it is something holy.

He almost believes. 

He presses his forehead against hers, breathless, trembling, breaking. The world is waiting for them, hungry and merciless.

But for now—for just this moment—he lets himself have her.

Because tomorrow, he does not know if he will still exist to love her.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.

Small Notes: - This chapter was so difficult to write. My heart breaks for both of them.

[justanotherblonde]

a jayvik thought - first meeting

so ever since i saw some fanart of them playing together as kids with the toy boat, i wondered... how did it all start? what was the first iteration of Jayce and Viktor's relationship? how did Viktor become a mage, and why did they try so many times, in so many universes, to fix what was broken?

and it got me thinking...

what if the first time, they met as children? what if they were childhood friends, 发小 faxiao (the kind of childhood friends that may or may not marry each other when they grow up)?

how they met, i can't say just yet. I'm not all that clear on where Jayce's family is based - do the Talises manufacture their hammers in Piltover, or are they from somewhere else? i don't know yet, but if anyone has any lore to share with me, please do!

but they met, and they formed a bond. whether it was that they played together on a daily basis, or it was one chance meeting, who can say. but they formed a bond.

and then, Ximena and Jayce leave on a journey.

and they don't return.

Jayce and his mother died in that snowstorm that first time. there was no one there to save them.

and Viktor learns of this.

his life's work from that moment forward is to find a way to get Jayce back.

he awakens his mage powers. he learns whatever secret it was that Ekko and Heimerdinger discover that allows him to travel through space and time and universes.

and when he finally succeeds, and he makes it back to that world, that place where Jayce is still alive, he knows that the first thing he must do is make sure Jayce and young Viktor do not meet. he knows that if he fails, and Jayce dies again, he would rather spare his younger self the pain of having to feel that loss again.

so that's how it starts. they do not meet as children this time, or ever again. Jayce and his mother go on that journey. and this time, they live.

and thus begins Jayce's obsession with the arcane.

mage-Viktor watches in fascination and horror as this boy he loved--loves--realises all the potential Viktor had seen in him from the start. he grows into an ambitious and capable young man...

and destroys the world.

"i can fix this," mage-Viktor mutters to himself.

so he tries again.

and again.

and again...

if you've watched the show, you know the rest.

thoughts?

[gingerteafairy]

𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 + 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞

tate langdon – physical touch and quality time

Even when you were just getting to know each other, random touches were common with Tate. He just loves feeling close to you—whether it’s holding your hand, fixing your hair, resting his head on your shoulder, or giving you a hug. His favorite thing to do is cuddle up while watching a movie or stay wrapped up together while playing games. No matter what you’re doing, he just wants to be touching you. When he feels extra needy, he just shows up by your side, even if you're busy with something: "Positive education. Wanna cuddle now or when you finish? You win in both options."

kit walker – physical touch, acts of service, and gifts

Kit covers a lot of love languages, but these are the core ones. As a hardworking man, he likes to save money to buy you something special you mentioned wanting. Even when he’s exhausted, helping you with tasks makes him feel good, and he appreciates when you return the favor whenever you can. Physical touch is crucial—it’s how he reconnects with you after a long day. Sometimes, he just wants to hold you in silence or listen to you talk. "My day? Boring, just work. How about yours? You did somethin' new today?"

frat!kyle – quality time and acts of service

Being a dedicated student, Kyle’s idea of a date is often a study session together. He’s always happy to help with a tough assignment, and you’d do the same for him with your knowledge. If he had to be away for a trip or exams, he’d constantly text to ask "how you’re doing", "how your day’s going", "did you have your breakfast today?" In his free time, he’d join you at parties or stay home to hang out. He’d never let you wash the dishes—it was his way of thanking you for spending time with him. "You can do something for me later, okay?"

zombie!kyle – physical touch and words of affirmation

At first, Kyle wouldn’t quite know how to express what he felt, but he’d quickly fall in love with giving you bear hugs. Kisses all over your face would become common, but when you did the same to him, it felt extra special. Over time, he’d learn to communicate his feelings, blurting out things like, “You’re really nice,” “I love being with you,” or “Can I have a hug?” at random moments during the day.

jimmy darling – physical touch and acts of service

At first, Jimmy might be hesitant to touch you, worried you’d find his hands strange. But once he got past that, it was like his fingerprints had super glue for you. His favorite pastimes would be giving you massages, hugging, playing with your hair, or holding hands as you walked around—feeling bold and accepted. He’d also take any time spent fixing up the trailer, house, or meals with you very seriously. Can't go out without you. "Wanna join me for a ride after cleaning? I was thinking about buying something for the show and having some ice cream. It's freaking hot today."

james patrick march – words of affirmation and quality time

James has no filter when it comes to compliments—they’re grand and meaningful. Anytime you did something extraordinary, he wouldn’t hesitate to shower you with over-the-top praise like, “Darling, that’s fabulous, stupendous, bravo!” or “Indeed, my muse, how radiant my queen is today.” He adores spending time with you, especially if you join in on his strange hobbies. If you weren’t into hunting, he’d settle for a dinner date or a tour of the hotel, sharing its secrets and stories about its residents.

kai anderson – words of affirmation and quality time

Although physical touch is a constant in Kai’s life, he expresses his emotions best through words. Rare as they may be, his compliments are always intentional—"you're very intelligent, you know that?", or even changes in your hair or appearance "liked what you did in your hair, looks healthier". Quality time is another strong expression for him—whether watching movies, talking about his plans, or venting about how the world is falling apart and how you seem like the only one sane person next to him.

austin sommers – words of affirmation, physical touch and quality time

As a writer, Austin is most comfortable expressing himself with words. Though he enjoys physical affection, he values time together even more. Of course he loves to bury his head on your neck and nuzzle his nose after love bites, but there's something special about spending time with you doing nothing. He’d take breaks from writing just to go on walks with you, using the excuse that he needed inspiration when, in reality, he just wanted an excuse to admire you a little longer. "You wanna go back home? Nooo, I just had a new idea in my mind. Let's keep it for a while, hm?"