#now its magnetic you you you you you you you you

[tomriddleswhcre]

| Dark Tendrils of Obsession

warnings: MDNI, characters are 18+, manipulation, toxic relationship.

words: 3,757

The library of Hogwarts was a sanctuary for the restless. Silent, endless shelves of books stretched to the horizon, offering knowledge to those who sought it. It was here that you first felt the weight of his gaze.

Tom Riddle sat a few tables away, his dark eyes never quite leaving you. There was an elegance to him, a sharpness in his posture, and a magnetic pull in his quiet demeanor. He was polite at first. Courteous, even. His smile, restrained yet charming, made you feel special in a way that was both intoxicating and unsettling.

“Reading about alchemy, are you?” His voice was velvet, smooth enough to slide under your skin.

You nodded, too startled to respond immediately. “Yes, just... curious about the theories.”

“You’re different from the others,” he said, leaning closer. “They’re shallow, concerned only with frivolous pursuits. But you—” his eyes locked onto yours—“you have depth.”

From that moment, he was always around. Offering help with your studies, sitting next to you during meals, escorting you through the dimly lit halls. At first, you appreciated his company. He was brilliant, charming, and so utterly captivating that it felt impossible to resist his pull.

But then, the cracks began to show.

Tom’s affection turned possessive. He didn’t like you spending time with your friends, brushing off your protests with a quiet, “They don’t understand you like I do.”

When you mentioned a friend from another house in passing, his smile faltered. “Why waste your time with someone so... beneath you?”

One evening, you found yourself cornered in the library. Tom’s usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by an intensity that left you breathless.

“I’ve seen the way they look at you,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Do you think they care about you? That they’ll ever truly see you for who you are?”

“Tom, you’re overreacting,” you said, trying to step back, but his hand caught your wrist, holding you in place.

“I’m the only one who truly understands you,” he insisted, his grip tightening. “The only one who ever will.”

As the days turned into weeks, Tom’s influence over your life became suffocating. Your friends began to distance themselves, confused by your increasingly erratic behavior. Every time you tried to push back against Tom, he would find a way to twist the narrative, leaving you questioning your own sanity.

“You’re imagining things,” he said one night, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I only want what’s best for you. Why can’t you see that?”

His words burrowed into your mind, planting seeds of doubt. The world felt smaller, darker, and the only constant was Tom. He was always there, watching, waiting, his presence both a comfort and a torment.

One evening, after yet another fight, you found yourself in the Astronomy Tower, the wind whipping around you as you tried to catch your breath. The weight of his love, his obsession, was too much to bear.

“Thinking of escaping me?” Tom’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

You spun around to see him standing there, his eyes alight with something dangerous.

“Tom, I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“You can’t leave me,” he said, stepping closer. “You belong to me.”

There was a madness in his eyes now, a fire that consumed everything in its path. And yet, there was also a tenderness, a desperation that made your heart ache.

“I’m the only one who can save you,” he said, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “The only one who will ever love you this much.”

In the end, you couldn’t fight him. His love was too powerful, too overwhelming. It wrapped around you like a vice, crushing and consuming until there was nothing left of the person you once were.

But as you fell deeper into his embrace, a part of you wondered if this was what love was meant to feel like—devastating, all-encompassing, and utterly inescapable.

And Tom, his lips brushing against your ear, whispered the words that sealed your fate. “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you away from me.”

Tom’s touch lingered, his fingers grazing your cheek with a gentleness that belied the ferocity in his eyes. The stars above bore witness to the storm between you—a clash of your desperate need for freedom and his relentless obsession.

“You don’t have to fight this,” he murmured, his voice soft now, almost hypnotic. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I would give you the world, but you have to let me. You have to trust me.”

You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his presence. Your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch even as your mind screamed for distance. His hand slid to your neck, the pad of his thumb brushing your pulse.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Tom’s voice dropped lower, seductive and commanding. “This connection between us... it’s undeniable.”

Before you could protest, his lips captured yours. The kiss was anything but gentle—desperate, possessive, consuming. It was as though he was trying to claim every part of you, to mark you as his in a way that no one could ever undo.

The weeks that followed blurred into a haze of stolen moments and forbidden touches. Tom’s obsession seeped into every corner of your life, his presence a constant shadow. But beneath his calculated control lay a smoldering passion that ignited every time you were alone together.

One night, he cornered you in an empty corridor, his dark eyes burning with a fire that made your knees weak.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “You’re in my mind, my veins... you’ve consumed me.”

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, the air crackling with tension as he pressed you against the cold stone wall.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his lips brushing against your jaw. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I...” The words stuck in your throat, your mind battling against the pull of his intensity. But when his lips trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, a moan escaped before you could stop it.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

It wasn’t long before his desire for control extended beyond your emotions. He wanted all of you—your body, your soul, your very essence. And when he took you to the Room of Requirement, its walls shifted to reflect his dark desires: rich, crimson drapes, flickering candlelight, and a bed that seemed to beckon you into its velvet embrace.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Tom asked, his hands slipping under your robes, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His lips found yours again, softer this time but no less insistent.

As his hands explored your body, his whispers became more fervent, his love both a worship and a torment. He touched you like he was afraid you might disappear, every caress a promise that you were his and his alone.

When he finally laid you down, his gaze bore into yours, an intensity there that made your heart race. “You’re mine,” he repeated, the words a dark oath. “Every part of you belongs to me.”

Tom’s obsession bled into every intimate moment, his need for you growing darker and more insatiable. He didn’t just want your love; he wanted your submission, your surrender. And as much as you fought against him, there was a part of you that found solace in his embrace, in the way he made you feel like the center of his universe.

But beneath the passion, there was always the shadow of his control. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a reminder that you were his—not because you chose to be, but because he had willed it so.

And as he held you close, his lips tracing patterns over your skin, you realized that escape was no longer an option. You were bound to him, caught in the dark, inescapable web of his love.

Tom’s obsession had become your prison, but you weren’t the same timid figure you once were. Something within you stirred—a fire forged from the ashes of his suffocating love. You began to play his game, to lean into his desires and make him believe he had won.

It started with the smallest acts of defiance cloaked in submission. The way your fingers lingered on his collar when you adjusted it for him, the way your lips brushed his ear when you whispered. You learned how to wield his obsession, turning it into a weapon.

One night, in the privacy of the Room of Requirement, you made your boldest move yet. The room had shifted into a lavish chamber, the flickering firelight casting shadows on Tom’s sharp features. He sat in an armchair, his posture commanding, his dark eyes watching your every move.

You stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. His gaze darkened as you climbed onto his lap, straddling him.

“You think you own me, Tom,” you whispered, your fingers tracing his jaw. “But maybe I’ve let you.”

His lips curled into a smirk, his hands resting on your waist. “You belong to me. You always have.”

Your hands slid to his shoulders, then his chest, fingers brushing against the faint pulse at his throat. His breath hitched as your lips found his neck, kissing and biting just enough to make him groan.

“You’re intoxicating,” he murmured, his voice unsteady for the first time.

You tilted his chin up with your fingers, your lips ghosting over his. “Then let me intoxicate you.”

As he surrendered to your touch, his usual vigilance wavered. His hands gripped your hips, his focus entirely consumed by you. It was then, as his head tilted back and his eyes fluttered shut, that you made your move.

Your hand slid to your wand, hidden beneath the folds of your robe. Summoning every ounce of courage and precision, you pressed it to his temple.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of triumph and regret. His eyes flew open, confusion flashing across his face just as you murmured the incantation.

“Obliviate.”

Months Later

Freedom tasted sweet, though it was laced with an undercurrent of fear. Tom Riddle, once your captor in every sense, now passed you in the halls with an air of detached curiosity. His memory of you—the obsession, the intimacy, the darkness—was gone.

At first, you didn’t believe it. You expected him to lash out, to corner you and demand answers. But days turned into weeks, then months, and Tom remained oblivious.

You began to rebuild your life. Friends returned, laughter felt genuine again, and the oppressive weight of his presence faded. But a part of you never truly relaxed. You knew that if Tom ever remembered, his wrath would be unstoppable.

It happened one day in the library. Tom sat alone, his fingers skimming a page of a book as his expression darkened. A flicker of something familiar crossed his face—a spark of recognition, of understanding.

Memories came rushing back like a tidal wave, each one sharper than the last. The feel of your body against his, the fire in your eyes, the way you whispered his name—and the betrayal.

The anger boiled within him, but he didn’t act immediately. Instead, he watched, waited, planned.

It was late at night when he found you sneaking through the halls. The moonlight streamed through the stained glass, casting patterns on the stone floor as you moved silently, clutching a book.

“Out past curfew, are we?” His voice was low and taunting, the sound freezing you in place.

You turned slowly, your heart racing as you saw him standing there, his Prefect badge glinting in the dim light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something dangerous.

“I—was just returning this,” you stammered, holding up the book as if it would shield you from him.

Tom’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Breaking the rules, are we? That’s a detention, I’m afraid.”

Before you could protest, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist. His touch was firm but not painful, his grip unrelenting as he led you through the dark halls.

“Tom, I can explain,” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp look.

“Oh, you’ll explain, alright,” he said, his tone dripping with menace. “You’ll explain everything.”

He brought you to a small, hidden room—a Prefect’s storage room rarely used. The door shut with a thud, and the silence that followed was deafening.

“I remember,” he said simply, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed his fury. “I remember everything.”

You took a step back, but he advanced, backing you against the wall.

“You thought you could erase me? Take what was mine and walk away unscathed?” His voice was dangerously low, his hand bracing against the wall beside your head.

“Tom, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I had no choice—”

“You had every choice,” he snapped, his other hand gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. “And you chose to betray me.”

His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, his voice a mix of anger and something darker. “But you didn’t account for one thing: I always get what I want. Always.”

His hands found your wrists, pinning them above your head as he leaned closer. “Do you know what I want now?”

Tom’s grip on your wrists tightened, his face mere inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin, yet the fire in his eyes chilled you to your core.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” His voice was a low growl, dangerous and laced with venom. “Erasing my memories, taking away what’s mine. Do you think that could ever stop me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his lips crashed against yours. It wasn’t a kiss born of love or tenderness; it was fury incarnate. His mouth moved against yours with bruising force, his hands sliding to your waist, pinning you against the cold wall as though he wanted to imprint himself onto your very soul.

Your heart raced as your mind warred with your body. His touch was fire, scorching and unyielding, and yet some traitorous part of you leaned into him, matching his intensity.

Tom pulled back suddenly, leaving you gasping for air. A smirk curled his lips as he studied your dazed expression. “Pathetic,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mockery.

He stepped back, smoothing his hair as though the encounter hadn’t affected him in the slightest. “You’ll learn, in time, not to cross me. And when you do, you’ll beg for my forgiveness.”

With that, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving you alone, trembling with a mix of anger, fear, and confusion.

True to his word, Tom made your life a living hell. He was calculated in his cruelty, never overt enough to be caught but always precise in his attacks.

Your friends began to distance themselves, their once-warm smiles replaced by wary glances. Whispers followed you wherever you went, rumors planted by Tom’s silver tongue. Professors scolded you for assignments that mysteriously went missing, and your once-perfect quillwork was replaced by jagged, ink-stained parchment.

Every glance from him in the corridors felt like a blade to the chest. His smirk grew wider with each passing day, as if he was savoring your descent into isolation.

By the time you reached your breaking point, you felt like a shadow of yourself. That night, driven by desperation and rage, you stormed into the Prefect’s dormitory, your fists trembling at your sides.

The door slammed open, and there he was. Tom Riddle sat on his bed, shirtless, his pale skin glowing in the candlelight. A book rested in his hands, though his gaze lifted lazily to meet yours. A knowing smirk played on his lips, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah, here she is,” he drawled, closing the book with deliberate care. “The little rebel finally comes crawling back.”

“Stop it!” you shouted, your voice cracking. “You’ve done enough, Tom! Please—just leave me alone!”

He raised an eyebrow, setting the book aside as he leaned back against the headboard. “Leave you alone?” he echoed, mockery dripping from every word. “You didn’t seem to mind my attention before.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you dropped to your knees, the weight of everything too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, the words trembling on your lips. “I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have erased your memories.”

Tom stood, his tall frame towering over you as he approached. The smirk on his face widened as he looked down at your tear-streaked face.

“Oh, you’re sorry now?” he said, his voice low and mocking. “And what, exactly, are you sorry for? For betraying me? For thinking you could escape me? Or for underestimating just how much I could destroy you?”

Your sobs grew louder, and you shook your head. “I’ll do anything,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Just stop... please.”

Tom crouched in front of you, his hand gripping your chin to tilt your face up to meet his. His dark eyes burned with satisfaction, a predator reveling in the surrender of his prey.

“Anything?” he repeated, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his thumb brushed your lower lip.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice soft but deadly. “You shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have crossed me. And now you’re here, on your knees, begging me to forgive you.”

He straightened, his hand sliding into your hair. The motion was firm but not painful, his fingers tangling in your locks as he pulled your face closer to his waist.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mockery, “if I gave you the chance... would you dare to do it again?”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks as his grip tightened.

“Good,” he said, his smirk widening. “Because I can promise you this—you’ll regret what you did for the rest of your life.”

Tom’s smirk deepened as he held you there, his grip firm but deliberate. The tension in the room was suffocating, his presence overwhelming. You felt his eyes boring into you, watching your every move, every tremble of your body beneath his power.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with disdain. “The once defiant little thing, so bold, so eager to stand against me. And now?” He tilted your head slightly, his fingers tightening in your hair. “You’re exactly where you belong—on your knees, apologizing like the pathetic creature you are.”

Your lips quivered as you tried to speak, to muster any kind of retort, but the words failed you.

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a finger to your lips. “Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

He pulled you back slightly, forcing you to look up at him. His expression was unreadable now, a dangerous mix of triumph and something darker, something almost tender.

“You said you’d do anything to make this right,” he said, his thumb brushing your cheek. “But you can’t undo the damage you’ve caused. You can’t undo the months I lost—the nights I spent consumed by thoughts of you, not understanding why I felt so... incomplete.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice cracking.

His hand slid to your jaw, gripping it firmly as he leaned closer. “I don’t think you understand what sorry means,” he said, his breath ghosting over your lips. “But don’t worry—I’ll teach you.”

He straightened abruptly, releasing you and stepping back. His smirk returned as he crossed his arms, watching you struggle to compose yourself.

“Stand up,” he commanded.

You hesitated, your legs trembling as you pushed yourself to your feet.

“Good,” he said, his tone approving. “Now, take a good look around this room. Do you know what it represents?”

You shook your head, unsure of where he was going.

“This,” he gestured to the dark, intimate space, “is where you’ll come when you need reminding of who you belong to. Of who you owe everything to.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Don’t think for a second that this is over,” he continued, his voice growing softer, more dangerous. “You’ve unleashed something in me, something that won’t stop until I’ve had my revenge. But I’m not in a hurry.”

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against your arm, making you flinch.

“No,” he murmured, his lips inches from your ear. “I’m going to take my time. I’m going to make you regret what you did in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Tom didn’t let up. His torment became more personal, more intimate. He would appear at the most unexpected times, his voice soft and mocking as he reminded you of your place. He continued to twist the people around you, isolating you further, but now he did it with a calculated cruelty, ensuring that you felt his presence even when he wasn’t there.

And yet, there were moments where his anger seemed to waver, replaced by something almost... longing. Late at night, when he cornered you in an empty corridor or brushed against you in the library, his touch would linger, his gaze softening for the briefest of moments.

You hated yourself for noticing. Hated yourself more for the way your body betrayed you, responding to his closeness despite everything he’d done.

One night, after weeks of torment, you found yourself summoned to the same secluded room where this all began. Tom was waiting, his expression unreadable as he gestured for you to sit.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone deceptively calm. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh on you. Perhaps I should offer you a chance to redeem yourself.”

You frowned, unsure of his intentions. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Prove to me that you’ve learned your lesson. That you understand what it means to be mine.”

Your heart sank as you realized what he was asking.

“And if I refuse?” you whispered.

His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, you won’t refuse. Because you know what’s waiting for you if you do.”

Whew, this one took me quite a while to finish! Hope you enjoyed that manipulative mf, Tom—hehehe.

Your likes and reblogs mean the world to me—thank you so much! Love you!

devider from @cyberangel-graphics :>

[piastrisun]

warming up to love.

pairings: franco colapinto + fem reader.

summary: beneath the falling snow, the warmth of a shared moment transforms a casual connection into something unforgettable.

genre: fluff.⠀word count: 3.6k.⠀ warning: none.

notes: i love writing long stuff about franco cause we know he’s a very talkative guy and would pull a before sunrise any day. this kinda made me wanna fall in love.

“oh, the weather outside is frightful / but the fire is so delightful / and since we've no place to go / let it snow.”

the christmas party hums with a mellow energy as the night winds down. it’s a familiar scene—mutual friends scattered across the house, the remnants of shared laughter echoing softly. you hadn’t planned to come this year; after all, these gatherings had long been a minefield of awkward encounters and unspoken wounds. your ex, the one who shattered your heart last christmas, always seemed to be at these parties, and the thought of facing him again was enough to make you steer clear.

but tonight is different. encouraged by a friend who insisted it would be ‘good for you,’ you found yourself here, hovering on the edges, nursing a glass of mulled wine by the fireplace. franco is here, too—franco, who has always been little more than a polite nod or a quick ‘hi.’ the two of you aren’t close, not even friends, really. yet as the evening stretches on, you find his presence more noticeable than usual, his laughter drawing glances from across the room.

most of the guests have either slipped away to spare rooms or are scattered in half-asleep clusters, the laughter and music now a faint echo in the house. you sit near the fireplace, nursing a mug of mulled wine, its spicy warmth a small comfort against the chill outside. the flickering flames cast golden light over the room, and you sink into the soft cushions of the couch, grateful for the moment of solitude.

until franco joins you.

you hear him before you see him, the faint sound of his footsteps against the hardwood floor. all evening, he’s been the centre of attention—his jokes landing perfectly, his energy magnetic, his laughter infectious. but now, as he lowers himself onto the couch beside you, he’s different. his movements are slower, deliberate, as though he’s shedding the playful bravado for something more genuine. he leans back, draping one arm casually over the backrest, close enough for you to feel his presence without it pressing on you.

“you’ve been sitting here for a while,” he says, his voice quieter than you expect, his accent rolling over the words with a natural charm. “thinking deep holiday thoughts?”

you glance at him, arching a brow, already on guard. “oh, you know, debating whether santa’s elves have a decent union.”

a grin spreads across his face, quick and easy. “they don’t,” he replies, leaning slightly toward you, his dark eyes sparkling in the firelight. “you can see it in their eyes—overworked, underpaid, stuck making toys for kids who’ll forget about them in five minutes.”

the corners of your mouth lift before you can stop yourself, the response catching you off guard. “exactly,” you say, meeting his gaze for a beat longer than you intended. “and don’t even get me started on rudolph. classic case of workplace exploitation.”

his laugh is rich, low, and unrestrained, and for a moment, it drowns out the crackle of the fire. “you’re good,” he says, his grin lingering. “sharp. i like that.”

you shrug, trying to deflect the sudden focus on you. “it’s just common sense. someone has to advocate for the underappreciated holiday workforce.”

his grin widens, but there’s a shift in his expression—something more curious, more intent. “so, do you always deflect with humour,” he asks, tilting his head slightly, “or is it just my lucky night?”

your lips part slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected turn in the conversation. “and do you always psychoanalyse women at christmas parties?” you shoot back, the edge in your tone softened by the playful smile tugging at your lips.

“only the ones who seem like they have really good stories to tell,” he replies smoothly, his voice dipping lower.

you roll your eyes, though you feel the laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “you’re persistent, i’ll give you that.”

“i’m argentinian,” he says with a light shrug, as though that explains everything. “it’s genetic.”

the absurdity of the statement makes you laugh, this time unrestrained and genuine. you shift in your seat, tucking your legs beneath you as you hold your mug close, needing the warmth against your palms. he adjusts as well, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on his knees. his gaze is steady, direct, and disarmingly sincere.

“you’re good at this, you know,” he says, his tone softer now, almost conversational.

“at what?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“deflecting,” he says simply, his eyes searching yours. “you tell a joke, flash a smile, and everyone forgets to ask the real questions.”

you shift uncomfortably, your grip tightening around the mug. “maybe i just don’t like questions,” you say, the words coming out more defensive than you intended.

“or maybe you don’t like answers,” he counters, his voice steady but without judgment.

the weight of his words settles over you, and you find yourself looking away, your gaze fixed on the fire. the orange glow feels safer than the intensity in his eyes.

“you’ve been hurt before,” he says, breaking the silence.

“haven’t we all?” you reply quickly, your tone sharper now, a reflex to protect yourself.

“sure,” he agrees, his voice calm, unbothered by your resistance. “but not everyone builds walls like you do.”

your shoulders tense, and you draw back slightly, the heat of the fire no longer comforting. “you don’t know me well enough to say that,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but firm.

“not yet,” he says, the gentleness in his tone catching you off guard. “but i’d like to.”

the vulnerability in his voice chips away at your defences, and for a moment, you exhale, leaning back into the couch. you’re silent, but the tension in your posture eases.

“it’s not that simple,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “people think you can just… open up and everything will be fine. but when you’ve given your heart to someone who didn’t want it, it’s hard to trust anyone with it again.”

his dark eyes don’t waver, his gaze steady but soft, and he nods slowly. “i get that,” he says. “but maybe the trick isn’t trusting someone else first. maybe it’s trusting yourself—that you’ll survive it if things don’t go the way you hope.”

✩

the flickering firelight dances across his face, softening his features, and his expression is open, patient, unhurried.

“you’re different than i thought you’d be,” he says after a long pause, his voice dropping lower.

“what did you think i’d be like?” you ask, curious despite yourself.

“i don’t know,” he says, his lips curving into a faint smile. “polished, untouchable, the kind of person who always has the upper hand.”

“and now?” you press, leaning in slightly, the space between you shrinking.

“still intimidating,” he admits, his smile widening just enough to make your heart skip. “but in a good way.”

for the first time, you let the moment linger, the tension between you shifting into something unspoken but undeniable.

the fire casts a warm glow over the room, its crackling filling the quiet pauses between words. you laugh, shaking your head, the sound light but genuine. a comfortable silence stretches between you and franco, and in that quiet, you feel it—a subtle but undeniable pull. it’s unspoken, yet it lingers, drawing you closer to him in a way that feels both surprising and inevitable.

“you’re not what i expected, either,” you say, your tone casual, though the words carry weight.

franco leans forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “oh? what did you expect?”

your lips curl into a teasing smile. “someone who tries too hard to be funny. but you’re just… effortlessly annoying.”

his laughter bursts out, rich and warm, and he clutches his chest dramatically. “effortlessly annoying? that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

you shake your head, your smile widening despite yourself. you can feel your guard slipping, piece by piece, the edges softening with every laugh, every shared glance.

✩

as the night drifts on, the conversation flows like an easy current, touching on favourite movies, childhood christmas memories, and absurd holiday traditions. you trade stories that are ridiculous and endearing, the kind that make your sides ache from laughter. each word exchanged deepens the connection between you, weaving a thread of familiarity where there was none before.

he leans back, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “you know, this has to be the best christmas conversation i’ve ever had. no offence to santa and the elves.”

you raise your brow, feigning seriousness. “i’ll take it as a compliment. i don’t usually do this, you know.”

he tilts his head, curiosity dancing in his expression. “what? talk to effortlessly annoying guys?”

“no,” you reply with a soft laugh. “sit here, opening up to someone i just met. it’s… different.”

the teasing fades from his face as he leans in slightly, his voice dropping to something quieter, more intent. “different good or different bad?”

you meet his gaze, your heart beating a little faster at the intensity in his eyes. “good,” you say softly. “definitely good.”

the fire crackles softly in the background, the rhythmic pops and hisses filling the spaces between breaths. your laughter, which had moments ago echoed brightly, now fades into something quieter, something deeper. the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s laced with a gentle understanding that neither of you has to name. you feel it—a warmth spreading through you, unfamiliar yet comforting, like an old song you’ve almost forgotten but still know by heart. it’s a feeling you haven’t let yourself embrace in years.

franco shifts slightly beside you, leaning forward as if to close the distance without intruding. his voice cuts through the quiet, warm and deliberate. “for the record,” he says, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile, “you’re pretty good at this too.”

you glance at him, your brow lifting in subtle curiosity. “at what?”

his eyes linger on yours, the firelight flickering in their depths. he doesn’t hesitate, his tone softer now, almost confessional. “making me want to stay up all night talking to you.”

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a moment, your heart stumbles, a traitorous skip in its rhythm. you’re certain he notices, but for once, you don’t try to hide it.

your grip loosens slightly on your glass of wine, and you exhale, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. the vulnerability in his words disarms you, but it’s the sincerity in his gaze that keeps you still, like he’s waiting, patiently, to see if you’ll let him stay.

✩

you stand near the balcony door, the hum of the christmas party a soft murmur inside. outside, the chill air brushes your skin, the twinkling lights from the decorations contrasting with the warmth of the fire crackling in the corner. your glass of wine rests in your hand, swirling gently, the dark liquid catching the firelight. you find yourself momentarily lost in the way the flames dance, tracing their movement, letting the quiet settle over you.

franco is standing beside you, so close now that his knee almost brushes against yours, but neither of you says anything. it's the first time tonight that the two of you have actually been alone, outside the usual nods and polite greetings you’ve exchanged over the years.

after a beat, he breaks the silence, his voice low but steady, like he’s testing the air between you.

“you know,” he begins, glancing toward you but keeping his gaze just slightly above yours, “i used to think love was supposed to be this big, dramatic thing. like fireworks and grand gestures.”

you raise an eyebrow, the corners of your mouth curling into a smirk as you shift your weight, the wine glass still twirling in your hand. “let me guess—movies and cheesy romance novels ruined you?”

franco laughs, the sound soft but amused, and you can hear the humour in his voice when he responds. “hey, i’m a romantic. sue me.”

you chuckle, the ease of his words making you relax, but there’s something in his tone that lingers. the idea of love as a grand, sweeping event feels familiar, even if it's been a long time since you've believed in it. the pause between the two of you stretches a little longer, the silence pulling at the edges of your thoughts, and you finally turn to him, looking at him fully for the first time tonight.

“and now?” you ask quietly, your voice catching the reflection of the fire in his eyes. “what do you think it’s supposed to be?”

he looks at you, really looks at you this time, and there's something about the way he shifts, the way he leans slightly forward, that makes his words hit you harder than you expect. his eyes are steady, but his voice is softer now, more introspective.

“i think it’s quieter,” he says, his tone almost reverent, like he's sharing a truth he's only just realised. “more like… finding someone who makes you feel like you’re home, no matter where you are.”

the words settle heavily in the space between you. you blink, your breath momentarily stuck in your chest. there's something in his expression, something real and raw, and it pulls you in. you turn your body slightly towards him, the firelight flickering off his face, and you can feel the weight of his honesty pressing into your own guarded heart.

“that’s nice," you say, almost whispering, but a knot tightens in your throat. you shift your gaze, struggling to maintain the usual lightness, but it’s hard now. "but what if you’ve been hurt? what if 'home' feels more like a risk than a refuge?”

franco doesn’t hesitate. his elbows drop to his knees, the movement slow and deliberate. he leans in just slightly, his shoulders squared toward you, and the teasing edge that usually follows him is gone, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.

“then maybe you stop looking for a perfect home,” he responds, voice steady, each word measured. “maybe you find someone who’s willing to build it with you, one piece at a time. even if it’s messy.”

the simplicity of his answer leaves you breathless for a second. you swallow, feeling something shift within you, like a door cracking open just a little wider. his words hang in the air, and despite yourself, you can’t help but feel the weight of them settle into your chest. it’s a thought you’ve buried for a long time, and you feel a flicker of warmth in the cold air around you.

“you make it sound so simple,” you say, a soft laugh escaping you, though your voice is quieter now, more fragile.

his lips twitch into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes right away. he glances at you, his gaze lingering before he answers. “it’s not. but i think the right person makes it worth the mess.”

you exhale, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, though his words have left something unspoken between you. the weight of the conversation feels too heavy to hold onto for much longer, so you try to shift the mood. you take a deep breath and let the faintest hint of a smile curve your lips.

“okay, mr. romantic,” you tease, your voice a little lighter now. “what’s your other grand passion? what keeps you up at night?”

franco grins, the teasing spark returning to his eyes. “besides annoy people by fireplaces?”

you laugh, shaking your head at him, but there’s something different in the way you look at him now, something softer in your gaze. you catch the slight change in his expression, the way his eyes soften, even if only for a fraction of a second, as he watches you.

“i like cooking, actually,” he says, a genuine warmth to his voice. he leans back slightly, the tension leaving his shoulders as he talks. “there’s something about making a meal for someone—putting care into every detail, knowing it’s going to bring them joy.”

you raise an eyebrow, amusement creeping back into your features, but there’s a spark of curiosity now, too. “cooking, huh? sounds like an elaborate way to flirt.”

franco’s grin widens, and you notice the way his eyes twinkle with mischief. “absolutely. works every time.”

you lean back, finally allowing a full smile to spread across your face. it feels natural, comfortable, the awkward tension of the night slipping away with the shared laughter, but something lingers—a connection that wasn’t there before. the warmth of the fire and the quiet rhythm of your conversation are the only things that matter now.

you lean back, your body sinking slightly into the chair, the chill of the balcony air brushing against your skin. the soft hum of the christmas party drifts in from the room behind you, but here, the cold night air feels refreshing, clearing the noise in your head. your smile lingers, and you can’t help but feel a change in the air. the distance between you and franco now feels different—closer, more intimate.

“i like that,” you say, your voice calm but thoughtful. “the way you think about it, i mean. cooking for someone. it’s... intimate.”

franco shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly, his gaze focused on you. “what about you?” he asks, his voice soft, genuinely curious. “what’s the thing that makes your heart beat a little faster?”

you hesitate for a moment, the chill in the air suddenly making you feel a little warmer under his gaze. his openness makes you feel safe enough to share, and without thinking, the words tumble out of you.

“i write,” you say, your voice quiet, almost wistful. “or i used to, before life got in the way. it’s like... the only time i’ve ever felt completely free.”

his expression softens, his gaze gentle as he watches you, and for a brief moment, the world around you seems to fade. he looks like he understands the weight of your words. "why’d you stop?” he asks, his voice low, quiet with concern.

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, not wanting to face the vulnerability in your own eyes. “fear, maybe,” you reply, the words hanging heavily between you. “that i wasn’t good enough. that it wasn’t practical.”

“fear’s a bad reason to stop doing something you love,”he responds, his tone firm but gentle, almost as though he’s speaking to himself as much as to you.

the silence lingers in the space between you, and the cool night air feels heavier, somehow more present. you feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, your breath catching slightly as you meet his gaze. the snow falls gently, glowing faintly in the moonlight. the world feels suspended, quiet, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in this stillness, and nothing else matters. there’s a sincerity in his eyes that pulls you in deeper, something you can’t quite explain.

“you should writing again,” he adds, his voice softer now, almost like a quiet plea. “you’re too passionate to keep it all locked inside.”

you swallow, the idea of writing again making something stir in your chest. but you don’t let it show, instead trying to keep the mood light. “and you should stop psychoanalysing strangers at christmas parties,” you tease, a small smile tugging at your lips.

he grins, a playful glint in his eyes, but there’s a shift. his gaze softens, and the playful atmosphere between you both changes. “maybe i’ll make it my new year’s resolution,” he says with a teasing tone, but there’s something deeper in his voice now. “right after ‘kiss beautiful smart women by fireplaces.’”

you laugh, a warm, genuine sound that seems to break the tension between you. but when your eyes meet again, the air is different. the laughter fades, replaced by a quiet understanding that neither of you can ignore. there’s a pull, something magnetic. his smile fades into something deeper, and you feel it too—a tension you haven’t felt in years.

“can i?” his voice is soft, his eyes searching yours, and you feel a warmth spreading through you that makes your heart race.

you nod, your throat tight, unable to say anything. but your silence speaks volumes, and it’s enough. he gives you every opportunity to pull away, but you don’t. you stay, rooted to the spot, as his lips hover just inches from yours, your heart pounding in your chest as he inches closer.

the kiss comes softly at first, tentative, almost as though he’s testing the waters, unsure of the fragility of the moment. but then, something shifts. the warmth between you builds, and the kiss deepens, both of you leaning into it, the connection effortless. it’s like you’ve both been waiting for this, and now that it’s here, it feels as though nothing else matters—just the two of you, wrapped in the glow of the lights and the quiet of the night. you both lean into it, your bodies moving as if they’ve known how to do this all along. it feels natural, easy, like the conversation you’ve had all night.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, your cheeks flushed with warmth. franco’s smile is softer now, more intimate, and it makes your heart flutter.

“you’re a hard one to read, you know that?” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his eyes are still searching yours.

you shake your head, the smile lingering on your lips. “and you’re impossible to ignore.”

the soft crackle of the fire still echoes from the living room, and the snow falls gently on your coat, glowing faintly in the moonlight. but here, on the balcony, it’s just the two of you. for the first time in a year, you feel something stir within you—a piece of yourself that you thought was lost. and in that moment, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found it again

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 24’.

[castdust]

party.

pairing : daniela avanzini x reader

about : drinking might be the only option that will give you guts to ask her for a dance.

genre : tension | slight angst

warnings : mention of alcohol

a/n : trying something different lol | 1040 words

The music pulsed like a heartbeat, echoing in your chest and vibrating through the soles of your feet. You lifted your drink to your lips, the cool burn of alcohol sliding down your throat. It steadied your hands but did nothing for the storm churning inside you. Across the room, she sat on the edge of a velvet sofa, legs crossed with effortless grace. A soft laugh spilled from her lips as she listened to her friends talk.

Daniela.

Her name was an anchor and a windstorm all at once, holding you in place while making it impossible to breathe. She hadn’t changed, not really. She was still radiant, magnetic, and just out of reach. You remembered the first time you’d seen her, years ago in that crowded lecture hall, sunlight streaming through the high windows to catch in her hair. She’d walked in like she owned the room, like gravity bent itself around her, and you’d wondered if anyone else felt it—the pull, the way the air seemed to hum in her presence.

You’d tried to make sense of her then, to make sense of the way she made you feel. But it had never gotten easier. And now here she was, her golden smile cutting through the dim haze of the party like a blade, completely unaware of the chaos she stirred inside you.

You leaned back against the wall, your drink clenched tightly in your hand, and let yourself watch her. Really watch her. The curve of her mouth, the way her head tilted slightly when she laughed, the effortless way she drew people toward her. It was infuriating and intoxicating all at once. She didn’t just exist in a room—she commanded it.

And then, she looked up.

Your heart stopped.

For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it, but no—her gaze locked onto yours, her smile faltering just slightly. Heat rushed to your face, and you thought about looking away, retreating, but something in her expression froze you in place. Her brow furrowed, her head tilting just slightly, as if she were trying to piece together a puzzle she didn’t even know existed.

The air between you seemed to thicken, the noise of the party fading into a distant hum. The room felt too small, too hot, and the knot in your stomach twisted tighter. Your drink wasn’t enough to calm you now. But her eyes, her eyes held yours, and in that moment, it felt like a silent confession neither of you knew how to voice.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you pushed off the wall and started walking. Each step felt like a leap, moved by the years of tension you’d tried to bury and the current of unspoken words between you.

She saw you coming. Her lips parted as if to say something, but she stayed silent, her phone forgotten onto the cushion beside her. When you stopped in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, you forced yourself to speak.

“Care to dance?”

Your voice was low, steady, though your heart hammered so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest.

She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. Then, something else—hesitation, curiosity, something you couldn’t quite name. She searched your eyes, as if looking for a reason to say no but unable to find one.

And then, she nodded.

Her hand slipped into yours, and it was warm, soft, electric. You led her to the dance floor, were bodies moved and lights flickered like fireflies in the dark. But all of it faded the moment you turned to her.

The music slowed, the bassline deep and sultry, and you pulled her closer. Her hand rested on your shoulder, her touch hesitant at first, as if unsure of its place. You placed your hand lightly on her waist, and you felt her breath hitch. For a moment, she held herself stiffly, the tension in her frame betraying something deeper—something she hadn’t let herself name. But then, she relaxed, leaning into you as if surrendering to the moment.

The space between you disappeared. Her breath warmed your cheek, and her fingers brushed the back of your neck, sending a shiver racing down your spine. You moved together, the rhythm pulling you closer, the tension between you sparking and building until it was almost unbearable.

“Dani,” you whispered, her name soft and reverent, like a prayer.

Her eyes lifted to yours, wide and searching, her pupils dark and blown. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she leaned closer, her gaze dipping to your mouth, and for one charged, breathless moment, nothing else existed.

Your heart thundered as you leaned in, her breath ghosting against your lips, and you could feel the inevitability of it—the pull, the crash, the moment that would change everything.

But then, her phone buzzed.

The sharp, jarring sound shattered the moment like glass.

She pulled back, her eyes widening as though waking from a dream. Her phone screen glowed, and the name flashing there made her freeze. The color drained from her face, and the ache in your chest deepened.

“I—I should…” she stammered, her voice quiet, her eyes darting between the phone and you.

You stepped back, the distance between you feeling like a canyon. You forced a smile, though it felt like it might crack under the weight of the moment. “Looks like someone’s waiting for you,” you said, your voice soft and aching.

She hesitated, her gaze lingering on you, her expression torn. For a moment, you thought she might say something—might stay. But then, she turned, the spell broken, and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood there, the music loud again, the lights too bright, the space she’d left behind feeling colder than it had before. The tension that had tethered you to her still lingered, wrapping around your chest, making it hard to breathe.

And as you watched her go, your chest ached with the unanswered question: Did she feel it too? Did she feel the weight of this thing between you, the thing that made the night feel heavier, the air thicker?

And if she did—what would she do with it?

[clxrk-kent]

clark kent (tom welling) x reader

The city was bustling outside the window, its lights flickering like a million tiny stars against the night sky. Inside, it was quiet, save for the sound of a clock ticking in the corner and the soft hum of the refrigerator. You sat on the couch, wrapped in a cozy blanket, your thoughts swirling as you replayed the evening.

It had been an exhausting day. You'd caught up with old friends, attended a meeting, and had a thousand thoughts to process, but the one that lingered most was the moment you and Clark Kent had shared earlier that day. You’d always felt a connection with him, a chemistry that neither of you had ever quite acknowledged—until today.

He had stopped by your apartment under the pretext of “checking in,” but you both knew it was more than that. It had been one of those rare moments when Clark allowed himself to relax, to let his guard down. You’d seen him laugh more freely than usual, heard him speak about things that weren’t related to his superhero persona, his journalistic work, or the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He was human with you.

And you could feel it—the pull between you both. It was magnetic, a quiet tension that simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but undeniable.

When the door creaked open, your heart skipped. You hadn’t expected him to come back, but there he was, looking as handsome and disarming as ever. Clark’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, his eyes softer than you remembered. He was dressed casually in a plain t-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled as if he'd just returned from a run.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, his voice low, like it always was when he was uncertain. But the way he said it, his eyes never leaving yours, told you it was anything but a casual visit.

"Not at all," you replied, your pulse quickening, betraying the calm facade you tried to maintain. "Come on in."

He stepped into the apartment, and you noticed how he seemed to exhale the weight of the world as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was always in control, always the perfect reporter, the fearless hero, but here, with you, he didn’t have to be. He could let the world spin without him for a moment.

Clark walked over to the couch and sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. You could smell the faint hint of fresh air, like he’d just flown in from somewhere. His presence was always comforting, but tonight, there was something more. His fingers brushed yours as he leaned back, the brief contact sending a shockwave through your body.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of your breathing, a shared, unspoken awareness hanging in the air between you.

Finally, Clark turned to you, his eyes dark and intense. “I didn’t expect this… you know, being here with you like this.”

His words were soft, almost unsure, and it struck you that despite everything he had faced, Clark Kent was just as vulnerable as anyone else. He wasn’t always the confident, invulnerable hero the world saw. With you, he was just Clark. The man you had grown to care for in ways that neither of you had openly discussed.

You met his gaze and smiled, your voice low and steady, “I didn’t expect it either.”

His lips quirked into a half-smile, but the expression quickly deepened as his eyes flickered to your lips. The world seemed to stop for a moment, the hum of the city outside the only sound, a distant reminder of everything you’d left behind to focus on the moment you were sharing now.

Slowly, as if testing the water, Clark leaned in. His breath was warm against your face, and before you could even fully process the shift, his lips were on yours—gentle at first, tentative, as if asking for permission. Your heart thudded in your chest as you kissed him back, the touch of his lips sending a rush of warmth through your veins.

He deepened the kiss, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer as he gently guided you onto his lap. The world outside seemed to fade as your body responded to his, drawn to him in a way you couldn’t control.

His hands were strong, yet careful, as if he were afraid to break something. His lips moved against yours, his kisses becoming more urgent, more passionate, as if he were trying to convey everything he had kept hidden in the depths of his heart.

You broke the kiss, breathless, your forehead resting against his. “Clark…” you whispered, your voice shaky from the intensity of the moment.

His eyes met yours, dark with desire, but also something softer—something more vulnerable. “I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he confessed in a low voice. “Not with you.”

And before you could respond, Clark pulled you back into another kiss, this time more desperate, more consuming. The world outside didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this moment, this connection. He was no longer Superman, and you were no longer just a friend—this was something else entirely. Something raw, something real.

[horny-deepspace]

PLEASURE

synopsis: The walls of the bedroom echo with the click of handcuffs being fastened, followed by silence… warnings: light bdsm, dom/sub wc: 2,2k

Chapter 1.

He will never refuse to crush your foundations and suppress your moral principles; squeeze your will into a fist and command it as he pleases - without any effort.

It is impossible to resist his magnetic, sexually arousing timbre of voice. Outwardly, he remains invariably serene, with flawless facial features. It is hard to believe that he is real, only his sarfir-red eyes make him alive.

You appear, prove your - correct point of view, read moralizing lectures. This is more like expressive attacks on your part, and from him - complete calm. He does not raise his voice. He expresses himself in a suggestible and convincing way, forcing you to surrender in the end. It is unclear how he manages to influence others. There is a high probability that the reason is Evol deadly force. You need to try to find him a worthy opponent. The head of Onychinus is respected and feared - according to the timeless classic.

He takes verbal attacks for irony, considering your past professional activity. Six months ago, he bought you out of the brothel. Since then, he has become your only Master. In fact, life has changed significantly, because everything is learned in comparison. With him, you do not need to be afraid of unfamiliar clients, guess what is on their minds. Sylus immediately made it clear what he expects from you. He told you about his preferences.

Nothing that happened between you was a revelation. You came across different clients ready to order exotic services for an additional fee.

The thread of trust with Sylus grew stronger day by day. Over time, you began to look forward to intimacy with him more and more often, while feeling even more completely safe. You know: he will cover you, will not let anyone hurt you. Even if it is about retribution, the price he paid for you, and his protection is just a pretense.

The bathroom door opens, releasing hot clouds of steam. You close your eyes. In advance, you mentally outline the silhouette of a strong, male body, with transparent droplets of water flowing down the muscles.

Any discussions are left far behind when unbridled passion flares up between you. So strong that nothing and no one can stop you. You are powerless against each other. It is akin to addiction. You are completely different, but the craving is irresistible - is it only on a physical level?

Or is it not just that?

When he is away for too long, you begin to yearn. Almost howl from helplessness and the desire to run wherever your eyes look, just to calm your heart again. Self-hypnosis almost never works: neither promises to break up with him, that their new meeting is definitely now the last; not confessions that you bite your fist until it marks, holding back desperate moans through the pain.

You need him.

Needed. More than air.

Life without it has long ceased to seem significant…

It is dusk outside. The weather in Zone N109 is consistently gloomy. The path for travelers is illuminated by a bloody moon, high in the sky in a fog of clouds, through which the warm rays caressing the skin do not penetrate.

Once a bustling technology center, this is now, after the catastrophe that occurred, one of the most dangerous areas. Surrounded by other forbidden zones, this "island" has turned into a lawless land where danger and opportunity coexist. The Zone is rife with violence and crime. Due to illegal trade and dangerous research, many of its activities are associated with protocors and Wanderers.

But everything seems very far away when you are in his arms.

He approaches you from behind, barely touching, drawing abstract patterns along your spine until he reaches your lower back. You want to step back, press yourself against his chest and stand there until dawn, which will not come. Today you don’t really want to swear, because it’s a useless exercise. The worst thing is to try to remake a person to your own rules, to deprive him of his own “I”.

- You won.

- I know, - he only says in a whisper. There is no mockery in his intonation.

Long fingers, exciting the imagination, climb under the unbuttoned shirt, under which you are wearing only panties and a leather harness on your chest. You like to wear men's shirts, sweaters and accessories: to remember his warmth, the smell of perfume. At least this way you can not part, keeping the memories.

With a slight movement, Sylus turns you to face him. You slip your finger under the belt of the towel, hinting at an extra piece of clothing, to which Sylus raises an eyebrow questioningly. Finally, his lips twist into a smug grin. There is no need to rush, you have the whole night at your disposal, except for those days when the man is present at important meetings and negotiations.

Humility will pay off in full.

The costs of the profession do not disappear without a trace. In the brothel, the owner expected productive work from the prostitutes: the more clients, the more income. The slaves themselves received just enough to keep from starving to death.

You are incredibly lucky to be freed, when hundreds of the same weak-willed slaves are still languishing in the brothel. Asking for a big favor is a thankless task. You have already received everything: the best lover who can provide for your life exactly until the end of the term of need. If he wants, it seems that he has the power to close the brothel, only in place of one establishment another will appear. This is an endless struggle between evil and evil.

Those same fingers that you can’t stop dreaming about, grasp your thin wrist with traces of abrasions and bruises that have not yet disappeared.

- Put it behind your back.

Your breath catches from the realization of what will happen next. Sylus goes to the chest of drawers with clothes. The top drawer contains his special toys. The cold metal of the handcuffs gleams in the dim light of the lamps. Breathe, just breathe. You obediently move your hands back and clasp them in a lock. The tall, blond figure walks past you, then stops behind you, out of sight.

The click of cuffs echoes off the bedroom walls, and then there's silence. Sylus walks around you, coming back to face you. His dark lashes flutter. Without realizing it, you're staring at him, taking in every inch of him: the smooth curves of his brows, the thick lashes, the neat nose, the sensual lips.

The man's gaze lifts, and his eyebrows rise, giving him an innocent look. A minute passes, maybe two. It's hard to tell. Reality swirls around you as you fall into his eyes. Your thoughts are naked. You have no intention of hiding your desires.

You watch with agonizing anticipation as he takes the metal chain attached to your choker at the other end and threads the carabiner through the ring on his collar, symbolizing a single bond.

Sylus advances on you until he collides with the wall. Your shoulders shake. Your heart starts pounding, but you don't panic. Thanks to his mercy, you're probably still alive. With that - the past lifestyle, girls don't grow old, especially in Zone N109.

This debt is indefinite. Never to be repaid.

- Sweetheart, if you don't want to...

- I remembered the past at the wrong time, - you brush away the rapidly running tears on your cheeks. - I owe you all...

He puts a finger to your lips, urging you to shut up, to which you nod in agreement and throw your leg over his waist. There should be no reason for sadness today or tomorrow. With ease, the man grabs you by the armpits and lifts you off the ground, allowing you to wrap both legs around him, because there is nothing else to hold on to.

Sylus is your support. A gift from fate.

- Forgive me.

This time he silences you with a kiss, punishing you by pressing your lips together and depriving you of the rest of your air. His hand pulls the chain down, bringing your chest closer to his.

- Think of us.

Sylus's deep, low voice makes you smile tenderly. His rough tongue licks the salty tracks of tears. You will only cry from the highest degree of pleasure, because he swore: "I'll be damned if I don't get my way."

[ozarkthedog]

𝐲𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞

summary: being an assistant to a Hollywood star has its perks like attending a lavish holiday event that’s brimming with celebrities.

warnings: fluff! dieter bravo x afab!reader. meet cute? kissing. Christmas vibes. mistletoe. dieter being his usual silly self. w.c: 1.7k

author’s note: this is a gift for @jennaispunk via the @dieterbravobrainrotclub Holiday Gift Exchange! I hope you enjoy this lil’ fic, Jenn! Happy Holidays, lovely! 💙 thank you @sp00kymulderr for hosting!

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋅ 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

It was the kind of holiday party where everything felt just a little bit brighter—lights twinkling from every corner, the smell of cinnamon and pine hanging in the air, laughter rising over soft jazz in the background. A sleek modern mansion nestled in the Hollywood Hills hosting the annual gathering.

You adjusted the straps of your dress while you sat at the bar. It was a sleek dark red velvet number you'd picked up on sale, hoping it'd help you fit into the glamorous party and not stick out like a sore thumb.

You glanced at your phone, scrolling through a few emails you needed to catch up on. As an assistant to one of the hottest new actors in Hollywood, your life was a constant balancing act, but tonight, for once, it was about a bit of relaxation. 

"Feel free to unwind," Your boss says, adjusting their outfit in the back seat of the SUV on the way to the festive soiree. "No need to keep an eye on me. Darren Eigan will be there, so I'll be stuck to him like glue."

You turn in your seat and lean against the bar, surveying the party. From across the room, you spy your boss eagerly chatting up the infamous director. They'd gushed about wanting to work with him for years. You couldn't blame them for trying.

Your eyes scanned the room again as you slowly sipped the tart purple wine. You'd never been a drinker, so the glass felt more like a prop than something to enjoy.

A raucous laugh catches your ear.

He was standing, drinking glass in hand, with a group of people near the opening of a dazzling archway decorated with little sprigs of green mistletoe tied with a bright red bow.

You knew a fake laugh from a mile away. You learned the craft when you moved to LA, having to grace a phony smile and compliment almost every second of the day. 

Dieter Bravo. Hollywood's reluctant star— known for his roles in blockbusters and indie films and winning an oh-so-coveted Oscar. You were surprised to see him at a party like this. He seemed to be the loner kind, much preferring to work on his art than bullshit his night away.

His salt and pepper curls helped prop the shades he wore like a shield, ready to slip the glasses down his hooked nose and sneak out the back door at a moment's notice. The first three buttons on his black silk shirt were left open; his golden skin glowed in the dim room. His black on black attire looked crisp and expensive, like the gray scruff filling his jaw and lining his lips. 

Something was magnetic about him—his presence drew others in without trying or caring.

Someone in the group spoke, and Dieter laughed again. Another half-hearted smile tugged at his lips before falling into a thin, flat line.

You found yourself slipping from your seat and leaving your drink behind as you moved closer. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe because Dieter resonated with your pain. Even in a crowd full of joy and glittering faces, you felt alone.

As you neared the group, your heel caught on an ugly red and green throw rug, making you tumble into the actor and ceasing the chatter.

"Whoa, hey now," Dieter blurts, catching you with one arm.

He weaved it securely around your waist as you both stumbled away from the group. You clutched his broad shoulders, a safe haven if you ever knew one, and steadied your heels back on the ground. Thankfully, his drink didn’t spill all over his suit and your dress.

"You okay?" Dieter's voice was warm and familiar despite the fact you'd had never met him before. His hands lingered on your waist, a wry thumb rubbing the dark butter like velvet, zeroing all his attention on you.

You cleared your throat and bid the flames that fanned your cheeks away. "I'm so sorry. I normally don't wear heels." You apologize. "Pobody's Nerfect!"

Dieter's dark eyes caught like a bright starscape in the sparkling overhead lights as he laughed wholeheartedly at the silly phrase. It was genuine and natural, forcing himself to hold his belly and bowl over with honest laughter.

As he catches his breath, he wipes a tear from his eye. "Did you come up with that?" 

You shrugged and waved a hand, "I wish. I'm not that clever."

"I highly doubt that." the actor comments, before taking a sip of his drink. “You must be someone special to be invited to a party like this." He raises the glass toward the throngs of people filling the massive living room.

You cock your head. "My boss is someone special. Thankfully, they need me like a goose needs a gaggle."

His eyes go wide once more. "There you go again!" 

You wave him off, but inside, you're melting. 

A waiter places a tray of food on a table to your right, distracting the both of you.

"Do you think anyone actually eats these tiny hors d'oeuvres, or are they for like little Christmas elves?" Dieter asked, glancing at a tray of tiny canapés.

You chuckled. "I'm pretty sure they're just to make the people who aren't drinking feel productive. Like, here, eat this, pretend you're having a full meal."

He laughed again. It gets better every time you hear it— it lights up the room. 

"Wanna be productive with me?" he flirts, picking up one of the tiny snacks and holding it out to you with doe eyes.

You quirked a brow, hesitant for a split second before biting into the canapés. It was absurdly delicious for something so small, and you giggled, caught off guard by how natural it felt to talk to him.

"How do you look so... untouchable on screen and so normal off it?" you question without thinking.

Dieter tilted his head, his smile softening. "I'm really good at pretending." He drifts off, eyes wandering to the floor, thoughts drifting to the front of his mind before he takes a healthy swig from his glass. "Sometimes it's nice to escape yourself for a while."

You nod, understanding the need to run away.  

"Are you working on any new art?" You try to lighten the mood, glancing at the red paint under his trimmed nails. "I can't wait for the next mind-bending piece from the one and only Mr. Bravo."

He smiled again, that knowing, almost mischievous look in his eyes. "Wouldn't little Ms. Canapés like to know." he teases, the warmth in his voice holding something more than just casual conversation.

Just then, someone at the bar called his name. Dieter turned his head, briefly distracted by the person waving him over. You take a timid step back, wishing you had more time with the artist, but before you can move, a reveler nudges you toward the archway where the mistletoe hangs.

You glanced at Dieter, who was still distracted by the call but now seemed to have noticed where you were standing. He looked at you with a wry smirk.

"Do you believe in fate?" he queries, his voice suddenly quieter.

You whisper, heart in your throat. "I suppose so."

He takes a step toward you, his leather wing tips shuffle against the floor, and for a moment, the noise of the party fades as the space between you closes. The dim lights cast shadows that make his features even more inviting. There was something in his gaze—something natural and soft that wasn't at all like the characters he portrayed on screen.

Without a word, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen. It wasn't dramatic or rushed, just slow and honest, as though the mistletoe wasn't just some holiday tradition but the beginning of something unexpected.

When you pull away, Dieter smiles again, this time with a hint of surprise. "That was... festive."

You chuckle, a little breathless. "I hope I'm still on Santa's Nice List now."

"The Nice List?" Dieter raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, don't you want to get what you wished for?" You jibe, grin widening as you step back, giving him space to leave.

Dieter snorts, glancing toward the bar as more people wave him over. "Oh, but I already did," he winks.

Your face flames. You bite your cheek, trying your best to not squeal.

The two of you share one last look before the crowd pulls him away. Neither of you could quite shake the moment. 

As the night continued, shared glances from across the room kept you busy. Every conversation with someone new resulted in sincere apologies when you had them repeat what they said because a particular actor kept stealing your attention.

It seemed you distracted him just as much at times. You caught him dragging his eyes down your frame and back up again. He'd either cower like a thief caught red-handed or gaze at you like he wanted to watch the sun come up with you in his bed. 

The crowd of people slowly dwindled down as the clock struck midnight. Much to your dismay, you'd lost sight of Dieter an hour ago when he stepped out onto the back patio for a smoke with a fellow actor. You begrudgingly slipped on your heavy coat, headed down the front steps to the SUV, idling at the curb, and waited for your boss. 

Leaning against the passenger door, you slowly breathe in the crisp night. The heated feelings that swarmed your belly all evening finally simmered to a rolling boil.

"Canapés?" 

You jerk against the metal door as a voice chimes to your right. You clutch your chest with a gasp.

Dieter appears from the shadows, hands raised, like he's dealing with a stray animal. "Shit, sorry, it's only me." He cringes at the slight fear in your eyes.

"You bastard." You curse with a playful huff. "Wait, did you just call me Canapés?"

He flashes an awkward grin and anxiously rubs the back of his neck. "Well, I forgot to ask your name, and I didn't realize until after we kissed, and then I thought it was too late. I don't want to be "that guy."  Dieter mimes quotations in the air and swallows hard. "So, yeah."

You step closer, your heels clink against the cement, as you whisper your name and slink your arms around his shoulders. Dieter once again weaves his hold around your velvet waist, molding your body to his.

His plush lips brush across yours. "We don't have any mistletoe." He states cheekily.

"I would've kissed you without it in the first place." You confess, pressing your lips to his for another precious moment before he breaks the kiss. 

"Wanna go make it on Santa’s Naughty list with me?" 

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[therandompagesblog]

Could you please do a fallen angel jeongin × reader oneshot?(it can be smut but obvs if you dont want to its fine🫶)

I hope you like it! I completely forgot about smut 🤦🏼‍♀️ I hope you enjoy it!!

The Fallen Angel

Summary: What happens when Y/N gets given a guardian angel but he is not what he seems to be. He is more mischievous. More seductive than an angel from God.

Rain lashed against the windows of Y/N's tiny apartment, mirroring the storm brewing inside her. Another day, another disastrous attempt at baking. This time, it was a chocolate cake, a pathetic, burnt offering that now adorned the counter, a monument to her culinary ineptitude. Frustration gnawed at her. Why couldn't she even bake a simple cake? She slumped onto the worn-out sofa, the scent of burnt sugar filling the air. Maybe she should just order takeout. Pizza sounded divine right now. As she reached for her phone, a strange sensation washed over her, a tingling warmth spreading through her veins. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the rain outside suddenly muted. Then, he appeared. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the stormy backdrop, was the most breathtaking man Y/N had ever seen. Tall and lean, with hair the colour of midnight and eyes that shimmered like polished obsidian, he exuded an aura of otherworldly grace. He smiled, a slow, captivating curve of his lips that sent a jolt of unexpected heat through her. "Hello, Y/N," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate deep within her. "I believe you've been expecting me." Y/N, speechless, could only stare.

Expecting him? Who was he? And how did he know her name? "I am your guardian angel," he explained, stepping further into the apartment. "Sent from above to guide you, to protect you." Guardian angel? Y/N blinked, bewildered. "But... guardian angels... aren't they supposed to be... you know, old and bearded?" He chuckled a low, melodic sound that made her knees weak. "Not always. Sometimes, they come in more... unexpected packages." He moved closer, his gaze intense, and Y/N felt a strange pull towards him, a magnetic force that defied logic. His presence filled the small apartment, pushing out the stale air and the scent of burnt cake. "Come," he urged, gesturing towards the sofa. "Let's talk." Hesitantly, Y/N moved to the sofa, the stranger following close behind. As he sat beside her, the air between them crackled with an unseen energy. Y/N, usually so clumsy and awkward, found herself strangely mesmerised by him, her usual insecurities forgotten. "What's your name?" she finally managed to ask, her voice a mere whisper. He leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek. "Jeongin." The name, like him, was both exotic and alluring. Y/N felt a shiver crawl down her spine, a sensation that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Jeongin smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Now, tell me, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a seductive purr, "what kind of trouble have you been getting into lately?" Y/N, completely flustered, could only stammer, "I... I burnt a cake." Jeongin threw his head back and laughed, a sound that was both playful and deeply unsettling. "Oh, Y/N," he said, his gaze fixed on her, "I think you're about to discover that burning cakes is the least of your worries." Jeongin's laughter, a low, melodious rumble, sent shivers down Y/N's spine. It was unlike any sound she'd ever heard, a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something... predatory. She felt a strange thrill course through her, a mixture of fear and excitement she couldn't quite explain. "Burning cakes is the least of your worries?" she repeated, her voice trembling slightly. Jeongin leaned closer, his gaze intense. "You have a soul, Y/N," he murmured, his voice a silken caress. "A beautiful, vibrant soul, yearning to break free from the mundane." His words sent a jolt of unexpected heat through her. Mundane? Was that how she lived her life? In a haze of routine, of missed opportunities? The thought was both unsettling and strangely liberating.

As the weeks turned into months, Y/N's life became a whirlwind of forbidden pleasures. She lived for Jeongin's touch, for the intoxicating thrill of their encounters. She abandoned her responsibilities, her focus solely on pleasing him, on exploring the depths of her newfound desires. Yet, beneath the surface of her exhilaration, a nagging doubt lingered. There was something unsettling about Jeongin, something that didn't quite add up. He was too perfect, too enigmatic. His eyes, when they caught the light, sometimes seemed to glow with an unnatural luminescence. One evening, as they were leaving a dimly lit bar, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the alleyway, extinguishing the flickering gas lamp. Y/N, startled, stumbled against Jeongin. As she reached out to steady herself, her fingers brushed against his cheek. To her astonishment, she felt something hard and smooth beneath his skin, something that shouldn't be there. It was like... feathers, she thought, though that couldn't be right. Jeongin, startled, pulled away, his eyes widening. "Y/N," he said, his voice a low growl, "what did you feel?" Y/N, confused and frightened, stammered, "I... I don't know. It felt... strange." Jeongin's eyes narrowed. "Forget about it," he said, his voice hardening. "It was nothing." But Y/N couldn't forget. The incident had planted a seed of doubt in her mind. Who was Jeongin really? What was he hiding.

Over the next few days, Jeongin became more distant, more possessive. He insisted on spending every waking moment with her, his jealousy flaring whenever she even glanced at another man. He became increasingly demanding, his touch turning from passionate to possessive. One night, as they lay entwined in her bed, Y/N felt a strange energy emanating from him, a pulsating warmth that seemed to emanate from deep within his chest. She reached out, her fingers tracing the contours of his chest. Suddenly, he stiffened, his body rigid. He pushed her hand away, his eyes filled with a strange, unsettling light. "Don't touch me," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. Y/N, startled, pulled back. "Jeongin, what's wrong?" He looked at her, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her blood run cold. "You're too curious, Y/N," he growled. "You're starting to ask too many questions." Fear, cold and clammy, gripped her heart. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she had crossed a line.

The next morning, as Y/N lay sleeping, she felt a strange sensation, a tingling warmth that spread through the room. She opened her eyes to see Jeongin standing by the window, the morning light illuminating his figure. But it wasn't Jeongin. Standing before her was not the man she had come to know, the man with the mesmerising eyes and the voice that sent shivers down her spine. Instead, she saw... something else. A being of pure, incandescent light, its form shifting and shimmering, wings of the purest white unfolding behind it. The creature turned, its gaze falling upon Y/N. And then, she saw them. Eyes, luminous and golden, filled with a power that made her gasp. Eyes that held a thousand years of wisdom, of sorrow, of... sin. The creature smiled, a slow, predatory curve of its lips that sent a jolt of terror through Y/N. "Good morning, my dear," it purred, its voice a low, melodious rumble that seemed to vibrate deep within her bones. "It's time for you to learn the truth." Y/N, paralysed with fear, could only stare. The creature moved towards her, its movements fluid and graceful despite its imposing size. As it drew closer, Y/N could see the intricate details of its form – the delicate tracery of its wings, the shimmering scales that covered its skin.

"You've been a good student, Y/N," the creature continued, its voice a silken caress. "You've embraced the darkness, you've tasted the forbidden fruit." Y/N, her voice trembling, whispered, "Who... who are you?" The creature chuckled, a low, melodious sound that sent shivers down her spine. "I am what you thought I was," it replied, its voice a silken caress. "An angel. But not the kind you were expecting." Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her. "An angel?" she whispered, her voice barely a whisper. "But... but you're not..." The creature smiled, a slow, predatory curve of its lips. "I am a fallen angel, Y/N," it confessed, its voice dropping to a seductive purr. "Banished from heaven for my disobedience, for my... indulgences." Y/N felt a cold dread creeping into her bones. "Indulgences?" she whispered, her voice trembling. The fallen angel leaned closer, its gaze intense. "I have always enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh," it murmured, its voice a silken caress. "The forbidden fruits, the intoxicating sins." It reached out, its fingers brushing against Y/N's cheek, sending a jolt of static electricity through her. She wanted to pull away, to scream, but she was frozen with fear. "You were an interesting experiment," the fallen angel continued, its voice a low growl. "A pure soul, ripe for the picking." "Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her. "You... you used me?" she whispered, her voice barely a whisper. The fallen angel smiled, a slow, predatory curve of its lips. "Of course," it admitted, its voice a silken caress. "You were the perfect vessel for my amusement." Y/N felt a surge of anger, a burning rage that threatened to consume her. She had been played, manipulated, used for the amusement of a fallen angel. "Why?" she demanded, her voice trembling with fury. "Why did you do this to me?" The fallen angel leaned closer, its gaze intense. "Because you intrigued me, Y/N," it murmured, its voice a silken caress. "You were a challenge, a puzzle to be solved." It leaned closer, its breath warm on her cheek. "And now, the game is over," it whispered, its voice dropping to a seductive purr. "It's time for the next stage."

Y/N felt a cold dread creeping into her bones. What did it mean? What was the next stage? The fallen angel smiled, a slow, predatory curve of its lips. "You will join me, Y/N," it whispered, its voice a silken caress. "In the depths of the abyss, where pleasure knows no bounds." Y/N, terrified, tried to scramble back, but the fallen angel was too quick. It reached out, its long, skeletal fingers wrapping around her wrists. "No!" she screamed, her voice filled with terror. "Let me go!" But it was too late. The fallen angel pulled her close, its embrace suffocating, its touch burning like fire. Y/N, her vision blurring, saw the world around her twist and distort, the colours bleeding together in a chaotic swirl. Then, darkness.

[clarkeyhill]

English Love Affair |George Clarke

Smut. Fluff

The second day in London had been a whirlwind of sights, sounds, and the kind of quiet exhaustion that comes from trying to soak up a new city in a short time. By the evening, though, I felt rejuvenated—excited, even. Max and Andrew had invited me to a bar, promising good drinks, great company, and a chance to unwind. It sounded perfect.

When I arrived, the bar was already buzzing, its dim lighting and low hum of conversation wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Max waved me over enthusiastically, Andrew grinning beside him. With them was—George.

He stood out immediately, not just because of his dark, fitted jacket or the way he seemed to command attention without trying. It was his aura. There was a quiet openness to him, like he was unafraid of being seen for who he was, yet something about him remained distant, guarded. His voice carried a calm dominance, each word weighted with intent.

We exchanged introductions, and he gave me a small, knowing smile that sent a jolt through me. It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly. It was something else entirely, something I couldn’t quite place.

The first round of cocktails came quickly, and we fell into easy conversation. Max and Andrew were their usual lively selves, recounting old stories and poking fun at each other. George was quieter but sharp, his occasional interjections landing with precision. He seemed content to let the others talk, his eyes lingering on me more often than not.

As the night progressed, the drinks flowed, and so did the laughter. But somewhere along the line, George’s demeanor shifted. His laid-back calm gave way to something more intense, more present. When I stood to go to the bar for another drink, he was suddenly beside me.

“I’ll get it,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I blinked at him, taken aback. “Oh, it’s fine, really. I can—”

“I insist,” he said, and there it was again—that sense of quiet dominance. Before I could protest further, he was placing the order, his body angled just slightly between me and the rest of the bar.

When we returned to the table, I noticed it wasn’t just me who had picked up on the shift. Max raised an eyebrow at George as he slid my drink in front of me. Andrew exchanged a look with him that was part confusion, part concern.

The moments that followed only heightened their curiosity. George seemed hyper-aware of my every move, his eyes scanning the room whenever someone got too close or lingered too long. At one point, a man bumped into me on his way to the bar, and before I could even react, George stepped in, his tone cold and clipped as he told the man to watch where he was going.

Max and Andrew weren’t subtle about their skepticism.

“Alright, George, what’s the deal?” Max asked, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve known her for what? Not even 24hours whats with the whole bodyguard act?"

Andrew nodded, his gaze flicking between George and me. “Yeah, mate, it’s a bit much. You’re acting like she's your… I don’t know, responsibility or something.”

George’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might brush it off. But then he looked at me, his eyes softer now, almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry if I’m coming on too strong,” he said, his voice low. “I just… I don’t like the idea of anything happening to you. London can be unpredictable.”

It was a strange answer, vague yet loaded. Max and Andrew still didn’t seem convinced, exchanging another look. I felt their concern, but I also couldn’t ignore the strange pull I felt toward George.

He was acting like he had some claim over me, and while a part of me bristled at the notion, another part—one I wasn’t ready to examine too closely—didn’t entirely mind. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, something that made me feel both protected and exposed in ways I hadn’t expected.

As the night wore on, Max and Andrew continued to watch him carefully, their protectiveness of me now matching his. And George, for all his guarded nature, seemed almost… possessive. It was disarming, intoxicating, and confusing all at once.

When we finally stepped out into the cool London air, George offered to walk me back to my hotel. Max and Andrew hesitated. But I found myself agreeing, curiosity and something deeper urging me to see where this strange night might lead.

As we walked, the city quiet around us, George’s earlier intensity seemed to fade. He spoke more freely now, his voice gentler, though still carrying that undercurrent of control.

“Tonight… I might’ve overstepped,” he admitted, glancing at me. “But there’s something about you. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.”

I didn’t know what to say. His words were bold, startling, and yet they resonated in a way I couldn’t deny.

The night had started as a simple outing with friends, but it had turned into something else entirely—something charged, unexpected, and impossible to forget. As I reached the door of my hotel, I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of my time in London would bring—and whether George would be part of it.

[thesingingrevolution]

maybe the boy who confessed to me through afrikaans lyrics was onto something because why do i see the appeal in making your feelings known through songs the person cannot understand

[chotachica]

Favorite part of The Dead Boy Detectives for sure is Edwin pulling literally every single age appropriate male character he interacted with. The absolute cunt ever

[wishchip106]

Charles looking like a classic bond villain with his attack dog boyfriend

you really wouldn’t guess they’re on opposing sides most of the time

[DO NOT SEPARATE]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Jin Ling: Master Sleuth

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[tanjir0se]

Every time I think Sasuke’s clear and obvious homosexual obsession with Naruto might be maybe a little one sided, Naruto will do something absolutely insane like walk into his childhood room after two years, grab his dusty picture of Sasuke, gently brush it off, fingers lingering for a moment over Sasuke’s face, and lovingly whisper “Sasuke…I’m home…”

[biblically-accurate-dca]

happy april fools here's a dumbass drawing i never finished

[cozylittleartblog]

trying out some new ideas

[xxplastic-cubexx]

chat he follows where you look ........

bonus erik's lil smile with his Magnetic Steps emote ....