#on itself right now and nothing takes my mind off it and i just keep crying LMFAOOOOOO. i hate it here
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frogchiro · 3 days ago
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Been thinking about Chris in the college AU…
I think he’s a fuckboy, but at his core he has trad sensibilities (because he’s an asshole). So he fucks around with girls at college, but his ultimate goal is to find a nice girl to marry who can stay in his house and raise his kids so she never has to use that pretty little college degree.
Maybe he’s a sophomore now, so he’s still looking to chase tail, not quite ready to find his wife, so he’s not looking very hard.
But then Leon keeps talking about you. And poor Leon… he has no idea that him talking about his crush on you and all of the things he likes about you is like dropping bleeding prey in a shark tank. If Leon had kept his crush a secret, you might never have been noticed by any of them! But now it seems like every guy in his frat wants a piece of you!
And Chris sees you occasionally around campus, in class, almost never at any parties. You’re a good student, well dressed (mostly modest!), with great hips and a great rack (childbearing!!). And one day he sees you sitting with Ashley for coffee, and you take a napkin to wipe some whipped cream from her mouth for her, and Chris has to run back to the house to take a cold shower because he can so easily imagine you doing the same thing to his babies when you have them. What?
You’re almost never at the frat parties, cause you’re a good girl. And when you are, he never sees you go off with any guys, never lets them feel you up, you never get sloppy and drunk like that other sluts that come to these things. You just delicately sip from your cup, smiling and laughing with your little group of friends. You wear such nice jewelry— his ring on your finger would fit so perfectly with your look. What?
And the way you brush off Krauser and Leon when they’re being sleazy and quite frankly, desperate. He might’ve fallen for you at the exact same moment as Krauser. And Chris has such a superiority complex about his attraction to you. Leon just has a stupid little boy crush, Krauser wants to dick you down stupid, and to be honest… he’s not entirely certain what Luis is angling for, but he knows it’s probably not anything virtuous. But Chris wants to make an honest woman outta you 💖 so in his mind, he’s the only one pursuing you for the “right” reasons.
And if you’re friends with Clair, he’s totally taking advantage of that. Fishing for information about you, asking if you maybe have somewhere to go during holiday break…
-🐱
Yeah tbh that sums Chris really well up ;; Also I apologize for not answering sooner I just had a lot going on with uni work and it really hindered my writing attempts </3
And yes, Chris is definitely that type of guy that will fuck any girl that is willing but they are the sluts!! They are the hoes who don't respect themselves and are only after the dick!!1 And he is the nice guy who will fuck them and throw them out afterwards bc he 'doesn't do feelings' or shit like that.
Chris is here only for a good time and ofc experience! Like you said, despite being an asshole and a obnoxious party and fuckboy, he has weirdly traditional values at heart; white picked fence, a sweet stay at home wife with a baby on her hip for who he will gladly provide for as the loving and caring husband and will need all the sexual experience to make his wifey feel good...But he still has time! He is in college for 'all the experiences' more than the education itself and he's not the sharpest tool in the shed with how reckless he is but that's fine!
...Until it isn't
It was all fine and dandy until Leon started to bring you up, some girl he met in class and was gushing over you. Okay, weird enough since Leon wasn't really the gushing type but fair enough, nothing to worry over. But then it started to escalate and Chris started to wonder what is going on with his friend. Leon stopped going on those casual dates, stopped hooking up, never even glanced at another girl and his whining about you got even worse.
The final straw for Chris was when he caught Leon jacking off and filming himself while whining something about 'please respond I send you a cumshot video, now you have to send me a pussy pic, please even a tit pic please-' and Chris knew he had to get to know this girl that made Leon so pussy whipped without even seeing it as far as he knows!
And yeah Chris probably saw you for the first time during that one party where you and your little friend rejected Krauser's advances and Chris almost snorted his drink out and spat on the girl he was flirting with; suits that blonde asshole right, and you're...You're honestly incredible in Chris's eyes. So assertive and composed...Your clothes on the more revealing side, your tits almost spilling out of that dress, fuck...But still nowhere slutty like other girls!
Chris definitely has a weird superiority complex; despite the fact that he's arguably the worst hypocrite out of the group he still believes that his love for you is the only 'real' one; Leon is a dumb horny rich boy with a middle school crush, Krauser will sleaze over pretty girls all the time and Luis is a certified ladies man, he refers to himself in that way for fucks sake! And then there is Chris who wants to wife you up! Isn't he charming?? Just please ignore those girls who complain about the hookups he had with them, they are probably just bitter that he threw them out <3
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hikarry · 4 hours ago
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I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing
I...Fucking hell
Just-
I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips
I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.
It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot
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Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to them—not quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.
This wasn’t his bed. This was Aziraphale’s.
Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphael’s sombre warning about the angel’s deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversation—Aziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowley—his eyes, his smile, his hands—captured in Aziraphale’s tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by if…
Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphale’s body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphael’s advice as best he could.
Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.
Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.
“Aziraphale!” he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.
He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphale’s name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.
Then, he spotted him.
Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterday’s horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowley’s panic and grounding him in a way only the angel’s presence ever could.
Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. “Aziraphale…” His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if he’s afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.
Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but there’s a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. He’s afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.
“I-I thought…” Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.
Aziraphale’s eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowley’s shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. It’s cold. The coolness of Aziraphale’s fingers seeps into Crowley’s skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. He’s here, yes, but there’s something wrong. Something’s missing.
“Forgive me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. “I woke hours ago and couldn’t bear to disturb your rest.” His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.
Crowley’s breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphale’s wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he can’t control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. “You… you scared me, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions he’s barely able to express. “I thought…” He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.
Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowley’s hands, his fingers cold, trembling—just as they were yesterday. The coldness isn’t just the absence of warmth, it’s something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowley’s bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphale’s touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever they’ve survived—whatever they’ve won—isn’t over. Not yet.
“Take a deep breath, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphale’s thumb traces circles on Crowley’s knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphale’s fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowley’s insides, pulling him down into a place he doesn’t want to go, a place where he can’t save Aziraphale, can’t stop whatever is coming.
Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. “How can you stay so calm?” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. “How can you act like nothing’s wrong when you…” He can’t finish the sentence. It’s too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.
Aziraphale’s lips form a smile—gentle, almost pitying—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness that’s invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphale’s warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.
Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowley’s with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. “We said what we had to say yesterday, remember?” he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s done, my dear.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowley’s heart. “Now we just have to keep going and see what happens.”
Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphale’s life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?
“Keep going?” Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. “You want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?” His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do something—anything—that might stop the inevitable.
Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. “I’m here now, Crowley,” he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. “I’m still here.”
“But for how long?” Crowley’s voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He can’t stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. “How much longer before…” He can’t finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphale’s hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.
“Remember what I told you yesterday,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley can’t quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but there’s a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. “Let’s make the most of the time we have left. Worrying won’t change anything right now.” His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in them—their time is slipping away, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it.
With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his body’s trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowley’s chest.
“Come now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?” Aziraphale’s voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. It’s almost maddening—the way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion around them.
“Coffee?” Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.
Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He can’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. It’s so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at him—like he’s floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.
“I can’t just…” Crowley’s voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. “Sit here and enjoy our time together, knowing…” His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. “Knowing that every moment could be our last.”
The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowley’s veins, the tension that hasn’t yet loosened its grip.
Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, they’re both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. “The more you focus on that fear, the less you’ll appreciate the time we have.”
His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowley’s mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. It’s not what Crowley wants to hear—not at all—but there’s something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way he’s not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.
Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.
“You don’t understand,” Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesn’t change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t just…” He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, “I can’t lose you.”
Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowley’s face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowley’s hand, the touch tender but insistent. There’s a stillness in him that Crowley can’t quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesn’t sit right with the storm of panic inside him.
“Then don’t,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. “Don’t lose me. Not yet. Not here.”
Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registers—his mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.
As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. “You can’t just expect me not to worry,” he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. “You can’t be so… accepting of your own fucking death. It’s… it’s not fair.”
Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away from the heat in Crowley’s words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphale’s touch is gentle, but there’s a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.
“What else can I do?” Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowley’s arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. “I’d rather focus on living—on cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can read—than worry over what may or may not come.”
The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they don’t make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. “You could… try. You could look for some way to fix this, to—”
He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphale’s cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.
Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it now—the faintest tremor in the angel’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. It’s that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like… giving up.
Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. “But you’ve already… given up, haven’t you?” His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isn’t fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.
Aziraphale doesn’t look away. His hand lingers on Crowley’s arm, but it’s colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. “No,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowley’s words. “I haven’t given up. I’ve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphale’s soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowley’s words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. “I haven’t given up, Crowley. I’m still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphael—to finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True Form…” He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowley’s forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. “But… the risk of it all… It’s real. I can’t just live my life in fear.”
The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. “So, we’re just… waiting?” he asks, his voice rough. “Waiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until… until everything is completely gone?”
He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.
Aziraphale’s hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. “We wait… until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,” Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.
Crowley’s knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “And if he finds there’s no cure?” he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question he’s been too terrified to face. “If he tells you that your core is… is set on destroying you?”
Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. “Then… we’ll have to accept it.” His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowley’s. “That’s why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.”
But the words only make Crowley’s chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “You say that like it’s easy,” he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Like I can just… sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That… that at any moment you could be gone.”
Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowley’s chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. “If it comes to that, you’ll regret not making the most of the time we had,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though he’s begging Crowley to understand.
Crowley’s heart aches at the angel’s words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching for the warmth he’s always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. “Enjoy what, angel?” he whispers. “Living each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could… disappear, just… just like that?”
His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.
Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. “That’s why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.” He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demon’s face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. “I’m here right now. I don’t want you looking at me and already seeing a memory… while I’m still right here.”
Crowley’s heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before he’s even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.
“How am I supposed to do that, angel?” he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “How can I just act like everything’s normal when I know it’s… it’s not?”
Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is cold—so painfully cold— the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. “Why?” Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. “Why do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think I’m gone?”
Crowley’s eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. “Because I’m terrified!” he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because the thought of losing you… it’s unbearable. And I feel so… so helpless, knowing I can’t stop it.”
The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as they’re spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowley’s cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. There’s anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. “Seeing you like this—feeling how cold you are…” he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. “It’s like you’re already slipping away from me.”
Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowley’s tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. “You’re grieving me before I’m even gone, Crowley,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”
The weight of Aziraphale’s words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphale’s voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. “You’re looking at me, but you’re not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, I’m already dead, aren't I?”
Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. “I see you, angel. I do.” His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. “But I can’t forget that you’re… that you’re not well. That you’re not…” He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if he’s afraid to even say the words.
He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him—searching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one he’s known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like they’ve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.
Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowley’s jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured books—careful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. “I may be the one who’s sick,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s skin, “but you’re the one leaving me before I’m even gone.”
Crowley’s heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like there’s too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. “I can’t help it, all right?” he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphale’s wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angel’s skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. “Every time I look at you, it feels like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.”
Aziraphale’s gaze drops to where Crowley’s hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like he’s caught between something painful and something beyond his control. “Crowley…” His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. “You can’t go on like this.” He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. “You’re torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is what’s coming—and that’s going to destroy you too. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”
Crowley’s chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contact—the absence of the only thing that’s felt real in this moment—almost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowley’s heart with it.
“You should go.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphale’s eyes—those kind, eternal eyes—hold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s staring at the angel he’s loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man he’s losing.
Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The ground beneath him feels like it’s slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesn’t know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. “What..? You… you’re telling me to leave?”
Aziraphale doesn’t turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to leave you now, when you’re… when you’re like this?”
The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphale’s slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain he’s trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowley’s mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphale’s eyes even without looking directly at him. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. “I can’t keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”
He walks toward the sink, taking Crowley’s empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though it’s the only thing he has control over right now. “Go.”
Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. “No,” he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. “No, angel. You can’t… you can’t tell me to leave. I can’t just walk away, knowing you might…”
His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he can’t push away. “I won’t leave you, angel. I can’t.”
Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. “Why?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. “Is it because you love me, or because you’re feeling guilty?”
Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphale’s tone.
“Both,” he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. “Of course, both. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. “Sitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.”
But Aziraphale doesn’t move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. “Leave.” He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. “If you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.”
Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowley’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. “The angel who’s still here,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “Not just an empty shell.”
Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. “But if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guilt—not love—then don’t return.” His voice remains steady, but there’s a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.
Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isn’t right, that he can’t leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right—his love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isn’t enough to change the inevitable. He isn’t strong enough to fix what’s broken.
Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowley’s chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fair—that he can’t lose him—but his limbs feel as if they’re weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.
Aziraphale’s figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet.
Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphale’s departure pressing down on him. He watches the angel’s retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness
A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowley’s attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentley’s keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them there—another sign of the angel’s quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.
Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything that’s brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But there’s one feeling that cuts through it all—a deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.
He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphale’s nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.
The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb, each step feeling like it’s dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphale—his face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.
When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.
The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dream—too surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.
Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in waves—familiar, aching, unstoppable. There’s no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of what’s left unsaid, of what’s been broken beyond repair.
The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.
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pepprs · 2 years ago
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crying again lol ok
#purrs#and posting online abt it so i get immediate validation / support instead of asking for help from anyone im close to i know. but god fucking#damn it to hell. ok im going to be candid about this because it hurts so fucking bad. five years ago i met someone so important to me. and I#miss her so so so so much. and every space here i have a memory with her in. and she left in July and she’s gone. and im sobbing my eyes out#FOR WHY because it was over 6 months ago and im happier and she’s happier and we’re all happier. but i think im getting some aftershocks#being here for the first time without her exactly 5 years to the week we met: when she was so important to me. she was the whole reason i#even saw myself as something. and she’s fucking gone. she left. but she’s not dead like LMAO idk why im crying so hard when i could just#text her any time and tell her that i miss her. but idk. it’s just everything is stirring memories and they’re painful to think about now or#at least today because she’s gone and it all changed. i was just saying that i feel like im not having any emotions and tonight the grief ju#just rammed into me like a train and my fucking counselor sucks ass and won’t even help me work through it and everyone is busy and tired an#and im a staff coach so im not supposed to be having a fuckjng mental breakdown over **** pacing around in my bathroom at 1:23am but ive be#been thinking about her so much and remembering all the formative interactions i had with her here and missing her so much i want to explode#and die and p*ke and whatever. so stupid to cry about it but i fucking miss her. and i hate that she’s not here. and i’m trying so hard to b#be her but i have to be me but i can’t not have what she brought here and im just crashi ng and burning and can’t be honest and im having a#breakdown and crying so hard and i don’t know what to do. i ithink i’ll be fine after some sleep and reflection but my heart is like seizing#on itself right now and nothing takes my mind off it and i just keep crying LMFAOOOOOO. i hate it here#delete later#like how can you look at me like that and then fuck off to ****** 4.5 years later. you know? im about to punch a hole into the hallway#and i have to be quiet bc ppl are trying to sleep but it’s making me fucking crazy.#retreat tag
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what-even-is-thiss · 4 months ago
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The reason people don’t want to work is that it’s just normal for them to be in bad work environments.
My issue with working at Walmart wasn’t the work itself I was doing. It was the circumstances around it. The concrete floor, lack of places to sit, having to put up with asshole customers, not getting time off for injuries, and bad pay.
If I had been given shock pads to stand on or a few chairs to rest on sometimes, if they paid me a livable amount of money and I was allowed to yell back at asshole customers, if they had given me any amount of training, I would happily work part time folding clothes all day and telling people where the swimsuit section is.
I’m a creative type. I’m a writer. I’m pretty smart, even. But if I could make a living folding shirts and listening to podcasts in one ear and helping people find the scented candles for 30 hours a week? I would. Leaves some mental space free for me to brainstorm. Lets me catch up on my reading with audiobooks.
But instead I was treated so badly by upper management and customers that I’m like legitimately a little frightened whenever I step into a Walmart now. And I only worked there for three months a few years ago.
I’m a good lower level worker. When I’m treated well. I like finishing tasks. I like being helpful. I like having some time to talk to coworkers and some time alone with my thoughts. I’m a frickin team player. And that’s how I was at my first job. I was treated well by my supervisor. I was trained. They were patient with me. I was so good at being low on the totem pole at that job because I was valued and felt like I was being listened to. I was able to sit still when there was nothing left to do which made it feel less bad when we were on a time crunch. I didn’t mind working hard at that job because it was fun even though I was doing all the low level stuff that the supervisors didn’t want do.
But at Walmart I was like that for all of two days. Then I figured out that nobody appreciated my work and if I worked in my normal people pleasing manner I’d kill myself because their standards were high and the rewards for meeting them were low.
So I slowed down. I started avoiding customers. I started taking a lot longer to get to my breaks and to come back from them. I became worse at my job because no matter how good I was at it there would be no reward, no appreciation, and I’d just be pushed further beyond my limits.
My only level of happiness from that job came from the people who were working with me. The old ladies and my department manager who made sure I wasn’t overextending myself. The one other young man working in the clothing department who always got sent with me to unload the heavy stuff and commiserated with me about the shoulder injuries, the hurting feet we were too young to have.
But none of that was enough to make me stay. We were constantly understaffed. I was constantly abused by customers and not able to do a thing about it. I was not paid much at all. So as soon as I had enough saved up for what I was trying to do and my last semester of college was about to start I handed in my two weeks.
I would have found a way to stay if I liked that job. If I liked that job I would’ve pushed myself to my mental limits to finish college and keep that job at the same time. Heck that job could’ve been a rest from college. A place to get away from it. But I hate that job so I got out as soon as I could.
I want to work. I want enough money to live sort of comfortably. I want to have some tasks to do to give my creativity a rest. I want to be a part of something. But the way that modern corporate run work environments are set up does not give me any of the things I actually want out of a job. And I think that’s the same for millions of people right now. A lot of people would happily spend their lives as a waitress or an Uber driver or a warehouse worker or a farmhand or any other “low skill” job you can possibly think of. But with the way the world works right now those jobs are absolutely miserable. It doesn’t have to be that way. I know because I’ve had a fulfilling part time minimum wage job that I looked forward to going to every week. A job where I was listened to and allowed to sit when I needed to. I miss that job. Especially now since I’ve realized that’s not the standard. It should be. People should look forward to going to work or at the very least not get mild ptsd whenever they set foot into a Walmart.
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multimilfs · 1 month ago
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Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader x Rio Vidal: The Prize
Summary: Agatha has been fighting to reclaim her prize from Rio for a long time.
AO3
Included: dark themes, lesbian drama & yearning, near-death experiences, smut; biting, orgasm denial, praise kink, degradation, s&m, blood, fingering, cunnilingus, use of pet names, begging
Words: 9.7k
Tag List: @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @escapetodreamworld @white--lillies @imtrashinflames
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1750
Glowing hands press over the seeping wound, magic swirling around them, diving inside. There’s no satisfaction of watching the flesh knit itself back together. Instead, your magic drifts right back out like smoke. 
Oh Goddess. 
“Do take your time.” Agatha snaps, voice strained, “I have absolutely no plans.” 
Five types of poison are immune to tangible magic. You know antidotes for three. Staring hard at the wound, you look for the blackened edges consistent with Nightrot, finding the flesh as red and irritated as to be expected. Is it swelling or screaming that goes with Alewife’s Revenge? A glance up at her face finds it normal. Her lips are pursed. 
Your hands shake, one hovering over the open wound in her middle, the other clutching your head. Remembering has never mattered more so why is your mind empty? Pieces of information slip through your fingers like sand. Dozens of cadavers, hundreds of hours of study; useless. 
Unable to rely on your memory, you scramble across the floor for the dagger that’d flown from the wall. The little light coming from the boarded windows prompts the metal to glint. The edge of the blade is sticky with blood, beneath it a metallic sheen that can only be a witches poison. You hold it up to the slant of light to see the color. 
“Are you out of your mind? Heal me!” 
You drop the dagger the second the poison glints purple. You slap your hand over your mouth, panic beginning to course through your veins; the body’s own special brand of poison. 
How are you going to tell her?
“I’m trying!” You snap, voice breaking. 
It’s a cruel joke that the poison should be so well matched to the witch bearing its effects. You stare at the edge as it rocks from being dropped, your stomach turning when the color doesn’t change. If only you could be wrong this once. 
Were you a lesser witch, you’d curl in a little ball and quail under the weight of your failures. The idea is seductive. Yet, you turn to Agatha where she lies, pale and sweating on the floorboards. The pallor of her skin makes you whimper. 
“Agatha,” You start, your voice holding just enough, “it’s Saura’s Dread.” 
Things click into place behind her eyes despite the glazed-over look to them. She fights to find a way out of this, but you know well that the reality cannot be avoided. 
“Give it to me. You’re wrong.” 
“I know poisons better than most.” You hand the dagger over anyway. 
“That’s not saying much.” 
The comment stings, but you let it slide off you. You cannot give into petty squabbles now. With so little time to find a solution, you have to focus. 
She stares hard at the blade as if willing it to change. 
“Brew the antidote.” 
“I can’t.” You whisper. 
There’s a flicker of something in her gaze that looks suspiciously like rage. Your own internal fire leaps to meet it; of all the emotions to look upon you with—rage? As if this is your fault? You’re not the one that dragged her into this old cabin, intent on sifting through the contents. 
It’s not your fault. You know that as the truth. Yet, shame floods you. 
“You’re a healer.” Agatha spits, “What good are you if you don’t know the antidote?” 
“Someone didn’t let me stay with my coven long enough to learn it!” 
“The next time someone tries to keep you from me, I’ll let them.” 
The fire in your chest ebbs. An old argument at an inconvenient time. There will be no rough makeup sex following this argument, no unspoken apologies in Agatha’s kisses. All the time, all the bodies; they cannot be for nothing. They mean too much. 
Fleetingly, you feel pity for your old coven. In their minds they had attempted to do the right thing. Keeping you from Agatha must have seemed reasonable. But you remember how many bodies they made, how pleased it made Her. 
Saura’s Dread takes its victim within six hours. This, you know confidently. The demise is slow and painful, a poison intended for torture. You can’t stand to see Agatha in this kind of pain. You’re not ready for her to be just another body.
“I’m calling Her.” You say. 
“No.” Agatha counters, “She’ll never let me live it down.” 
“You won’t live down anything if you’re dead, Agatha.” 
“I won’t die.” 
She’s an idiot. 
Magic flowing into your fingertips, you trace familiar symbols on the floor. They glow bright and then dim as they wait. Around your neck sits an old, jagged bone, tied by a thread; you use the end of said bone to split your palm and drip blood over the symbols. 
Agatha’s mouth is moving, but you don’t listen. You mutter the incantation in latin under your breath. The words—old and comforting—curl your tongue in ways that you’ve only known between two pairs of legs. You end the incantation with the key that gets you around the waiting list; Her name, Her true name. 
There’s a blinding flash of light and a puff of fog, but the symbols contain it. You catch the glint of white teeth. 
“You rang?” 
Rio smiles, clad in darkness and bone and that same beauty that always stops you in your tracks. Upon seeing her, you breathe easier.
“We need your help.” 
“You wouldn’t have called so formally if it was quality time you wanted.” Amusement dances in her eyes. 
She eyes the symbols on the floor. They no longer glow, but still they contain her. She scuffs a foot along them. 
You smudge the symbols and the containment drops. Stepping over the magic as it sinks down into the earth, she catches you by the waist and devours you; lips and teeth and tongue dominating your own, leaving you helpless to do anything but give in. And you’re all too willing to do so. 
When she pulls back, you’re breathless. Somewhere in the fray your lip has begun to bleed. Rio soothes her tongue over the wound and you feel it close. 
“Hand.” 
You offer the demanded appendage, palm up. She places a kiss in the center and licks the blood from her lips. 
Rio turns her head to where Agatha has dragged herself to sit against the wall. The rise and fall of her chest is slow, but there. She glares at the two of you. You flush while Rio grins. 
“Hi, sweetheart. You look like shit.” Rio says, delighted. 
“A side effect.” Agatha grits out, “The same can’t be said for you.” 
Rio tilts her head back and laughs. It’s deep and rich and fills you with thoughts that are not appropriate for this situation. The hand on your waist squeezes as if she knows. Then, she releases you. 
She crosses to crouch before Agatha, devious smile shifting to something softer. One of her hands works through a lock of Agatha’s hair, brushing it out of her face. 
“What did you get yourself into?” 
Agatha’s eyes drop to Rio’s lips, but she stays silent. 
“Saura’s Dread.” You choke out, shame winding itself tight inside you, “I don’t—I can’t brew the antidote.” 
You should have done more to push off Agatha’s agenda; just so you would have finished your research. A few extra days wouldn’t have hurt. They would’ve infuriated Agatha—and Rio by extension—but then you would know the solution instead of watching her slowly wither away. 
Rio doesn’t look away from Agatha, but you know the soothing tone is for you, “It’s okay.” 
Something passes between the two that you miss. One moment, Rio holds Agatha’s face in her hand, while Agatha—hesitantly—leans into the contact. The next Rio is standing between the two of you, toying with her knife, all business. 
You feel a chill pass through you at the unfamiliar territory; staring into Rio’s eyes and finding the affection buried away. It stings more than knowing how you’ve failed. 
“You’re asking me for life in a bottle.” Rio says, grinning, “What do I get in return?”
Short of knowing that Rio would fix it should you ask, you find yourself shamefully bereft of anything with value. You search the space for anything to bargain with. Agatha’s eyes should be looking at you with knowing, but her gaze doesn’t leave Rio. 
When Agatha tilts her head and grins, turning on the bedroom eyes, you pause. 
“What you’ve wanted for years.” Agatha says, “Brew me a little potion and you can have her all to yourself.” 
Rio’s brows shoot sky high. You tilt your head, then freeze. It’s you. Agatha’s bargaining you.
There should be a sweetness in knowing you’re the only thing of value she has to offer, yet the taste is sour on your tongue. The words feel like a punishment, a reprimand—and not the kind you’ve begged at her feet for. That awful part of you would rather Agatha die than ever willingly give you up and Rio eyes you as if she knows it. Does it please her to know how they’ve twisted you?
One mistake, you think bitterly, and Agatha throws in the towel. Despite all the near-death experiences you’ve endured at her side. Despite the years you’ve spent together. You never expected a punishment of this proportion. 
You bite your tongue. At your sides, your fists clench and unclench. They glow with the anger you can’t keep hidden. 
Pride rears its unhelpful head and you speak before you can stop to think, “My life for Agatha’s.” 
Rio’s full attention is on you, then. Her eyes are bright. 
You speak directly to her, “I’m bound to you and The Road until such time as Agatha traverses it to collect me.” 
Had you not been so focused on Rio, you would have noticed Agatha flinch at your suggestion. Her wide, glassy eyes stare at you. You do not give her the satisfaction of your attention. If she is going to be cruel, so can you. 
Your terms are a challenge; and Agatha doesn’t turn down a challenge. 
Her devious, wicked mask clicks back into place. Rio’s expression is pensive. Despite the poison working through her system, Agatha almost looks as powerful as her best day. 
“You’d let me steal her away, O Death?” Agatha teases. 
The comment is salt in your open wound. You glare, wishing more than anything that you could wrap your hands around her pretty neck and squeeze. You want her not only to beg—but to apologize. 
But Rio’s eyes haven’t left you for a second. 
“Alright, sweetheart.” Rio says, “Your life, bound to mine, until Agatha comes to get you.” 
In it you understand the desire you both share; to have Agatha, one way or another. You wonder if the desire for possession is your own or something you’ve learned from her. 
From her pocket comes a small glass vial. She tosses it to Agatha, who only barely catches it. She cradles it like something precious. 
“Drink up.” Rio orders. 
Then Rio is there, arm around your waist, holding all your pieces together. You lean into her comfort as color returns to Agatha’s cheeks. 
“Te veo.” 
--
1754
“She waits for you.”
Agatha whips around, purple crackling at her fingertips. At the edge of the clearing, Rio leans her weight against a gnarled tree, eyeing the withered husks of once-witches in the grass with interest. She looks almost predatory. 
“Does she?” 
Rio nods, eyes shifting to Agatha, “Like a puppy. It’s almost pathetic.” 
It is pathetic, is what she should say. Time and affection have curbed her tongue on this small thing at least. On you. Agatha’s smile is knowing. 
Rio has pulled her punches toward you since the beginning. Agatha’s never minded. It’s almost sweet watching the oldest force in the multiverse tiptoe around a witch barely into her second century. Is it that craving for ancient knowledge in your veins that renders Rio down, or is it simply your pretty face? 
Does it matter? 
“I don’t have what I need yet.” Agatha rolls her eyes, “Witches these days don’t have the power they used to.” 
“Or maybe you’re leveling the population before they have time to strengthen.” Rio raises a brow. 
Agatha thinks, deliberately dramatic, then shrugs, “No, that’s not it.” 
With a shake of her head, Rio steps out from the treeline, and closes the distance across the clearing. Agatha watches every step with dark eyes. The stench of death and magic sends a chill down Rio’s spine; there’s nothing more delicious than a life snuffed out. 
The wind slows in the trees as if sensing her. Birds silence their sweet tunes. There is frantic rustling in the trees somewhere as creatures do all they can to get away. 
Yet Agatha stands, waiting, and allows Death to pull her into her embrace. 
One of Rio’s great loves is watching skin split so she can lap up the blood at her own pace. Yet, when her hands settle on Agatha’s hips, they’re gentle. She doesn’t open wounds with her teeth. Rather, she moves her lips over Agatha’s until she can’t breathe. Agatha is wary when she pulls back. 
Rio shrugs, “A message from her.” 
“I see. Forgiven me, has she?” A slow, taunting grin, “Anything from you?” 
“Have you earned it?” 
“These bodies didn’t make themselves.”
A tilt of her head, as if considering, “Maybe you’ve earned something small, then.” 
And they meet in a clash of lips and teeth. Rio’s hands are everywhere, leaving behind deep claw marks that make Agatha moan into her mouth. Agatha’s own nails pierce through cloth and skin at her hips but draw no blood. She tries to push Rio backward toward one of the trees, she just needs a little leverage and Rio’s thigh to—
Rio pulls back. She grins something wicked at the flash of Agatha’s purple.
“Something small.”
Agatha makes a face, batting her lashes. Rio doesn’t give in. 
“You’re awful.”
“You love it.” Rio says, then her face takes on something more serious, “Don’t keep her waiting, Agatha.”
Then she’s gone as if she was never there; the only evidence being the bleeding marks on her skin. Agatha stares at where she stood for a long time before moving on.
--
1801
The Road changes, you’ve seen, as the covens come along. Small cottages, ancient ruins—the most interesting was an old system of catacombs, though it lacked the remains you’d been intent on studying.
Your favorite, though, is the bower, absent of any illusions or spells.
Beneath a canopy of purple leaves upon a seat of grass, you watch the events unfold from afar. An old curved trunk sits at your back keeping you upright. The animals—lost familiars, mostly—wander up to you here, nibbling at fallen leaves and taking up residence in your lap.
From outside it could be mistaken for a simple tree. Yet, beneath it, the world is at your fingertips. The position of your place presents the underside of millions of glowing leaves to your view; lives, Rio said, witch and non-witch alike.
You find the one you love best among the foliage. You trace your finger down the purple veins, hoping she feels you, thinks of you, misses you. The veins seem to glow a little brighter at your touch.
Rio doesn’t enjoy you toying with them; worried a wrong move on your part will take a life too soon, upsetting the greater balance she’s beholden to. But she taught you how to handle Agatha’s. Trace, never prod. Caress, but never pluck.
A black cat settles in your lap and you sit straighter.
Soothing a hand down her back, she purrs. Her little body presses against your stomach and basks in your warmth.
“You really are too predictable.” Rio says.
She stands a few feet away, clad in dirt and muck, yet still beautiful. Always beautiful.
“I like it here. It’s comforting.”
“You like being close to Agatha.” She corrects.
The leaf in question glows brighter as if sensing the mention. You trace a finger along the edge, willing all your love into it.
“This is all I have of her.” You admit.
Something like softness creeps into Rio’s face. As soon as it appears, it recedes. She joins you under the canopy. The cat in your lap startles and leaps from your lap, darting back into the underbrush.
You had never thought to secure some token of Agatha’s, then. Now, with nothing of her’s to hold close, you settle for her life-line, begging it to tell you her whereabouts and if she’s safe; it is always silent. Rio is, too. She doesn’t mention much when you ask, though you know she knows the actions of every life tied to her.
The Road is a wonderful home. Rio is an attentive partner. But you ache, still, for the other set of hands you knew; those who were predictable in their firmness, balancing the sudden changes of Rio’s own.
“You’re crying.” Rio says.
Her face is dark, but fury lingers around the edges. Something like worry flutters in and out of her eyes. You have nothing to say, so you only nod.
Then you’re in her lap. Rio’s bunching up your dress to your waist, canines embedded in your neck. Her nails dig into your hips and the blood warms you. You whimper.
Lips kiss down your neck while a hand hovers between your legs. You bear down, desperate for any friction to dull the ache. And she gives it to you. Her hand is exactly where you want it, fingers rubbing and pressing, and you grind your hips hard, harder until you’re right there.
And then her hand is gone.
You whine. Your hips move of their own volition, searching for that pressure to send you right over the edge. Rio’s lips catch your own in a bruising kiss and you whimper into her mouth.
Needy, desperate, you can almost hear her say.
But when she pulls away and digs her nails in harder, she whispers, “Cry for me, sweetheart.”
She alternates between giving you what you crave and rescinding it for hours. You whimper, moan, and beg. She laughs and repeats herself—cry for me. You lose count of how many almost-orgasms tighten your body just to go unfulfilled. You do cry. You sob and she’s there, tongue licking up your tears and knuckle deep inside you, thumbing over your clit until you have what you want.
You’re not sure how long you lay there, after, crying against her.
--
1833
Rio’s arm is warm where you’re wrapped around it. She leads you through the winding stone streets, around grand buildings with stained-glass windows. Some of the scenes depicted in the glass are beautiful, simple; but the majority are Catholic in nature, dripping with sadness and guilt. You shake your head.
Passersby nod or tilt their hats, but don’t seem to see you. Their eyes go especially glassy when they look at Rio.
Whereas you’re clad in a dress of rich layered fabric, Rio has opted for more masculine attire. The low heels of her dress shoes click upon the stone. The unwrinkled fabric of her suit smells of smoke.
Your heels don’t quite agree with the stone. After the fifth time of a near-twisted ankle, you huff, “Could I not have worn flat shoes?”
“The heels compliment your legs.”
“You can’t even see them.”
“Yet.” She winks.
You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat suffusing your cheeks. Another nod to a passing couple and Rio makes a sharp turn. You’re led into a damp, dim alleyway.
The ground is made from rough slabs of uneven stone. You curse when your heel slips and only Rio’s strength keeps you standing. Water slides down the walls on either side, thick moss growing in the cracks. You reach out to feel it only for your hand to come away red.
If not for Rio pulling you along, you’d have screamed. Blood cascades down the walls. From it grow dark, twisted plants you’ve studied beside The Road. Beneath the plants and out of them come bones; most have yellowed with age, but there is the occasional bright-white specimen.
Surprise aside, you lean toward the bones with interest. Still, Rio presses on.
The alleyway is growing slimmer by the second. Should it continue to do so, you’ll be forced to walk behind Rio, and the thought makes you tense.
Rio squeezes your hand, “Relax, sweetheart.”
“I’d relax more if I knew what we were doing here.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Before you’re forced to walk single-file, you come to the end. Rio traces a counter-sigil upon the stone. With a shudder, a door is revealed. Above the silver knocker, embedded in the door, sits an unblinking eyeball. The blue pierces you.
Rio pulls and slams the knocker. The eyeball falls from the door and hits the ground with a sickening pop. You nearly shriek while Rio makes noises of delight.
“Ooh,” She chuckles, “we’re not the first to arrive.”
You try not to think about what the eye must look like now, “Can I go home?”
“Why so squeamish all of a sudden? You handle the cadavers I bring you just fine.”
“That’s different. That’s research.”
“Who says this isn’t, sweetheart?”
The door opens soundlessly. Inside, the scene is much the same; another dark, slim space, though notably absent of plants and body parts. The owner of this place must be allergic to candles, the lighting situation is just pathetic.
Rio waits. When you make no move to walk inside, she sighs, nudging you with a hand on your lower back, “Ladies first.”
You’re not sure if being first or last is the worst. If anything is to jump from the walls now, you’ll take the brunt of it; you’re reminded of that day with Agatha all those years ago. Rio’s warmth at your back offers the strength you need to continue. Though, you do cling to her hand the whole way.
The hallway empties into a full room. Dark shelves match the height of the walls, on them jars full of ingredients. There are tables boasting dozens of drawers, though none sit open. Glasses and tools and cauldrons line the tabletops. In the center of it all are two figures; well, one figure and one corpse.
You can’t catch your breath. She’s as beautiful as the day you lost her.
“Agatha.” You whisper.
Agatha turns and smirks. She doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see you as you do her. Upon seeing you, her expression softens, eyes full of affection and longing. It hardens a bit when she glances behind you.
“You ruined the surprise.” Rio says, arms crossed, though one motions to the corpse, “We needed her.”
“What could you possibly need with a poison witch?”
“Our darling healer wanted to study with her.”
Something like regret turns Agatha’s face when she regards you. With a wave, she produces a thick book full of yellowing pages. You tilt your head when she offers it to you.
“Her life’s work. I’m sure there’s more here somewhere.” Agatha shrugs.
You take it and hold it to your chest reverently. All this time you thought Rio was putting you off about finding a competent poison witch and yet here you are, standing in her apothecary. She lies dead on the floor but you couldn’t care less when the real gift stands before you.
You long for her. You ache to feel the gentle caress of her hands on your face, the threat of her nails on your scalp.
A look at Rio tells you she isn’t entirely pleased with the turn of events. Yet when she sees your excitement some of her ire dissipates. The yearning in your eyes must be plain, since she gives you a single nod.
Book of poisons tossed onto the tabletop, you throw yourself into Agatha’s arms. She’s as steady as you remember. Her hand grips your chin and forces your lips to hers. Her hands are predictably firm wherever they land. She grips you as if afraid you’ll slip away. But her kiss, oh gods her kiss; soft lips and taunting, sharp tongue. The length of her body pressed against your own and so warm.
There are hands in your hair and this is all you’ve wanted—all you’ve craved for years. Why, then, do you feel the urge to cry? To rip the heart from your chest and banish it to where it won’t hurt?
Agatha is warm and steady. You bury your face in her neck and her in yours. Your hands shake with the force of clinging to her.
The feeling is bliss. Yet, it isn’t complete.
You glance over Agatha’s shoulder to Rio. She stands in the doorway, watching the scene with dark-eyed interest; but there’s a weariness in the set of her shoulders.
“Beloved.” You call, holding one of your hands out to her.
Rio raises a brow. Her eyes don’t stray from your outstretched hand.
“This is your gift, sweetheart.”
“And it’s incomplete without you.”
Her eyes stray to Agatha, who has taken to watching her, too. This time, Agatha’s eyes don’t harden. They maintain that soft look you melt for.
Agatha extends her own hand alongside yours.
“Come on.” Agatha urges, soft.
You watch the resolve break moments before she wedges her way into your embrace. Her fingers lace through yours, but her face is pressed into Agatha’s neck. She pushes and nuzzles like she wants to become part of her. It reminds you of the cat that visits the bower—Ebony—but you don’t dare say so.
Agatha’s hands leave you to caress Rio’s face. A thumb rubs along her cheekbone. You press yourself against Rio’s back, unable to glimpse her face but sure of the longing in her expression.
In a perfect world, there would be no separation between the three of you. No clothes, no emotional barriers, not even flesh to keep your hearts from mingling into one. You settle for Rio’s hand in your own and Agatha’s blue eyes locked on you.
You lean over Rio’s shoulder and kiss Agatha, your free hand fumbling with getting into the former’s pants. She chuckles darkly in your ear. It ignites a spark in your chest; a dangerous longing for this to remain, to be always. You try to push it away and focus on how Rio moans in your ear instead.
--
1869
“Will you walk with me?”
Rio nods, smiles grandly, “Of course.”
You laugh. She holds out her arm, ever the picture of a gentleman, but you lace your fingers through hers instead.
As a rare treat, you lead. You pull her along the road. The leaves change beneath your feet, from silver and black to the hues of autumn and then to pure green. The Road opens its arms into a clearing bathed in the color. Only the stone building in the center stands apart.
Upon your approach, flowers grow in the flattened grass where you step; honeysuckle and heliotrope, baby’s breath and red chrysanthemum. Rio glances over her shoulder as the blooms spring forth.
Ivy grows up the walls of the building. You brush a gentle hand over the leaves.
Crumbling, worn headstones en masse wait behind the building. 
Rio tilts her head, “What is this?”
The door is unlocked. You knew it would be. The Road cannot keep you from this place. 
Inside is warm and hazy. Papers with elegant scrawl cover every surface, books half-open litter any free spaces. Shelves line the walls, jars bearing various specimens. Plush couches overflow with deep, red cushions, begging you to sit and stay. A fire cracks in the fireplace.
Rio turns this way and that. She wanders around the room, flipping through books. A fingernail taps against a jar full of eyes. An errant paper is plucked from where it sits haphazardly atop the mantle. She stops.
You know the paper the second she comes into contact with it; can remember the way you wax poetic about how beautiful she is, how safe you feel in her arms. She picks another, then another, so on, and you know every word the second she touches them; the way she unwinds in Agatha’s arms, her face twisted in perfect fury, the lightless turn of her eyes when she teeters on the edge of wickedness.
She looks at you, vulnerable and unsure, “What is this?”
“My heart.”
“That… then why is all of this here?”
Her hand shakes the papers for emphasis. You resist the urge to laugh, lest she think you’re making light of her. Death can be cruel, but you try not to be.
You step close. Gently, the papers are extracted and returned to their places. Rio stares and hardly breathes as you take your face in her hands.
“You pulled away after that night.” You whisper, finger tracing her cupids-bow, “Do you think I touch you only because it is convenient?”
Rio’s lip curls. Fists bunch at her side, crackling with green light. You feel the rumble of her anger working through her chest. She tries to pull from your hold, but you don’t let her.
“Do you think I kiss you and pretend it’s her?”
Rio snarls, “I will kill you if you don’t stop talking.”
You smile. The threat is a real one, but you don’t fear it; the outcome is remaining by her side. With one hand you reach and pull one of her fists between you. You unravel it, trying not to flinch against the bursts of power over her skin. You press the palm of her hand over where your heart resides inside your chest.
The snarl fades just so. Fury still lingers in her eyes. You press your hand over hers and will her to see, to know.
“Look at the walls.” You order.
Upon the walls, plain and dark, shimmering scrawl appears. Agatha Harkness, it reads in shaky lettering; like a name carved into a tree. One signature turns into ten and ten into countless. Purple and shimmering is Agatha’s brand upon you. Rio yanks and reaches for the dagger she keeps handy.
Rio’s true name appears in shimmering green letters, then. Same as Agatha’s, there are countless signatures. They conjoin and overlap until the walls of your heart look like nothing more than a child’s colorful scribbles.
She stares at the walls in disbelief. The knife in her hand clatters to the ground.
“I’ve carved your names upon my heart so I’ll never forget who it belongs to.” You whisper.
“Sweetheart…”
You bend and collect her blade, pressing it into her hand, “Now do it yourself.”
Her hand wraps around the handle reflexively. Rio’s hand doesn’t leave the spot over your heart, feeling the steady, truthful beat.
“It’ll hurt you.” Rio says. She doesn’t bother hiding the desire in her voice.
You urge, “Make me hurt.”
Each artful stroke of her blade is slow. You whimper, but grip her wrist and push the blade deeper into your flesh. She scoffs when tears flood your eyes. The tears run down your cheeks while you smile, filled with bliss and ache in equal measure.
It’s a gift to love so deeply it wounds you. You never want her to stop; who, aside from your shared scar, holds such power? Who else in the world could touch your heart truly enough to carve into it?
There’s delight in her every movement. She consumes the pain of millions and yet, none of it is of her own making. She can only relish in what others have done; torture for a being who remains eternally intimate with the greatest methods of drawing out agony. Death has no free will but that you offer her—and she takes what none else would give, ravenously.
Is it enough?
Not forever, something tells you, you think it might be her, but for now.
--
1925 
“You called?” Rio asks. 
“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re avoiding me.” 
Agatha leans against the wall beside a small window. The pane has been slid upward, letting in the sounds of the city below, releasing the smoke of Agatha’s cigarette into the air outside. 
The cigarette is clutched in gloved hands. Her expression is amused as she draws in and releases the smoke, watching it form the shapes she wills. Though it has no effect on such a witch, Rio admires the object’s capability of bringing Agatha infinitesimally closer to her. 
“We’ve been busy.” 
“Busy or not, I’d say twelve bodies earns me a visit. And with the bulk of good booze I just removed from the market, I’d say I’ve earned a little more.” 
An obvious lure with paltry bait, still Rio bites, “What do you have in mind?”
“Let me see her.” 
She should. You’ve come to accept Agatha’s absence in your life, but she sees how much time you spend in the bower, and how you flinch when her name comes up. Rio hadn’t expected the frequency of Agatha’s name on the lips of covens walking the road to be so overwhelming, but it always drives you right into her arms; that she will relish. 
But Death is not giving. She takes. Taking is, in fact, her favorite hobby. Twelve bodies is not enough to make up for the haunted look in your eyes. She wants more—will have it. Agatha has to earn you. 
“I’ll need a little more from you.” Rio drawls. 
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to kill that many witches here with the nightlife?” Agatha throws her hands up. Ash flies from the forgotten cigarette. 
The sounds of Chicago seem to grow louder, as if to aid her point. Rio grins. She crosses the small space and takes the cigarette, snuffing it out on the back of Agatha’s hand. The action prompts a quiet moan. 
“It shouldn’t be a problem. What I want, you have an abundance of.” Rio’s smile widens as she manipulates Agatha’s hand, removing the glove, pushing and prodding until purple flashes along the flesh. 
A cooling breeze sneaks in the window and rustles the fringe along Agatha’s dress. It’s a beautiful thing, short and decadent. Rio knows you’ve enjoyed the few sightings of the period fashion you’ve glimpsed, but like her, you’d enjoy this specific dress in a pile on the floor. 
Agatha’s eyes stare at where Rio’s flesh meets her own. Her eyes are contemplative, calculating. She hesitates. And that is her fatal mistake. 
Rio throws her across the room with a shove. Agatha’s side hits one of the walls and she falls, face-first, onto the mattress she’s been sleeping on. The springs shriek at the sudden weight. Agatha snarls, throwing out a blast of purple that slams into Rio’s chest. Rio moans something filthy. 
There’s a brief struggle where Rio does her best to keep Agatha pinned; to the bed, to the wall, wherever there’s a surface. Yet Agatha is slippery. Her magic whisks her right out of the hold Rio puts her in and wherever Agatha wills it; which currently, is behind the other witch so Agatha can kick the back of her knees. Rio kneels not of her own volition. 
She braces to stand, only to find the blade of her own dagger at her throat. 
Rio’s gaze has lost any warmth. Her affection is buried deep, beneath layers and layers of earth she craves to bury Agatha in right this second, “You’re breaking her heart.” 
“That shouldn’t be a problem, you like seeing her cry.” 
“When I’m the one responsible.” 
Agatha rolls her eyes. She maintains a carefully ambivalent expression. Rio knows better; knows, under all that forced emotion, that Agatha’s heart is waging against her head, warring over her selfish desire to keep every bit of power. 
Then, something shifts. Rio feels it. Agatha has made her choice and it isn’t you. And it ignites a rage in her chest unlike anything she’s felt in centuries. 
She snatches the dagger back from Agatha’s grasp and only just barely resists the urge to bury it in her chest. If she has to drag Agatha back to you kicking and screaming, she will. You would like that, wouldn’t you?
“I’ll kill you.” Rio vows, and means it. Agatha can’t run away from the two of you if her soul is Rio’s to keep. 
Agatha’s eyes flash with fear. Then, she grins around it, “If you can catch me.” 
Latin words roll off Agatha’s tongue faster than Rio can comprehend. She recognizes the words and what they mean, where they’ve come from. Rio reaches out with her magic for the Darkhold too late; it, and Agatha, have completely vanished from her awareness. 
When she returns to The Road and finds you pacing before the bower, she stops short. 
“Did you—is she dead?” You ask, worrying your lip. Though your eyes dart every which way, looking for whatever manifestation of Agatha you believe she’s brought you. 
“Sweetheart…” 
--
1937
“Do you think if I cut you open you would heal too fast for me to do any research?” 
Rio tilts her head, considering. She’s sprawled out on the plush couch inside the physical manifestation of your heart, toying with her knife, having a staring contest with the unblinking jar of eyes while you jot down thoughts into notebook number… well, she’s lost count. 
“Probably.” She answers, “I’m also not sure I have organs.” 
You pause, “How is that even possible?” 
“Magic, sweetheart.”
Leaning back, your mind begins to race; given how old she is, it would only make sense that the organs the body came with are gone, rotted away—but would the flesh not go with it? You massage your temples. Life magic is no easier to understand than Death magic. 
There’s only one way to test your hypothesis. You stand from your place at the table and cross to her, straddling her hips where she lay on the couch. 
“I want to see.” You say, holding out a hand. 
Rio hands over her dagger and sinks further into the couch, as if that is possible. She grins up at you with no shortage of delight. You do your best to tamp down on your own grin. 
The flesh beneath your hands is warm and smells of damp earth where you peel away her shirt. Her eyes darken with every inch of flesh revealed to you. Firm and unafraid, you press the tip of the dagger down against her sternum. The action earns you an exaggerated moan. 
You rip the dagger away, glaring, “Behave.” 
“Or what?” Rio taunts, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. 
“Or I stop letting you watch my dissections.” 
She tenses, “You wouldn’t.” 
“Wouldn’t I, beloved?” 
“Get on with it.” 
You lean down and steal a quick kiss. It melts away the darling little pout on her lips. 
When you press the dagger back down, the flesh bends, but doesn’t open. You tilt your head and press harder. Rio watches, unphased. There is absolutely no give to her flesh. It gets to a point where you’re pressing your entire body weight behind the dagger, but Rio only laughs, squirming as if the action tickles. 
You whine and sigh. The dagger is dropped unceremoniously onto her chest while you lean an elbow against the back of the couch, sinking somewhat into the cushion. 
“If you want live specimens, we can collect some.” She soothes. 
The idea isn’t intolerable, but you shake your head. 
“They scream too much.” 
“Anesthetic exists, sweetheart.” 
“I suppose that’s true.” 
You look away, tracing the walls and their offerings with your eyes. Upon them hang paintings of your own making; scenes of life, death, love, fear—mostly fear. 
The human condition fascinates you, always has. Of the emotions to study, fear is the hardest; it is always fleeting in your wake; your face is too kind, too trustworthy, wiping away any sense of the unease you seek to study. You stare at your paintings and feel only distaste, knowing they’re not quite right. 
You can’t claim to have always had such taste. No, a cultivation for the finer flavors of life and death takes time. You can pinpoint where the itch started, however; that day in your childhood village when a dying soul reached out to you—scarcely were you a day older than four—and found no assistance. 
How beautiful it was; grisly, messy, but beautiful. You did not flinch away. Rather, you found yourself drawn in, eager to see more. And being of a coven of healers, your desire was fulfilled. Death was yours before you knew her name. 
Looking down at her, she stares back, unashamed to be caught. The heart in your chest—which has felt so stagnant in recent years—warms toward something almost pure. 
Rio will one day claim your soul. This, you know, and accept; your soul belonged to her the second you watched that woman die. You fear the when. What becomes of you when she claims your soul? What if you have yet to conduct all the research you desire? There is so much still to learn and you know she’ll abandon it for the chance to keep you. 
You love her, but you’ll never forgive her the knowledge you’ll one day lose. The warmth in your chest doesn’t ebb. 
Her top is still splayed open from your attempt at dissection. A healthy amount of flesh is bared to your eyes. You trace one finger from her neck to the center of her chest and tap, just above where a heart should be. 
“When you come for me,” You say, “I want to hold your heart in my hand.” 
“You already do.” She utters. 
“Will you let me study it, then, when I’m but a soul?” 
“You can study whatever you wish as long as it leads to me.”
--
1989
Agatha dwells on mistakes, often. She just doesn’t allow them to distract from her purpose. She is ruthless, to her very core. 
She spends an embarrassing amount of time trying to open the damned door to The Road. One coven after another, all failures. There is an obscene beauty in claiming a reward for what would otherwise be failure on her part. 
Time passes, enemies made, promises broken. She shrugs them all off. Yet she can’t shake the feeling of your hands in her hair, on her face. The lingering whisper of your kisses haunts her. The Darkhold whispers to her, oftentimes in language she shouldn’t comprehend, and it offers her the solution, should she just be patient; 
The Scarlet Witch
--
2026
The power that floats before you is biting and all too familiar. 
It fights against your hold, twisting and writhing like a wild animal, desperate to return to its mistress. But you’re stronger for now. The Scarlet Witch threw this power into the ether in her attempt at playing Death, and now it is yours to hold until Agatha comes for it. 
Anger rubs against the heart in your chest like a cat. You lean into it, feeling your own power respond to subdue that which isn’t yours. 
Rio watches beside you. She runs her fingers through the purple electricity contained in your palms, laughing when it fights her. Lips press against your temple. 
“Not long now.” She assures you. 
You feel longing and fury in equal measure. 
“I want her soul, Rio.” You whisper. 
A small chuckle, low beside your ear. It sends shivers down your spine. Her hand grasps your chin and turns you to face her, her lips meeting your own. The kiss is soft. You melt into it. 
She pulls back, tone careful, “You didn’t walk The Road, sweetheart.” 
You have not earned what The Road promises to grant. 
--
2026
Agatha doesn’t expect the end of The Road to look like Agnes’ Westview home, nor does she expect to see Rio perched on the roof, leaning back, as if waiting. But every step closer to the front yard makes her more furious. 
She is owed her prize. 
Upon her first step in Agnes’ yard, the front door opens, and she is blasted with something so strong that it knocks her back to The Road, on her back. She groans. Yet, she feels more alive than she has in centuries. Her body shudders with its missing piece; her power curling up in her veins, pleased to be home. 
She sits up, wincing at the ache in her bones that continues despite the gift she’s received. Leaves stick to the back of her arms, little pieces having crunched beneath her weight and adhered to her skin. She does her best to brush them away while getting to her feet. 
Rio remains on the roof, grinning. 
There, on the porch of Agnes’ house, is you. All the glory of you. 
Agatha’s heart leaps in her chest despite the scowl on your face. To her, you haven’t aged a day; still the young, fresh-faced witch following at her heels, dizzy on knowledge and the thrumming power inside. Time has not erased the love she has—so great it threatens to bring her to her knees. 
“Dearest…” Agatha murmurs, taking a half-step forward. 
“You have your prize.” You sneer. 
Your heart aches, begging you to go to her; hasn’t it been centuries? But your pride holds you back. She left you here while she gallivanted around the world getting what she wanted. 
There’s a brief flash of hurt on Agatha’s face, before it morphs into a wicked grin. Her posture changes, too, to something more proud, as she slinks across the yard toward the porch. You resist the urge to take a step back. 
“No, I don’t.” She drawls, “Are you going to be a good pet and come home willingly, or do I have to put you on a leash?” 
Something inside you burns for her. You ache for her touch, for her to force you to do what she wants. It creeps through the cracks of your pride and turns it into something else. You stick out your chin. Agatha snickers. 
Magic pulses in your palms, pulling various items from around you to throw—not fast enough. Agatha has you kneeling with your hands bound in a blink. 
“That’s not very nice, dear. And after all I’ve done to get here.” 
You regain some of your fight, snarling, “You left me here.” 
Agatha hums. 
“Into the deal you stumbled your way into. I’m not the one who tied herself to The Road in a fit of pride.” 
“You were leaving me regardless. If I was going to be handed off, I was going to do it on my own terms.” 
“Did I specify a length of time in my proposal? Was there any explicit mention of how long She could have you before I came back?” Agatha asks, mean-spirited joy in her eyes upon watching the realization dawn in your own. All that time you spent agonizing… when you had shackled yourself, “Years lost because you wanted to be a self-righteous brat.” 
There’s a lilt to her voice that clues you in to everything you’d once seen instinctually; Agatha has been in just as much anguish as you have, left to walk the world alone. You see the pain in her eyes. Just like then, you try to get to her now, eager to fix it, to wipe it away. 
The binding around your arms keeps you stationary. You whine and pull against it. 
“Agatha,” You whine, “I’m sorry.” 
“You will be.” She says. Then she turns to your left, finger poised and accusing, “And you—you kept her away from me.” 
Rio shrugs, smiling, “I couldn’t just make it easy on you.” 
Agatha waves a hand and Rio is kneeling on the porch at your side, similarly bound. Yet where you look pained, she is delighted. 
“I’m sorry.” You repeat, “I didn’t mean to be bad.” 
“That doesn’t change that you were.” 
A cloud of purple smoke announces your arrival to the inner bedroom of Agnes’ house. It doesn’t look like what you’ve seen from Rio, though. Where Agnes had been bland and cookie-cutter, this is rich fabrics and deep wood. It is Agatha through and through. 
You and Rio kneel side-by-side at the foot of the bed, where Agatha perches. Her beautiful blue eyes don’t miss the slightest movement you make. She’s clad in a dark robe with snakes and flowers that has Rio leaning forward in interest. 
Agatha’s eyes lock on you, “You’re going to apologize. Properly.” 
“I’m sorry—” 
“With your tongue.” 
Leaning back on her forearms, Agatha spreads her legs, and you feel the desire in your body rush through you. It’s so strong you feel your head begin to pound. She’s pink and dripping and all you want is to do a good job for her. 
Yet, ever the brat, you lean forward and start with kissing her inner thighs. With every press of your lips to the delicate flesh you murmur an apology. She sighs. 
A hand weaves into your hair and yanks you back. Her eyes are dark. Her face is set in a punishing expression but you see the yearning in her that matches your own. She yanks again, lighter, and you moan. 
“What did I say?” She asks, before directing you where she wants you. 
Witches don’t subscribe to the idea of what a human would call heaven, but upon tasting her, you think you could get behind it. She’s warm and sweet. You flatten your tongue and drag it along her slit just to collect a better taste of her. Agatha’s hand presses you in harder as she moans. 
Without the use of your fingers, you have to use your tongue well. You stiffen it as much as you’re able when you delve inside her and hope it is even slightly close enough to satisfy. The pathetic sounds reaching your ears—breathy moans, sweet whimpers—tell you that you’re doing fine. 
“Good girl.” Agatha breathes out. 
You clench around nothing. You’re sure that you’ve ruined your undergarments thoroughly from how wet you are. 
Eager for more praise, you direct your attention to that small, fleshy bundle of nerves begging for your attention. You swirl your tongue around her clit and her hips stutter, before they grind against your face with a renewed sense of purpose. You smile. 
“Yes—there, more—” Agatha stutters. 
You were born to do as she commands. All you want is to make her happy. Following her directions is as easy as breathing. 
The tip of your tongue alternates between circling her clit and flicking it. Every flick earns you a high-pitched oh! and a firm grinding of her hips. Her thighs are tightening around your head, but she’s putting up a good fight. Her legs quiver. 
“There—there—I’m going to—” Is all the warning you’re given before Agatha shrieks and comes while rutting against your mouth. You lap up every drop of her wetness you can get with glee. You did this, you brought her this pleasure; the knowledge sends a happy jolt through you. 
Agatha’s grip on your hair releases and you lean back, taking in big lungfuls of air. She stares down at you with a thoroughly fucked-out expression that makes you preen. 
Then she leans over and pulls your lips to hers. She moans against the taste of herself on your lips, tongue collecting the flavor from your lips. You throw every ounce of love you possess into the kiss—willing her to understand the longing you felt, the thousands of hours you spent watching her lifeline just to make sure she was safe. 
“Good girl.” Agatha murmurs, pressing little kisses all over your face, “My good girl.” 
“All yours.” You agree.
She laughs, low and smooth, “That’s not quite the truth, is it?” 
The two of you turn to regard Rio in unison. She remains in the position Agatha left her in, kneeling and bound. You admire her restraint at not breaking the bindings. Though you guess Agatha wouldn’t take kindly to that. 
Rio’s eyes are black with desire. They dart between the two of you. She takes in the wetness on your face, licking her lips. You can feel her eagerness for a taste. 
She’s writhing a bit in her restraints, pressing her thighs together and wiggling, looking for any source of friction she can find. Agatha tuts and she stops. If it were up to you, your face would be between her thighs, ears enjoying every sound she makes. But it isn’t up to you. 
Agatha scoots back up the bed until she’s sitting against the headboard. That’s when you feel the restraints on you fall away. She beckons the two of you with a finger and you both follow the command, eager. 
“Come here.” Agatha urges you specifically, patting her bare thigh. 
You obey and straddle the appendage, shuddering against the feeling against your throbbing clit. There’s a split second where you think of just grinding down and taking what you want. But you don’t—you have to be good. 
Words pass between Agatha and Rio during your silent struggle. When you look, she’s lying along the length of the bed, legs bunched up and spread wide next to you. 
“What am I going to do with you both?” Agatha muses. 
“Fuck us?” Rio drawls. 
“You, my good girl,” Agatha says, ignoring Rio as she soothes a hand through your hair, “are going to use me until you come. And my bad girl isn’t going to come until I tell her she can.” 
You shudder, whimpering, while Rio whines next to you. Agatha kisses your forehead while dealing a slap to Rio that makes her groan. 
A hand settles onto your hip and begins to guide you through the motions of grinding against her. The friction is difficult to attain with how wet you are, but you do what you can, crying out everytime the pressure is just enough to make your toes curl. It won’t take long for you to finish. 
Your face is buried in Agatha’s neck, where you press loving little kisses to the flesh. As a result you cannot see Rio. But you hear her; every movement of Agatha’s deft fingers through her wetness, every growl and keen of desire, every slap of Agatha’s hand when she gets a bit too eager. She won’t last long either, from what you can tell. 
The image of Rio and Agatha in your mind is enough to push you toward that delightful little taste of death. Your hands tighten over Agatha’s shoulders. 
“Agatha, can I—please?” You plead. 
“So obedient, asking for permission even when you don’t need to.” Agatha praises, “Go on, darling.” 
With her hand guiding you and her voice in your ear, you come so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You’re not sure what sound leaves your lips, only that your throat aches afterward. 
You tune back in to hear a brutal slap of flesh on flesh. Rio snarls. 
“Beg.” Agatha’s voice commands in your ear, though you know it isn’t for you. 
Rio stays stubbornly silent. 
The sounds of Agatha toying with her come to an abrupt halt. You don’t have the strength to lift your face from your refuge, but you can imagine that stubborn, yet pleading look in Rio’s face; wanting so deeply but not willing to give up what is required. 
“If you don’t want to behave, she can have your pleasure instead.” 
“No! I’ll—” You hear Rio grit her teeth, “Please, Agatha. Please let me come.” 
Agatha laughs. 
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She coos. 
Seconds—or maybe minutes—before Rio wails. There’s something primordial and animalistic wrapped inside it, almost like a growl. It makes you shudder. Then all that's left in the room is the sound of breathing. 
You spent so long aching for something just like this. It’s beautiful, though you know it can’t stay; all three of you are far too ambitious to live a domestic existence, but it’s nice for now. You missed them. The heart in your chest feels complete again, filling to the brim with affection. 
Tears seep from your eyes and you pull back before Agatha can question it, though you do feel her stiffen. You press kisses to her neck, her sternum, the inside of her wrist; then you grab Rio’s hand and press kisses to every pad of her fingers. 
With every kiss, you murmur I love you. 
--
2027 
“If you don’t sedate him at least a little bit, his heart is going to give out.” 
Rio’s sudden voice next to you isn’t surprising. You’ve grown used to her coming and going—Death waits for no one, after all. Her lips press to your cheek and you accept the affection. 
“She did sedate him. Three times.” Agatha’s voice calls from the next room. 
“Oh, I see.” 
Rio leans over to examine the man on your table with no shortage of interest. He stares back, eyes impossibly wide. His heart rate picks up. 
“What is he?” She asks. 
“Not sure. Rapid regeneration, odd capabilities. Mutant, maybe?” 
“He’s certainly not a witch.” Agatha’s leaning against the doorway now, arms folded over her chest, “Though it is taking a fair amount of magic to keep him subdued.” 
“He’s no match for you, naturally.” You compliment. 
Both Agatha and Rio grin at that. The former comes up behind you, hands settling on your hips. Her lips press against your neck. Then, she leans over and steals a kiss from Rio, who is all too eager to meet her halfway.
You smile. The heart in your chest threatens to burst—not unlike the specimen in front of you. 
“Well, aren’t you sweet today.” Agatha comments. 
“Aiming for a reward?” Rio asks. 
Rio kisses her way up the flash of skin available to her eyes, making you sigh, leaning back into Agatha’s hands. Then Agatha’s lips fasten to the other side of your neck. Your head falls back and you laugh. Then you moan. 
The experiment on your table is forgotten as you’re dragged into the next room and bent into all sorts of shapes you couldn’t even imagine on your own. Oh, well; if he dies before the six hour mark, you can always just find another one. The same cannot be said of the witches bracketing you. And oh, how beautiful that is. 
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deadsetobsessions · 10 months ago
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It takes a lot to break a ghost. After all, even death didn’t keep them down for long, not in any way that mattered.
There is, however, a sure fire way to utterly crush a ghost’s core without even touching it.
Find their grave, and defile it.
It is the height of cruelty. It is the ultimate act of disrespect. It is violation, of the deepest kind, an act that can never, ever be allowed to go unpunished.
As Danny stared at the remains of the toppled over rock tower that Tucker and Sam had made for him all those years ago, to honor his death, he wasn’t sure if he could survive this.
——
Please.
Zatanna looked around. The magician knew better than to write off the sound as a trick of her mind.
You have to help him. Please. He’s just a child.
“Who? What’s wrong?” Zatanna asked, heart aching for the grieving whispers of the young voice.
My brother. His grave. It’s been destroyed. Please.
Zatanna’s hair stood on ends. “What’s his name? Where is it?”
Amity Park. His name is Phantom. Please. Hurry.
Her heart skipped a beat. Phantom. The name of the Infinite Realm’s Champion, the future king.
“Shit. I’m on my way. Can you lead me there?”
I can’t. I won’t be here for much longer. Tell him Jazz sent you. Please. Help him. Help him.
“I will.”
When Zatanna portals out of her dressing room, she catches a flash of red hair.
——
“CONSTANTINE!”
“Gah! Zatanna?” John Constantine fell out of his chair, legs slipping from their place propped onto the table.
“Emergency! Infinite Realms level. Someone destroyed Phantom’s grave.”
Constantine scrambled upwards, pulling on his coat as his mind all but bleated like a highland goat at the sound of “Infinite Realms” and “Phantom’s grave.” Destroying a ghost’s grave might destroy the ghost, but if they survive the initial splintering, right before their final death, they’ll explode in a ball of fury. Normally, it would be slightly less of a problem. Normally, it wouldn’t be the most powerful ghost in the Infinite Realms. Normally, this wouldn’t happen. Normally, even if it did, it wouldn’t risk a war none of the universes would win. The Infinite Realms loves prince Phantom. Their grief over this… even if he survives, the consequences would be unimaginable.
“You contact the League. I have to go fix this, right now.”
John doesn’t bother going for his hottle, because he unfortunately needed to do this sober.
“Go, go!”
——
Danny doesn’t turn even as he hears the crunch of grass blades. He sits, staring blankly at what used to be his grave marker.
“Hi, there,” it’s a woman. She sounds sad. Danny understands, because all he feels is a whistling hole where his heart used to be. “Are you Phantom?”
Danny sighs, ice crackling at his lungs. He knows, when this is over, he’ll find it in himself to rage. If he doesn’t shatter from this, he knows he’ll take Amity out. Perhaps he’d spare this one. It’s been a long time since anyone bothered visiting or even knew about his grave.
“Your highness…your sister sent me. Jazz?”
That got Danny’s attention. Glowing green eyes peeked from the curled ball of ghost to stare Zatanna down.
She swallowed.
“She… had red hair?”
“Why are you here?” Why did she send you? He doesn’t say. Zatanna seems to understand anyways.
“To help. Please, will you let me help?”
Danny looks down at the ice freezing her feet to the ground and thinks of the kind set of her eyes, the steel backing her spine, the carefully nonthreatening posture. Yes, Jazz would send this kind of person to help him.
The ice melts.
“Thank you.”
Danny watches as she approaches his destroyed grave. She glances back for his permission. He shrugs. It’s destroyed. Nothing would ever bring it back.
And then, he was proven wrong.
Zatanna’s eyes glow, and the stones began melding itself back together- no, it was reversing the damage and zooming back to its proper place.
“Oh.”
The damage to his core was still there. But… he won’t kill this one at all.
Or her friends, who stand at the edge of the clearing with the soul-torn one standing at the helm.
“Is this… alright, your highness?”
Danny stares at Zatanna. His voice is hoarse but… but it’s not on the verge of insanity anymore.
“Do you always come to graves without an offering?”
He knows he’s being rude. He’s past the point of caring. Zatanna’s response is to pull a bouquet of lilies from behind her back.
——
Phantom’s face is so young, and it’s even younger when he smiles.
“Not always,” Zatanna replies, rolling her eyes. But when she settles the flowers down, they’re gently placed.
“Can you magic clovers around it?” Phantom asks, that note of painful hope cracking her own heart. She wonders how old he was when he died.
“Of course.”
A field of clovers surrounds the rock tower, and Zatanna adds four layers of heavy wards around the area when she grows them. Phantom notices, and looks up at her with… trust.
“I am Zatanna. Your sister, Jazz, sent me.”
“Okay. You can call me Phantom.”
——
“I want their heads.” Danny says.
“We don’t kill.”
“Then hand them over to us, for they have hurt the Great One. They will answer for their crimes.” Frostbite settles a hand on Danny’s shoulder.
“Alright.”
“Constantine.”
Constantine somehow manages to drag Batman away to hiss in his ears.
“Shit in a hole, Batsy, I’m not fucking with the Infinite Realms. My demons won’t fuck with the Infinite Realms. Destroying a ghost’s grave is an act of war, and an act of complete violation, and we’re lucky Phantom liked Zee enough not to completely bring ruin to our universe. So shut up, and get the bastards that did this.”
“Hm.”
——
Zatanna sits in the visitors chair, Batman’s and Constantine’s disgruntled selves standing behind her.
“How old are you, Phantom?”
“Hm?” The future King looks exhausted, understandably. “Oh, sixteen.”
“You’re… sixteen? That’s how old you look, right?”
She’s hoping that he’s older, that he’s a millennia and a half years old. Because if he wasn’t, whoever broke Phantom’s grave, broke the grave of a child.
“No, I’m sixteen. My body looks fourteen. I died when I was fourteen.”
Constantine swears.
Batman straightens and walks out, fists clenched.
Zatanna eases the hum of hunting magic at her finger tips and smiles at Phantom until he sleeps.
Then, she gets up, and hunts.
4K notes · View notes
nyrasvoid · 3 months ago
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The Cost of Duty
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Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader
Summary: Gwayne Hightower, is summoned in Kingslanding during his wife’s first pregnancy. After giving birth to their son without him, she struggles to forgive Gwayne upon his return.
Warnings: lots of angst because our girl is alone but a good ending i guess ?
A/N: no use of Y/N and also included Daeron in the fanfic, he’s 7 yrs old and raised by Gwayne and his wife
- Word count: ≈2.9k
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Your hand rests on your growing belly, feeling the subtle movements of your child. The babe is still small, just five moons along, but every tiny kick, is a reminder of the life growing inside you, a life you created with Gwayne. Yet, as the days pass, it feels like you are experiencing this miracle alone.
The door creaks open, and Gwayne steps inside, his expression tired as he pulls off his gloves. His face is lined with the exhaustion of someone who has been carrying the weight of Oldtown on his shoulders.
You watch him as he moves around the room, setting his things aside without a word. A part of you wants to let it go, to simply accept that he is busy, that he is doing his duty. But another part aches for his attention, for the warmth and closeness you once shared.
"Gwayne," you say, your voice soft.
He looks up, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he looks away again. "Yes, my love?"
You hesitate, trying to find the right words. "You've been so distant lately," you begin, trying to keep a calm tone. "I understand that your duties are important, but... I miss you. I miss us."
He sighs, rubbing his temple as he moves closer to you. "I know, my love. I know it has been difficult. But there is so much that needs my attention. With Father in King’s Landing, everything falls to me."
"But what about me?" you ask, your voice rising slightly. "What about our child? I need you, Gwayne. We need you."
He looks at you, with guilt in his eyes. "I am here now, am I not? I’m doing the best I can. But Oldtown... it doesn’t run itself."
You stand, unable to keep your frustration to yourself. "And what about me? Do I run myself too? I sit here every single day, waiting for you, hoping for just a moment of your time. But when you finally come, it’s like you’re not really here.”
You pause.
“You do not even look at me unless I speak to you first."
Gwayne steps back, as if putting distance between you would solve your problems. "I do not have the privilege of simply putting things aside, my dear. You knew this when we married."
"I didn’t know it would mean being ignored!" you snap, your hands trembling as you grip the skirts of your dress tightly.
He takes a deep breath. "I’m doing this for us, for our future. The child’s future. Can you not see that?"
Tears threaten to fall out your eyes, but you refuse to cry. "I just want my husband back," you whisper.
Gwayne’s face softens, and he reaches out to touch your arm, but you pull away before he can touch you. “My love-"
"Don’t," you say, "Just... don’t."
He watches you for a moment, but he says nothing more, only turning and leaving the room, the sound of the door closing behind him, leaving you alone again.
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Days pass, and the tension between you two only grows. Gwayne is present, but his mind is always on his duties. You feel as if you’re growing further and further away from him.
One evening, after a long day, Gwayne finally sits down beside you as you take your evening meal. You’ve been silent for most of the day, and now the sight of him so close yet so distant is almost unbearable.
He clears his throat, breaking the silence. "I have received a raven from King’s Landing today," he begins.
"And?" You replied unphased, not even looking at him.
"Father has summoned me," he says, "He needs my presence to sort out some political matters."
You place your spoon down. "King’s Landing?" you repeat, disbelief in your words. "That’s so far... and I’m already five moons along, Gwayne."
"I know," he says, his voice low. "But I will be returning as soon as I can. I won’t let anything keep me from being here for the birth."
You shake your head, unable to believe what you’re hearing. "You don’t know that. What if something happens? What if you don’t make it back in time?"
"I will," he insists, reaching for your hand, but you pull it back.
"You’re not listening to me!" you raise your voice at him, your frustration taking over. "You’re choosing to leave. You’re choosing your father over me. Over us."
He frowns. "It’s not a choice, my dearest. It is a duty. My father needs me."
"And I need you," you sob, your voice breaking. "I can’t do this alone, Gwayne. I shouldn’t have to. You are my husband before anything else."
He reaches out again, but this time you stand, moving away from him. "Please," he begins, but you shake your head.
"Don’t ask me to understand," you say, "Because I don’t."
After a long moment of silence, you hear him rise from his seat. "I’m leaving in three days time," he says quietly, his voice filled with regret. "Please, try to rest.”
You say nothing, you hear the door close behind him, and you break down crying, once again, you are left alone.
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The night before he’s supposed to leave, Gwayne comes to your shared chambers, his expression softer than it’s been in weeks. He moves to sit beside you on the bed, his hand resting on your knee.
"I know you’re angry with me," he begins, his voice gentle. "But I don’t want to leave on bad terms. I love you. You must know that."
You turn to face him, your emotions a mix of anger, sadness, and love. "If you loved me, you wouldn’t be leaving."
He looks surprised, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your neck, his hand sliding up your nightgown. "Let me show you," he murmurs as he presses tender kisses down your collarbone.
But the anger and hurt are still too fresh. You place a hand on his chest, pushing him back firmly. "Not tonight, Gwayne."
He pulls back, surprise and hurt showing in his eyes. "My love..."
"I can’t," you say, "I’m still angry. I need...time."
He nods understandingly. "I am sorry," he whispers, pulling you into his arms despite your anger. "I am truly, so sorry."
You let him hold you, sobbing into his arms without saying a word.
Gwayne leaves at dawn, you watch from the window, your hand resting over your belly as he rides away. He turns once, looking back, but you don’t move. You don’t wave.
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As the days turn into weeks, the loneliness only grows. Gwayne’s absence is a constant reminder of the growing distance between you. You try to busy yourself with tasks; embroidering blankets for the babe, reading, even taking long walks through the gardens. But nothing can fill the void he has left behind.
You spend time with Daeron, Gwayne’s youngest nephew, who has been staying in Oldtown under your and your husband’s care since he was born, and he had now seven years of age.
One afternoon, as the two of you sit beneath the shade of a large tree, Daeron looks up at you sadly.
You reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “What’s on your mind, sweetling?”
Daeron glances up at you, his blue eyes filled with a sadness. “Auntie… will you and Uncle Gwayne forget about me when the babe is born?”
The question catches you off guard. You shift closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a gentle embrace. “Forget about you? Never, Daeron. Why would you think such a thing?”
He shrugs, trying to appear indifferent, but his voice trembles as he speaks. “Because the babe is your child. He’ll be important, and I’m just… I’m just your nephew.”
You tighten your hold on him, your heart breaking at the thought that he feels so insecure. “Daeron, listen to me,” you say softly. “You are not just our nephew. You’re as much a part of this family as the babe will be. Gwayne and I love you dearly, and nothing will ever change that.”
His eyes fill with tears. “But… he’ll be your real son. Won’t you love him more?”
You shake your head. “Of course not, sweetling. I will love both of you equally, just as if you were both my sons. I promise you that. You and the babe will grow up together, and I will raise you both as brothers. Nothing will change how much I care for you.”
Daeron’s lip trembles, and he finally allows himself to lean into your hug, resting his head against your shoulder. “You mean it? You won’t forget about me?”
You press a kiss to the top of his head. “I mean it, Daeron. You are very dear to me. The babe will be your little brother, and he will look up to you, just like you look up to Gwayne. I’m sure you’ll be the best big brother anyone could ask for.”
He sniffles but nods. “I will teach him all the things I know. How to ride a horse, and how to climb trees…”
“And how to be kind and brave, just like you,” you add with a smile.
Daeron smiles a little. “I’ll do my best. I promise.”
You hug him tighter. “I know you will, Daeron. And I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”
He pulls back slightly, looking up at you with determination. “I’ll be the best big brother ever.”
You smile, ruffling his hair affectionately. “I’m sure you will be, my love. And the babe will be so lucky to have you as his brother.”
The boy’s expression softens as he looks at your belly. “Do you think he’ll be just like uncle Gwayne? Brave and strong?”
You hesitate for a moment, the thought of Gwayne filling your mind with sadness. “Perhaps,” you say gently.
Daeron nods, then his face brightens again as he looks up at you. “Can I help you pick out a name for him?”
Your smile widens at the offer. “Of course. Do you have any ideas?”
He thinks for a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration. “What about Maelor? It’s a strong name, isn’t it?”
You tilt your head, considering the name. “Maelor…” you say slowly. “Yes, it is a strong name.”
Daeron smiles, clearly proud of himself. “I can’t wait to meet him, auntie. We’re going to have so much fun together.”
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As the months drag on, you begin to feel your belly grow heavier each day. Letters from Gwayne arrive frequently, filled with words of love and concern, but you don’t care to answer them.
You feel alone, as the weeks turn into months and the baby gets more active. Every kick is a reminder that the time is running out and you can only hope that Gwayne comes back in time.
But as your belly grows, so too does your anxiety.
One evening, you feel a sharp pain. You clutch at your belly. It’s too soon, you think. Gwayne isn’t here. He promised he would be here.
The pain intensifies, and you know without a doubt that the babe is coming. Your maids rush to your side, their faces filled with worry as they help you to your bed. The midwives and the maester are summoned.
You grip the sheets, your knuckles turning white. “It’s too soon,” you gasp, tears streaming down your face. “Gwayne isn’t here… he isn’t here…”
The midwife shushes you gently, wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Breathe, my lady. Focus on the baby. He’s eager to meet you.”
The labor is long, painful, and each moment is filled with fear.
At one point, you feel that you can’t go on, the pain too much to bear. “I can’t,” you cry out, “I can’t do this…”
“You can, my lady,” the midwife insists. “You’re strong. Your baby needs you.”
The room is full of faces, of whispers and encouragements, of hands holding yours as you push with all your strength.
Hours pass, and just when you think you have nothing left to give, you hear it. A loud cry that fills the room. The midwives wrap the tiny babe in soft blankets before placing him in your arms.
Tears stream down your face as you look down at your son cry. He’s perfect, you think.
“Maelor,” you whisper, “my sweet Maelor.”
Days pass, and the babe grows stronger, his cries filling the empty chambers that once were filled with silence. Daeron is overjoyed to meet his new brother.
“Can I hold him?” Daeron asks one afternoon, his eyes wide with excitement.
You smile, carefully placing Maelor in his small arms. “Support his head,” you instruct gently, watching as Daeron cradles the baby with surprising care.
“He’s so small,” Daeron whispers. “Will he be strong like uncle Gwayne?”
You nod, your heart filled with pride. “He will. But he’ll also have your kindness, Daeron. He’ll need you to show him how to be a good man.”
Daeron���s face lights up, and he nods eagerly. “I will. I promise.”
You watch as Daeron gently rocks Maleor, your heart warming at the sight. For a moment, the loneliness fades, replaced by the joy of watching your sons together.
But as the days turn into weeks, Geayne sends letters, each one more desperate than the last, asking about Lucerys, about you, about your health. But you can’t bring yourself to respond, the anger still too fresh.
Maelor grows, his tiny fists curling around your fingers, tugging at your hair, his eyes beginning to focus on your face. He’s beautiful, perfect in every single way, and yet every time you look at him, you’re reminded of Gwayne’s absence.
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Two months pass before Gwayne finally returns. Word reaches you that he is only an hour away, but you remain in the nursery, rocking your son in your arms as you sit by the window.
Despite knowing Gwayne is coming home, you make no move to greet him at the gates.
Footsteps approach, and a moment later the door to the nursery swings open. Gwayne stands there, his eyes searching for you immediately. He takes a step inside, his gaze falling on you and the child in your arms. “My love…”
You do not look up, focusing instead on Maelor. Gwayne approaches you, dropping to his knees beside you. “Please, look at me. I am so sorry…”
You remain silent, unwilling to let your emotions show. Gwayne reaches out, placing his hand on top of yours. “I know I’ve hurt you. I never meant to be away for so long. I didn’t think it would be so… difficult.”
You glance up then, your eyes meeting his.
“I needed you,” you say quietly. “I went through the hardest moments of my life without you, Gwayne. And now… now you come back and expect everything to be as it was?”
“I do not expect that,” he says, “I know I’ve done wrong. And I can’t change what’s happened… but please, give me a chance to make it right. I want to be here for you, for our son.”
You look down at your son, your heart aching. “Maelor is already two months old,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “You’ve missed so much, Gwayne. His first smile, the way he grabs my finger when he’s hungry… you weren’t here.”
Gwayne’s breath hitches, and he finally touches Maelor’s tiny hand, his fingers trembling as they brush against the babe’s soft skin. “I know,” he whispers. “I am truly so sorry, my love. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life. Please… let me be here now. Let me be the father he deserves, the husband you deserve.”
“We’ll see,” you say quietly. “For now, all that matters is that Maelor is healthy and safe.” You pause and take a deep breath, “But… I want us to be a family, Gwayne. For Maelor and Daeron.”
Gwayne nods. “Thank you,” he whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your son’s forehead. “Thank you for giving me a healthy son, my dear. I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right.”
You watch as he cradles the babe in his arms, the sight filling you with joy.
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PS: I know I have to start writing for other characters, I just love this man so much 😔 So just a reminder that my requests are open 🥰🥰
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honey-on-your-tongue · 1 year ago
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Nsfw/smut
Part 1 here!!
You don't know how to work with Miguel. You can't meet his gaze, can't talk to him. How are you supposed to just keep going on with your life when you heard everything? When you took a peek and saw what he was doing while calling your name?
He was jerking off to you! How are you supposed to just keep going as if nothing were wrong?!
You can't stop thinking about it, the way he'd groaned, the thick breathing, the look on his gorgeous, gorgeous face...
You shake yourself out of it. You've got work to do. The spiderverse won't protect itself...
...Maybe just for a minute?
As the memories of Miguel rush through your mind, you can feel your body grow hot. You can't stop thinking about how he'd bitten his lower lip, or how big he is. Granted, Miguel is huge in every aspect, you were just curious about that last one. And now you know.
An uncomfortable little bubble of arousal grows between your thighs, your pussy pulsating with desire.
You glance around your small corner office. No security cameras, no one else around, door closed...
Miguel did it. Why can't you?
You slide your hands down your body, between your legs, tracing your middle finger against your clothed cunt. You add pressure on your clit, shuddering at the slight relief and pleasure that flows at the touch.
You spread your legs some, adding more strength, more need to each movement. Soon, you're sweating, panting, images of Miguel invading your brain.
You can hear his breathing, see his eyes shut tight, his fist around his enormous cock...
You touch yourself until you're close. So close. Your orgasm is right there, just a few seconds away—
A knock sounds on the door before it unexpectedly swings open.
You manage to pull your hand away at the last second. And there stands the man himself.
“Miguel!” you just about squeak, trying to keep your breathing regular.
He eyes you suspiciously. “You okay?” he asks. When you don't answer immediately, he glances around your office, searching for something.
You look flustered, nervous. You're sweating and he could hear you panting across the goddamn hall.
And then he smells it. The scent of your sweet, thick arousal.
He turns back to you, not a doubt in his mind about what you were doing. His eyes sharpen, grow dark. The tips of his fangs peek between his lips.
You find yourself pressing your thighs together involuntarily.
“What's going on?” he demands, voice thick and rough.
You swallow thickly. “N-nothing. Nothing's going on.”
His eyes grow impossibly darker. “No me mientas.” Don't lie to me.
“I'm not!” you insist.
He doesn't buy it. After a long, tense pause, he pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Don't make this harder on yourself. I know what you were doing.” The firmness and unwavering belief in his voice lets you know he really does know.
“Well I-I know what you were doing,” you blurt. Your eyes widen and your cheeks blush when you realize what you've said.
He frowns, putting his hands on his hips. “What are you talking about?”
There's no taking it back now. “I saw you,” you say. “Yesterday afternoon. In your office. I saw you and I heard you.”
By the expression on his face, you know he's aware of what, exactly, you're talking about.
“Mierda,” he curses. You just kind of sit there, eyes on his. “Mierda.”
For some reason, you can't shut yourself up. “I...I heard you say my name,” you admit, blushing as if you had any reason to be embarrassed. Well, maybe you shouldn't have stayed and watched but...still, it's not your fault he's jerking off to you.
“La puta madre,” he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Fuck. I...I'm sorry—”
“It's okay—”
“I didn't mean—I didn't know you were listening, obviously—”
“Miguel, don't worry about it—”
“I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable—”
You keep fucking talking. “If it makes you feel any better, I was thinking about you while I did it too.”
That shuts him up. He stares at you, blinking. “What?”
You feel the need to explain. You keep fucking it up. “I-I was thinking about you while I touched myself,” you tell him. “I...don't know if that makes you feel any better, but I thought you should know.”
He takes a few steps until he's standing in front of you. “Tienes idea de lo que te va a pasar?” Do you have any idea what's going to happen to you right now?
You shake your head, terror spreading through your veins. Are you...fired? Is he going to send you back to your universe? Is he going to ban you from the spider society?
“Bend over the desk,” he instructs, his voice low and quiet, sending a shudder up your spine.
That takes you by surprise. “W-what?” you stutter.
He picks you up and roughly bends you over the desk, pushing your chest against the wood and kicking your feet apart. “I only say things once. I don't like repeating myself. You won't get warnings with me.” His hand grips your hip roughly, squeezing it hard. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Y-yes, sir,” you whine.
He grins; you can hear his smirk. “Atta girl.”
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@yagirlheree @sukioyakio @obi-mom-kenobi @celestia80s @manlikemilesmyguy @zaunsin @naniiiii12 @everlastlady @avatar-lover @siidmm @dhollandhs @spikedhe4rt @missing2socks @itzraven101 @miguelspookiebear @mochikomochisoft @sunset-euphoria @kishibeswh0re @m4dyy @icreatedthisat317am @keiva1000 @jakescumdump @ravisinghs-wife @tengens4th--wife @oceancerulean @pookiesmookie69 @juwandiko @aisyakirmann @ninebluehearts @vampireluvvr @saturnstringz @4imhry @iheartlinds
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sageispunk · 2 months ago
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red lipstick (18+)
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↳ "Don't let your husband stop you from finding the love of your life"
pairing: Maintenance Man! Terry Richmond x blackOC! Alisha Bryce
wordcount: 2.2k
warnings: infidelity, oral sex (m receiving), use of handcuffs, switch! Terry & OC, Daddy kink, lipstick kink, messy bjs, pouty desperate!Terry bc I wanted to
A/N: this is like basically a random part for this AU I've been fixated on for a minute, still not sure if I want to do chronological series or just a bunch of loosely connected oneshots but I'll figure that out l8rrrrr!!! lmk in the comments if you enjoyed this, also pls like + reblog, feel free to follow my notif blog @sageispunklibrary for updates!!!
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“C’mon baby, you can do better than that.” 
Alisha kept her gaze on the man, down on her knees in the fancy, red, low-cut dinner dress he’d bought for tonight. The lights were low and her mouth was full, throat nearly stuffed with her lover’s manhood. He sat on her sofa, leaned back with his bare thighs spread apart on the orange velvet, one arm thrown across the back as if he owned the place. 
Terry was big–thick and long, unforgiving. She held her hands together down in front of her, wrists bound together by the fuzzy black cuffs he found while peeking through her nightstand drawer earlier in the day, as new as the day she bought them. 
She hummed as she took most of him down her throat, leaving only about an inch of his warm brown skin exposed to the chilled air. She could tell that wasn’t enough for Terry, not right now at least. He was desperate, aching for a release and she would be just that. 
She felt his hand on the back of her head loosely tangle itself in her long brown locs, fingertips lightly massaging into her scalp. With a sigh from her nose, she closed her eyes and relaxed herself, allowing him to stroke his hips up into her throat, bringing her precious cherry-tinted lips just a little closer to his base each time. Saliva dribbled out from the corners of her mouth, dripping down off her chin and onto his heavy balls. She could feel her thighs sticking together, the heat between them building with each passing second. 
“You can do it, mama…take Daddy’s dick down that throat…”
His sweet, daunting voice echoed in her mind, keeping her grounded in the moment. She loved it when he talked to her like this, so rough and dominating–manly. Not to mention using the handcuffs that had been sitting in her drawer for months, brand new and awaiting the perfect opportunity. Now, her dreams were being fulfilled. It was everything she was missing with Isaiah, and that fact only made her more eager to please him, pushing herself to her limits every time they fucked, and then some. 
“Look at me, Lisha.” 
Terry watched as she obeyed his command, breathless as he took in the scene before him. This perfect, nasty, brown-eyed beauty kneeling for him, worshiping his dick like it was all she’d ever needed. All that consumed her mind, day and night. He knew that it was, the same feelings growing within her and dictating her every move, he felt in himself. They were on the same level again, and he’d be damned if another motherfucker got in between them after this. 
He couldn’t help the moans that evaded him as she finally throated his entire length, not breaking eye contact as she nuzzled her nose into his trimmed pubes. For over twelve years, the man’s life had been structured around maintaining self-control and mental strength, but there was nothing or no one on this planet that made him feel as weak as Alisha did in this very moment. 
His bottom lip found itself clenched tightly between his pearly whites, a crease growing between his eyebrows while he took everything she gave him. She pulled up off his dick, slowly sliding back up with red lips, glossy with spit and precum.
“I missed you.” 
Alisha didn’t plan to say those words, but her nerves were soothed when he reciprocated the statement, his gruff voice hitting her ears and vibrating through her chest. She loved the strain in his voice, in his eyes, knowing that she had his tough exterior breaking down made her feel…powerful. On top of the world. 
Terry’s other hand came to her cheek, caressing her gently as he stared into her eyes, slightly pouting at the sight of his rock hard dick standing up right next to her face. 
He subconsciously made it jump, stealing her attention away. She watched it twitch in front of her, a hungry look growing in her dark eyes as her mouth watered. She needed to feel him stretch her again, her lips, her jaw, her throat. She just needed him inside again. 
Alisha leaned forward and her pink tongue darted out, licking a slow trail up the vein on the underside of his dick. She circled the tip of her tongue around the throbbing head, specifically avoiding his needy, leaking hole. Terry groaned from above, losing his restraint the more she avoided his most sensitive spot. His head was filled with nothing but echoes of pleas, anguished cries for her to relieve him. All he needed was her tongue. 
She smiled, watching his thighs flex and feeling the grip of his fingers tighten in her roots. She pressed her lips against the tip,  firm enough to leave a smudge of red lipstick against the brown flesh. A mark of her love. Craning her neck down, she aimed for a new spot: his balls, heavy and full of cum that he’d reserved for her and her only. Over three weeks apart and he found that nothing matched his freak quite like she did…not even his own hand would suffice.
Terry bucked his hips up when he felt her soft, sticky lips on his sack, leaving yet another beautiful stain. “Lishaaa, fuck!” 
He was supposed to be the one in charge at this moment, yet he felt like he had the least power, even with Alisha in handcuffs. He threw his head back, a loud groan escaping his lips as he found himself writhing, unable to take the teasing. This girl had his goddamn toes curling just from kissing on his balls. 
“Look at me, Terry.” 
Her sweet voice met his ears, gentle and delicate, with a hint of deception laced into her words. He returned his gaze to the woman, seeking some sort of solace in her deep brown orbs. As big and tough as he was, he was not prepared at all for how Alisha wanted to play with him tonight. For the last couple weeks, all he’d fantasized about was breaking her down all across her place…leaving his mark on her, in her, all around her. 
But here she was, beating him right to it. 
Alisha sat up on her knees a bit, not bothering to fix the cleavage spilling from her dress before leaning forward to plant her lips on the skin near his hip. They both stared at her nearly perfect lip print, eyes low and full of want. “Baby–”
“Take these cuffs off me, Terry. Let me take care of you like you take care of me, please.” 
Terry paused, searching her eyes for any hints of mischief but he came up short. Sitting forward on the sofa, he brought his hands down in between them, pulling hers up into his lap. He clasped both her wrists with his left hand, using his right to take his chain off, a shiny silver key dangling in front of her greedy eyes like the world’s last golden ticket. 
It was as if time slowed down, the air seemed thick and heavy, a cloud of desire extinguishing any sense of hesitation in the pair. They both watched as the key slid inside, twisting and releasing the lock with a soft click. The cuffs fell to the floor but Alisha’s hands remained, suspended in his hold. Terry’s eyes came back up to meet hers, intense and unrelenting as he pulled her closer. 
He swallowed down her gasp when their lips met, his eyes fluttering shut as he relished in both the softness and the slight taste of himself. Terry’s tongue wriggled into her mouth, passionately dancing with hers in a battle for dominance. They moaned into one another, lips melding together seamlessly, a reminder of how perfect they are together. 
Alisha pulled her hands from his grasp, slowly so as not to be noticed. Her slender fingers found his length, stiff and weeping for her. A thumb lightly tapped the stickiness on the head, and she grinned into the kiss at his sudden twitching. She rubbed light circles on it, attentive to the way his mouth began to fall open as she pulled back from the kiss, not bothering to slow her movements on his delicate tip. Her left hand fell back to his balls, holding them and only slightly squeezing the warm sack in her palm, just as she’d wanted to earlier.
“Does that feel good?”
His nod was barely noticeable, but she caught it. Just as well as she caught the quiver in his bottom lip when she squeezed just a bit tighter. 
She kneeled down between his thighs again, bringing her face back closer to what she’d needed most. Not wanting to waste anymore time keeping him on the edge, she dived in, removing her thumb and replacing it with her hot tongue. She reached her right hand up to one of his small brown nipples, rubbing his own stickiness from her thumb into the hardened bud. Terry’s body jerked up, attempting to crumble in on itself while her hungry tongue swirled around his tip. “Ohh shiiiiitttt, Lish, please, fuck!”
Her head dropped into his lap, her other hand coming up to rest on his thigh while his dick slid into her throat with much more ease than before. She bobbed up and down, savoring his taste on her tongue and his cries in her ears. She felt so in control, taking him down to the hilt each time, moaning and drooling around his thickness like a slut. 
“Baby, that shit feels–mmmm–so motherfuckin’ good, I swear to god…” Terry groaned out, his brain growing fuzzier while she went down on him like she’d been starving for his dick. She gagged and slurped and hummed around him, all the while looking up at him with those perfect, teary eyes– like a wet dream come to life. His big hands gripped the edges of the sofa while he tried to hold on to the little bit of self-control he had left.
Alisha came up once more, letting him fall out of her mouth before she refocused her attention on his balls. Both hands wrapped around his dick, steadily jerking him as she sucked and licked on his sack, not caring to wipe away the spit across her cheeks and chin. She was being messy and nasty and she didn’t give a fuck about embarrassing herself because she knew that Terry was loving this side of her as much as she did. 
He palmed his face, cursing under his breath as he felt himself at the edge once again. His legs trembled as he tried to hold on, to savor the feeling of her hands and her mouth on him again after so long. There was nothing he needed more but to be surrounded in her warmth, physically and emotionally. He longed to be this close to her, this vulnerable with her, always. 
She released his balls with a gentle pop!, continuing to jerk him off with both hands from the base to the tip. “Cum for me, daddy…” She stared i​nto his eyes, finding herself lost in them, in him. “I need to taste you, please.”
Terry relaxed as her soft whispers hit his ears, the combination of her dirty words and the yearning that was revealed in her eyes helping him over that peak. “Lisha, I’m–” 
She quickly put her mouth on the head as he tensed up underneath her, both his cries and her moans filling the room. The taste of his nut on her tongue had her nearly cumming herself, her thighs subconsciously grinding together as she listened to his whining above. 
“Oh my god, ohmyfucking–fuckkkk…” Terry’s usual rough, baritone voice was higher now, sweet and shaky as he panted out and emptied himself in her. His vision was teary but he tried to stay focused on Alisha between his thighs. She took everything that he gave her, slowing her hands down on his dick while swallowing down nearly every drop of his seed. The filthiest image of tonight seared itself into his mind when she smiled up at him, licking the spare cum off her fingers with more smeared on her plump pink lips. 
She giggled softly, watching the big man come back down to Earth, his dick softening back to its usual form. His gaze was soft now, the love he felt for her shining right through his long eyelashes. As the intensity of the moment calmed down, she became more aware of her sore knees on the carpet, but especially her bare, aching pussy underneath her dress. Terry noticed her shifting and immediately straightened up, leaning forward to pull her up into his lap. “C’mere, love..” She sat on his left thigh with her legs stretched out across his right, burying her face into his neck. “You did a good job, baby…made me feel so good, thank you.” 
He spoke his praises into her hair in between kisses, rubbing a large hand up and down her exposed back. She sunk into the feeling, head still hazy but paying more attention now to what her body craved from him. Terry gently laced his fingers in her locs, pulling back to find her eyes again. 
“You gon’ let me take care of you now?”
taglist: @megamindsecretlair @harmshake @uniqueoutlierblog @notapradagurl7
@planetblaque @urfavblackbimbo @brattyfics @hotmessexpressssss
@soft-persephone @blowmymbackout @sweettea-and-honeybutter
@wakandamama @avoidthings @mzindependent
(lmk if u wanna be added/removed from this, i just went through my other terry fic rbs)
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i do not give permission for anyone to copy, translate, or repost any of my works. 18+ ONLY -- i am not responsible for the content you consume.
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pepperyduck · 1 month ago
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“oral report” with keigo takami
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this is part seven!! of my kinktober event :3
word count: 1.8k
warnings: nsfw, oral, cunnilingus, first time oral. (18+ mdni)
notes: going to write so much angst when i get done w these…
kinktober masterlist | masterlist
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keigo takami, better known as the pro-hero hawks, had stunned the world when he announced that he was now dating you, and up-and-coming hero new to the big city scene. at the time, you had only made a few, yet impactful, public scenes; only recognized as one of hawks’ sidekicks. your relationship was raged over, how inappropriate it was for him to date someone that worked for him. keigo had decided all the ones who hated were more jealous than anything, and he was right.
of course, dating hawks had it’s own up and downs, but there was no question that keigo was the most devoted lover you had been with. no matter how busy, he always made sure to keep up with you, to check on you. lavish date nights were every weekend, friday night at 8 o’clock. the world didn’t need him for the few hours he was with you. flowers sat on your desk each morning, along with your favorite coffee order and something to eat. jealousy is normal for things like this, especially when it comes to one of the most recognizable faces in japan.
something else the world was completely engrossed in and jealous over?
your sex lives.
there was no doubt about it, keigo was an absolute prodigy in bed. he was a mind altering experience in the sheets. and although he came off cocky and self-absorbed, there was nothing that got keigo off more than your pleasure. he could just tell you hadn’t been with anyone as good as him, and your body language with him boosted his ego enough by itself. but when you couldn’t help but spew how amazing he made you feel, that pushed him over the edge more than anything. maybe it was all selfish in the end.
however, keigo never understood your hesitation to let him give you oral. he let you go down on him, more than he’d like to admit, but he had never gotten the chance to reciprocate that pleasure. and there was nothing on this earth keigo takami loved more than eating pussy. when he was younger and whored around more, it was his favorite thing to do to all the girls he slept with. and he wanted to eat you, so bad he could taste it.
he asked repeatedly for months, and you always said you didn’t like it, that it was uncomfy for you. but really, you’d never even had your pussy eaten, and you only didn’t want to because you didn’t want to be judged. your taste, whether or not keigo would like it, was all you worried about. keigo didn’t bother with it anymore.
that was, until he had one particularly fucked day when you were off. you hadn’t heard from him all day, but you had taken the day to take care of yourself, even having time to take an everything shower. you felt fresh and pristine awaiting your boyfriend’s arrival in his apartment, in the soft robe he kept for you at his place. your hero stumbled through the doors dramatically, eyes locking on you in an instant.
“hi, baby!” you chirp from the expensive couch, leisurely sitting with your legs crossed, phone open with some thread talking about your boyfriend. he stomps over to you, throwing his gloves off and pushing his glasses up on his head. by the way he’s acting, it’s obvious to you he had a rough day. before you can even offer him anything to relax, though, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you, wings lazily spread out to block most of your vision.
“i want to eat you out, baby. please,” keigo begs, pawing at your thighs and the robe that covered them. his request makes you tense up for a moment, you were used to fucking some nights when he’d walk through the door, or even give him head, but never this.
“why don’t i do something to make you feel better?” you suggest, leaning down to catch your boyfriend’s lips in a quick kiss. surprisingly, he shakes his head no, only continuing to feel his way around your legs.
“no, i wanna taste you.”
you move back on the couch, disconnecting your legs from his hands. keigo can tell you’re nervous, unsure about such an intimate act, but right now, he’d do anything just to get his tongue on the sweetness in between your legs.
“what if...i taste bad? what if you don’t like it?” you question, trying to stall and convince him that maybe he doesn’t actually want to eat you out—but there’s a fire in the back of his eyes that says he’d determined. he won’t go anywhere until he gets what he wants.
“trust me,” keigo begins, grabbing your hand to kiss the back of it, “i’m gonna love it, no matter what,” and he drops his head to rest it on your thigh, “and you will, too. please, let me.”
needless to say, you couldn’t say no to your boyfriend anymore. not when, within record time, he had you sprawled out on his huge bed, kissing your body as he works his way down to the place he’d wanted a taste of, forever. his wings shudder when he gets in between your thighs, able to smell the arousal off of you, off of your sweet pussy he’d wanted to have like this. you yelp when he kisses over the fabric of your panties, sloppily trailing his lips and tongue all over the slit hidden by cheap cotton.
“what did you do today?” keigo asks, leaning back for only a second to pull off the pesky garment separating you from his mouth.
“u—um,” you mutter, going silent when he hungrily spreads your thighs open, looking at your folds like he hadn’t seen food in 10 years.
“tell me,” he softly demands, looking up at you with those gorgeous golden eyes—you melt. he kisses up the sensitive flesh, outright teasing you until you begin to speak.
“um, i—i woke up, at like, 9:30,” you slowly begin, labored breaths puffing out of your lungs.
“yeah?” mwah, “what else?”
it’s sick the way he enjoys seeing you so ravished and nervous, all over a little pussy eating. but he’d be lying to himself if he said it was easy to hold back right now. keigo can see that you’re dripping arousal at the compromised situation, and how desperate you are for a little contact—even if it’s something you were inexperienced with.
“and then, i made breakfast—keigo—,” you whisper his name as his tongue comes to swipe, just once, over your sensitive bundle of nerves. it sends shockwaves down your spine from how sensitive and aroused you are—it’s intoxicating, and you want more.
“what’d you have, pretty?” his voice is teasing, and his head rests upon your inner thigh again, waiting for you to answer him.
“i made—mm,” a light moan bubbles from your throat when his tongue swipes again, ���a smoothie, and—and eggs,” your words draw themselves out, shaky and slow, as you fight the urge to shut your thighs around keigo’s head. his tongue traces tight small circles right on the tip of your clit—tender and attentively—he knows how much better it feels to start off slow, tame.
keigo threatens to stop his movements, slowly pulling away from you. it’s a game to him, really, to see how much you can take before you’ll never want it to end. and to think you were so scared about it—but keigo’s getting off on it more than you. shakily sighing, you swallow and continue speaking.
“then, i cleaned—i cleaned my apartment, some.”
keigo could laugh at your stammering, but instead decides to indulge you more. he lays his tongue flat and wriggles side to side, covering the upper half on your cunt entirely, before taking a long lick up. your legs shiver, his wings perk up, he notices the reaction and whimper you give and he does it again, and again. you squeeze your eyes shut, getting lost in how heavenly it feels, but keigo stops, shattering your pleasured trance. you whine.
“after that, i came over here,” you pause for a second when keigo’s tongue begins to lap at you again, “and—baby,” you whimper out for him again, dragging out the ‘y’ and lulling your head to the side, “cleaned here, too.”
“how sweet,” keigo coos, pulling back entirely from your cunt, “trying to keep my apartment nice to come home to, hm?”
“mm—mhmm!” you hum, the simple sound stuttering out as keigo dips his tongue down into your sopping hole, fucking you with his tongue. his nose nudges against your clit at the same time, warm muscle constricting inside of you, sending stars into your vision. “then i—showered, and shaved—,” you’re trying so hard to not let the pleasure overcome you. keigo can tell. he’s too good at this type of thing.
your thighs mindlessly spread wider, inviting keigo in even more. your hips stutter and barely grind on his face. the little stubble he keeps is rightfully soaked now, dripping with the arousal he conjured up so easily. you can feel his tongue all over you, lapping up and down your wet folds, paying extra attention when he gets to around your clit. he flicks and circles the bud and wraps his lips around it to suck lightly.
sweaty fingers of yours thread through his hair, knocking his glasses off, you’re pushing his head into you because it’s all so good. keigo’s wings stutter and move around a little, finding pleasure in the way you’re pulling his hair, the way you’re now grinding all over his face, losing yourself in the feeling. and losing yourself you are, as that knot grows in your abdomen towards your release.
“keigo,” you moan, so sultry and like you hadn’t ever before, “i’m gonna cum!” your voice is slutty, needy, and your boyfriend can’t get enough of it.
keigo hums something, muffled by your cunt, the vibrations sending a shock through your core. you mewl out a choked moan, loud, and it lets keigo know to not stop, keep going to get you there. he continues to mumble words into your cunt, sliding his mouth and nose all through your folds, shaking his head side to side vigorously to literally drown in the pussy. yours is the only one he’d drown in, of course.
with a nasty moan, you topple over the edge, it’s almost too much for you. your orgasm is intense, toes curling and hips stuttering, trying so hard to ride yourself through it. keigo takes a few more long licks through your folds, stopping when your thighs begin to shake from the overstimulation. he draws his head back from your cunt, a long string of arousal connecting to his chin, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face. cocky bastard.
“see, told you i’d like it.”
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nicxl333 · 2 months ago
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October 3rd - ITOSHI SAE
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“how many times do i have to fill you up for you to get there’s no one but you. ‘m gonna keep going till you understand.”
content: 18+, nsfw, breeding, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, spanking, rough sex, argument, afab! reader
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☆彡
“it was nothing? so why the fuck am i seeing another girl pressed up against you in the tabloids?!”
you threw your bag onto the side table by the entrance of your penthouse, storming in with sae in your wake. you were beyond fuming, and he knew it. you turned to face him, hand on your hip.
“if it was nothing why weren’t you phased by it? better yet, why would you even neglect to tell me you were doing a photoshoot with a model? you’ve never had a problem telling me prior, so why not now?!”
sae toed off his shoes and released the tie from around his neck, allowing a slight amount of solace to ease the rising tension in the room.
“i already told you, the crew didn’t tell me until i was on set with her. everything in that photoshoot was for the purpose of my contract with this brand. i had no say in it whether you like it or not.”
“whether i like it or- sae! can’t you understand how that makes me feel? whether or not you didn’t know prior, why am i having to find out through the tabloids? you had every and all opportunity to tell me after your shoot was done.”
you took a step closer to him, until you were right in front of him. it’s a shame you were arguing really, because he looked so delectable staring down at you. the way his chest rose and fell, the notes of his cedarwood cologne wafting through your nostrils, the stray strand of hair falling over his piercing eyes.
if you were to reenact what was playing out in your mind right now, it would most certainly be the image of his thick, veiny cock drilling into your sopping wet cavity. alas, he just had to be a dickhead.
“you say i’m the only one, but why are you constantly in the news, paired up with another girl, yet i’m the one hidden away. why should i be made to feel like i’m always competing for you?”
he matched your energy, taking one minuscule step, so that you were almost chest to chest, your clothes partially kissing every once in a while. his right hand raised to your chin, tilting your head upwards, capturing your attention in a ethereal whirlwind. his cologne was intoxicating now, making you slightly dizzy. your heart picked up moderately, pulsing in anxious anticipation wondering what he would do next. one thing about sae, he was unpredictable, so as of right now, you were unsure of where this argument was heading.
he leaned down, so that he was mere millimetres away from your lips. your heart was thudding now, which lead you to wonder if he could potentially hear it too. he was close, too close. if you swayed even just slightly forward, your lips would just about tou-
“distracted? i’m talking to you y’know.”
him and his smart mouth.
dazed, you stepped away from him slightly, to insert some distance and reclaim some authority.
“the media will always make things out differently to what they actually are, you know that much.” he started walking towards you, while you started walking backwards. this continued until you hit the wall of the hallway, just adjacent to the door of your bedroom. both hands at either end sealed you in between him, no escape from his intoxicating presence. he leaned in once again, whispering to you this time.
“you think there’s competition? i’ll show you why you’re wrong.”
before you could say anything, his lips captured yours, his right hand gravitating downwards to lift your left leg and wrap it around his waist. your dress rose up enough for your underwear to be slightly exposed to him. you kissed him back, your tongue entangling his in a slow and sensual dance. one hand placed itself on his chest, feeling his chiseled abs underneath, while the other wrapped around the back of his neck, pressing him further into you.
it was wet, it was hot, it was sloppy, but all you could think about was how you wanted, how you needed more.
to make matters worse, you could feel the tent in his black dress pants pressing up against your partially soaked underwear. in a bout of pettiness from him essentially deflecting from the argument, you pushed yourself against it, inciting a low groan from sae, although swallowed by your tongue enveloping his once more. in response, his hand left your thigh, travelling under your dress, and gripped your ass, causing you to moan out in a mixture of shock and arousal.
“jump.”
you followed his command, releasing any reservations about how things turned out and essentially dismissing the previous fucks you had.
his hands supported your body weight, and led you to your shared bedroom, placing you down with ever so tender loving care. he slid your dress off, your underwear following. he then pushed you down so you lay on your back, although you rose slightly and rested on your elbows to see what he was doing. you watched on as he hovered over your breasts, lowering his lips to the left one, and rolling his tongue over the hardened pebble. your body seized up in impatient pleasure as his lips enclosed over the nipple, giving it a long, hard suck. he made sure not to derive the other of any attention, his left hand fondling the other one as he satisfied you. your soft moans filled the room, your empty, wet pussy throbbing in want.
“sae. i need more.”
in an instantaneous response you felt his left hand snaking down towards your cunt, spreading your folds and slowly circling your bud. the motion was light and slow, a long method of torture to your impeding orgasm. sae knew this too, but he loved seeing you like this, falling apart in front of his eyes and writhing for more. reason being it reminded him of the exact reason why no other girl would ever compare to you. the way your eyesbrows would knit up, your soft whines indicating how sensitive you were, how your back arched when you came and you would turn your face to the side. no one could do it like you, not even close.
his long fingers slipped into your wet pussy with no restraint, immediately curling upwards and thrusting. his fingers were so free flowing that even though you were his first experience, it made you wonder if he somehow had more than he was letting on. you moaned out, legs threatening to shut. he was one step ahead of you however, prying them back open and increasing the intensity of his strokes.
“it shouldn’t have to take me fucking you like this for you to realise you’re the only one for me. you think i’d do this for anyone else? fat chance in hell.”
“but you don’t express yourself sae, how am i supposed to know?” you whined. “i just wanna have my boyfriend to myself, is that such a problem?” the end of your sentence came out high pitched, thanks to sae quickly leading you to an orgasm. your back arched and your pussy tightened on his fingers, restricting them from moving any further.
“i never said it is, but i’ve told you there is no one else. i get i should’ve told you beforehand, but i’ve never given you any reason to believe otherwise.”
he pulled his fingers out, your cum spinning webs around them. he raised them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact while he sucked off your secretion, swallowing shortly after. he then leaned down to kiss you, his hand wrapping around your neck to hold you in place. your hand in response reached down, feeling up the tent in his pants. you needed his dick inside you now, stretching you out to a point where you couldn’t think, let alone say anything.
“sae, please, please, just give it to me. stop playing around.”
“impatient much?”
“you’re so mean.” you whined.
he rose to his feet, unbuckling his belt to lower his trousers and free his restrained cock. it was pink, angry and begging for attention. the veins were extremely prominent, branching out all over. to top it all off, the tip was glistening with pre-cum, dribbling out slightly each time his cock pulsated, matched to the rhythm of his heartbeat. no matter how many times you had sex, every-time his heart never failed to race with the thrill of sinking into you.
“turn around.”
you followed his instruction, knowing you were about to get fucked up. you decided to play into it, arching just how he liked, ass all out on display.
he lined himself up and gave you an experimental rub with his dick. just to see how bad you really needed it. you whined once more, your ass automatically pushing to meet his dick. it was then he realised he reached his limit.
he pushed into you with a strangled grunt. you were hot, scorching even - most of all tight. your cunt immediately enveloped his dick in a strangulating hug. he had to stop himself, couldn’t carry on. if he did, he felt like he would cum. he could feel himself throbbing violently. it scared him. this time was different. who knows if it was the product of your fresh argument, but this time brought about a whole new sense of responsibility, possession he had over you. the kind of possession that told him to fill you up over and over again.
his thoughts were shattered to smithereens when you to fuck yourself on him, deciding to take matters into your own hands. your thrusts were so powerful that such an esteemed soccer player like him (who’s duty was to score and defend against grown men), was struggling to hold form. you moaned out in overwhelming ecstasy, and it was then he realised that you were going to make yourself cum whether he did anything or not. he pulled out till just the tip remained, and pushed back in with a heave. you arched into him, a chill running down the entirety of your spine. he set immediately into a rhythm, fucking you with harsh passion and precision. no stroke was different, each one hitting that exact spot that had you squirming. you cried out in pure bliss, your eyes pricking tears as you struggled to keep composed at the sheer power of his thrusts. he grabbed both of your hands, crossing them behind your back, using them as leverage to drill into you harder.
“you think i’d ever give anyone else the satisfaction of feeling what you’re feeling right now? you think anyone could ever come close?”
you didn’t answer him. you physically couldn’t. he was actively rendering you incapacitated, draining any sort of strength you could have to refute him. he didn’t like the silence though, his right palm raising, and striking your left cheek. your body jolted in pain and arousal, your pussy clenching around him tighter than ever before.
“answer me. you had every bit of energy to accuse me, but now you want to be silent?”
“no one sae! there’s no one else! only me!”
“good, good girl. now be quiet and take my dick. arch your back further and let me make you cum again.”
you did what he asked while he angled himself differently to hit your g-spot specifically. from this alone you knew you were about to cum again. your back arched, your grip on sae strengthened and a bolt of electricity ran through your spine. sae powered right on through your orgasm, even having the audacity to speed up.
he started throbbing once again, his limits bursting out. he buried his head in the crook of your neck, softly groaning while his pace turned sloppy and irregular. you felt yourself becoming full as he filled you up to the brim with ropes of his cum.
you breathed a sigh of relief while the mixture of yours and sae’s cum started to drop out of you. all was silent for a moment and you thought he was done with, until you realised he was still hard.
it was at that moment, he rose up, grabbing your hips and giving you one hard thrust that shook the whole bed. you moaned out in surprise, shock and pure overstimulation.
“you should know by now that there’s no one but you y/n. i don’t know how you don’t realise no one comes close. how many times do i have to fill you up for you to get there’s no one but you. ‘m gonna keep going till you understand.”
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please note: hi guys, i just wanted to say this is not proof read. something came up last minute today so i had to decide between not posting today or just posting it now and making my adjustments at a later time. my word is my word though so here is my first kinktober oneshot! enjoy <3
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inkdrinkerworld · 10 months ago
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Remmy and sensitive!reader who misheard him talking with James and Sirius about something/someone and mistakes it as them talking bad about them. Reader avoiding Remmy for days, avoiding his touch and barely talking to him until he has enough and confronts reader who just breaks down into tears instantly
“No I know mate! It’s so fucking annoying!” You hear the words tumble out of Remus’ mouth with full frustration and freeze in the doorway.
He could be talking about anyone. Right?
James pipes up next, “There’s no way they don’t know they’re fucking annoying.”
Maybe it is you.
“Doesn’t seem like it. They’re just always there. Sometimes some breathing room would be nice.”
You’re convinced now by Remus’ words that it’s you they’re talking about and the frog in your throat swells and tightens your vocal cords.
Silently, you wipe the tears running down your cheeks and make your way to the bathroom.
Remus knows you’re home ten minutes after his phone call when he smells your peach body wash wafting through the bedroom.
“Hi dovey,” his words saccharine as he holds his arms open to you.
“Hi,” you don’t walk into his arms, instead brushing the curve of his shoulder as you go to your closet for your pyjamas.
“Something wrong?” He leans back on his palms, worrying his bottom lip as he watches you change in the closet.
You wonder for a moment how he could’ve been so cruel and now pretend like he wasn’t just complaining to James about how much you’re around him.
“Uh uh,” Remus’ alarms are going off and he stands up, walking over to you now that you’re dressed.
“Dove,” he murmurs, hands holding your thighs. “Are you upset with me? Have I done something wrong?”
Has he done something wrong? The nerve of him- and still you can’t find it in yourself to do much else than tear up.
“No,” your breathing is quickly becoming labored and Remus worries that you might make yourself faint.
“Talk to me, baby.” It’s the baby that does you in, all soft and honeyed and sugary sweet when his words earlier had been so harsh and jagged.
“You told James that it was annoying that I’m always in your space.”
“What?” His heart stops, mind whirring at the impossibility of your words.
Sniffling you carry on, “I heard you when I came in-“
“Baby, no-“ you cut him off.
“It’s okay to want your own space, sorry for crowding you before.”
God Remus could cry at how small you sound.
“We weren’t talking about you baby, you have to believe that.” His massive hands are cupping your cheeks robe, keeping your eyes level with his.
“You don’t have to lie, Rem,” Your tears are still tumbling down, nose running while you hold your breath. You have a strange feeling this is going to head into, ‘we should break up’ territory.
“I’m not lying, sweet girl. You can call James now if you think so, but I swear we were talking about Frank and his newest fling’s inability to not be all up in each other’s space every five seconds.”
You blink, “So you don’t want us to break up? You aren’t annoyed with me? Because if you are,” you take a shuddering breath. “I can take it.”
Remus tuts, “There’s not a possible timeline where I’d be breaking up with you. Baby, I swear on everything holy and sacred that I wouldn’t ever think let alone speak about you that way. We really were talking about Frank.”
You sigh, tension releasing from your muscles. “M’sorry,” you whimper, shutting your eyes as Remus stamps soft, sticky kisses to your face.
“Nothing to be sorry for, my love.” Remus kisses your forehead and then your lips. “I love you more than life itself, dove. Not a fucking thing I wouldn’t do for you, yeah? Best thing I ever had.”
Remus spends the rest of the night kissing and holding you, he even calls James up to reassure you that he’d never speak about you like that.
James is aghast you even wonder and promise you that if Remus ever lost his mind like that he’d kick his ass.
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takerfoxx · 7 months ago
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Miorine: How DARE you ruin my escape plan! You owe me for this! Take responsibility!
Suletta: Wow, you're cute.
Miorine: SO ARE YOU, BUT I'M STILL MAD!
...
Miorine: Congrats. We're engaged.
Suletta: But I'm a girl!
Miorine: ...yes, and?
...
Miorine: Don't worry, this is just a mutually beneficial arrangement. I'll help you adjust to school life around here, and you keep the other suitors off my back until I dip, then the engagement will be broken and you can do whatever you want.
Suletta: Okay, gucci.
Miorine: ...kind of actually want to gay marry you, though.
Suletta: What?
Miorine: Nothing! Idiot!
...
Miorine: How DARE those cheating assholes arrest Suletta! I'm going to go down there and give my lousy father a piece of my mind!
Feng Jun: You know, we can still take you to Earth. Actually, we can leave right now. No need to bother with all that other stuff.
Miorine: ...
Feng Jun: So, is that a yes?
Miorine: I've decided that I actually want to gay marry that girl. Take me to her!
...
Suletta beats Guel for the second time.
Miorine: I would let her do terrible things to me and thank her for it.
Shaddiq: What?
Miorine: Nothing!
...
Miorine: I will protect that girl, because I am her bride!
Suletta: Oh shit, I actually want to get gay married.
...
Miorine: Our communication SUCKS, but I really do need you and want you to need me too. Do you want to get gay married for real?
Suletta: YES!
...
Suletta makes tomato sauce of that guy.
Suletta: Ms. Miorine, I came to save you!
Miorine: That was the most horrifying thing I've ever seen in my life! I have PTSD now! Kind of hot, though...
Suletta: What?
Miorine: Nothing! Murderer!
...
Miorine: Suletta, I'm breaking up with you, because you're a sap and I'm a bitch. Peace.
Suletta: NO! I WANT TO GET GAY MARRIED!
Miorine: ME TOO, DAMN IT! I LOVE YOU MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF AND IT'S KILLING ME TO HAVE TO HURT YOU LIKE THIS, BUT I HAVE TO BREAK YOU AWAY FROM THIS HORRIBLE WORLD IF YOU WANT TO HAVE HALF A CHANCE OF LIVING A NORMAL LIFE, EVEN THOUGH I WILL HATE MYSELF EVERY DAY FOR HAVING TO DO THIS TO YOU!
Suletta: ...what.
Miorine: I mean...see yah, loser!
...
Suletta: Ms. Miorine, could you please come out?
Miorine: I'm the lowest of the low. I did terrible things to you and other people. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was only being used, and ended up hurting those closest to me for no reason. I'm a fool.
Suletta: So...do you still wanna get gay married?
Miorine: Yes, please.
...
Miorine headbutts Suletta
Miorine: Don't you dare die on me, idiot! We still need to get gay married!
Suletta: I swear to God, if I had working limbs and we didn't need these suits to survive the vacuum of space, I'd tear them right off of us and ravish you so hard it'll send you past Permet 8 and your dead tomato mom will feel it.
Miorine: What?
Suletta: You heard me.
Miorine: I'm taking that as a promise, then!
...
Suletta: So. We got gay married.
Miorine: Yes, we did.
Eri: Please don't make out sloppy-style again.
Miorine: We're doing it.
Eri: I'm still right here!
Miorine: Cope.
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ghostselena · 2 years ago
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It'll grow back
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Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader
Summary: You miss Rafe's long hair after being dared to cut it, and he convinces you it looks good
Warning: mentions of sex, slight smut, breeding kink, 18+
a/n: just a surprise hey heyyyy, this is slightly edited and very rusty my apologies. This is about that one tweet i saw where people were complaining about drew’s ‘ugly’ haircut and i decided to put my own twist to it, enjoy!
please do not post this anywhere without permission, thank you!
━━━━━━
"You did not." the words rapidly left your lips as your boyfriend stepped right through the front door, sunglasses still on as he came back from his barber.
This was Barry's fault. The dare was just a suggestion in your mind, and even after begging on your knees, you can't help but feel a twinge of regret for not speaking up more and stopping him from cutting it.
The hair you loved to pull while he licked through your folds and ate you out like it was his last meal on earth, hearing nothing but muffled groans between your legs as you pulled and gripped.
His smile was wide, and cocky even as he closed the door behind him and saw you sitting on the corner of his couch.
"I miss your long hair already," you say with a small pout.
Rafe chuckles as he sits next to you, getting comfortable before he pulls you closer to him. "Really? I kind of like it like this," he says, running a hand over his head.
You look up at him skeptically, but he just smiles and leans in to kiss you. You can't deny that he still looks handsome, even with his hair shorter than you're used to.
"You're lucky, that I love you," you mumble against his lips that had now pressed themselves against yours, his tongue sliding easily against yours and using his arms to pull you on top of him.
"Yeah?" his hands had found their favorite spot against your ass, moving your hips slowly against his, "It'll grow back," his lips wrapped themselves around your tongue as he sucked it gently, pressing you back against the sofa.
The man walked in and saw you wearing nothing but his shirt and underwear, the smell of sex lingering in the air after hours of pounding you down into his mattress all morning.
Like a man still starved, his lips had made their way down your body, lifting off his shirt from you and groaning at the sight of you with no bra, "Tsk tsk, you're practically begging me to take you right here,"
you squirmed against his lips as they pressed themselves against your stomach, hands cupping your breast, "and you fell for it," you giggle as he bites down onto your thigh playfully, your hands going to hold onto his hair, "I'm gonna miss being able to grip your hair," his buzzed hair felt rough yet soft against your touch.
In a swift motion, you were flipped onto your stomach and pinned down by his hands, feeling his breath hit your right ear as he bit your earlobe gently, "even better, you won't be able to pull me away when I eat that pretty pussy of yours," he hummed, as you hear his belt getting thrown to the side, his one hand pulling down his shorts slowly, "and I'm just gonna keep going, even after you've begged it's become too much,"
You moaned against the pillow that had muffled your sounds in the last few seconds, back arching back against his growing bulge that kept pressing itself against you, "and just when you think I've stopped," he pressed his lips against your neck, pulling your underwear to the side as his tip kissed your entrance, the pre-cum mixing with your juices, "I'm gonna slide my cock in," he hissed as he spoke, slowly pressing his hips forwards and happily being welcomed by your warm cavern, "and pump you with so much of my fucking cum, buried deep inside, and get your belly big and round with my children," his breath was shaky as he slid all the way inside of you.
Your legs were spread, back arched against him as he deliciously split you open, never getting used to his monster cock.
"Fuck, Rafe.." was all you could let out, as his hand pressed your head deeper onto the pillow, the other hand smacking your ass and savoring your cunt that gripped onto him, "My hair should be the least of your worries right now, better hope that pill of yours works," he slid out of you before slamming back into you, earning a gasp from your lips, "cause you're in for a long afternoon, mama."
-----
Taglist: (let me know if you'd like to be added/removed, or if you changed your username!)
@maybankslover @phildunphyisadilf @ailee-celeste @onmykneesforrafe @rafesrings @unbelievablystillafangirl @fashphotolife @rootbeerfaygo @ishipit1420 @babeyglo@georgiaxxxx @stevesmixtape @cityofidek
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temiizpalace · 2 months ago
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helloo may I request a prompt for the love triangle event please?
I'd like to ask for Jade and Vil with prompt 3 where they both offer their shoulders to rest on! tysmm
☆┊PUT YOUR HEAD ON MY SHOULDER! NOT HIS! (👑 vs.🐬)
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SUMMARY: THEY BOTH OFFER HIS SHOULDER TO REST ON. WHO KNEW IT BECAME A FULL BLOWN WAR!
CHARACTERS: vil schoenheit vs. jade leech
EVENT MASTERLIST
WARNINGS: no determined end couple, jealousy, mentions of jade ssr vignette
NOTES: eel mafia vs a world star. sure why not!!! thank you for your request!
reader is g/n, reader is yuu
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˚∘☆∘˚
vil did not mind helping you study.
actually, it was quite flattering. all these students around you with incredible grades, and you hand selected him as your tutor. i guess it was only natural. smart and goodlooking? you have good taste.
“and you have to carry the 7 or else it’ll throw off your entire answer. keep note of that.” he pointed at the equation on your worksheet. “ohhh.. that makes sense. thanks vil!” you smile, eagerly writing down the answer. your happy smile was so enthralling. a moment that cannot be captured elsewhere. a one of a kind sight. thank goodness he was an actor, hiding his emotions came like second nature.
if only you were alone together...
“well done, prefect. that was a difficult problem.” jade chuckles, nodding as you solved another equation. “at this rate, you’ll become quite the mathematician.” vil was less than pleased to be accompanied by jade.. especially considering what a manipulator that man could be. he’s already been played for a fool once, he doesn’t dare allow you to fall under similar influence.
“your steadily improving. i say finish a few more problems and you should have it memorized.” vil adds, pulling out a couple more pages. “oh! that’s.. uhm.. can we take a little break?” you ask hesitantly, fearing the tall stack of papers vil had seemingly grabbed out of thin air. almost offended by the thought, vil scoffs.
“this isn’t only about the material, it is also routine. perhaps not this entire stack, but we must do a few more to ensure you’ll continue to do well.” vil places a new worksheet in front of you, sounding like an enraged father when their child can’t memorize the multiplication table. “yes sir..” you mumble.
“oh come now, vil. the poor prefect looks positively exhausted. just look at their eyebags.” jade sighs, suddenly patting your shoulder. as much as he hates to admit, jade had a point. your eyebags stick out like a sore thumb. what an idiot he was to not notice sooner, a fault on his part. “tell me, [MC], when have you last slept?” jade asks, making you flinch.
“next question, please.” you reply, breaking into a cold sweat. the eel tuts in disapproval, shaking his head with a frown. “this simply cannot do. didn’t you know you need at least 8 hours of sleep?” it felt like a lecture. an incredibly boring and uninteresting one.
“agreed. beauty rest is important and staying up late is horrible for your skin,” vil adds, massaging is temples. “i’ll send you some of my own personal skincare for you to use and hide your eyebags, but you must get adequate amounts of sleep.” he huffs, crossing his arms. “okay, okay, i hear you both.��� you yawn, stretching your arms out.
“please, rest now. we can always carry on another day.” jade smiles, patting his shoulder for you to rest on. “i can rest there?” you ask, a bit taken aback. “what’s the catch?” vil raises a brow, feeling uneasy with jade’s suggestion. it might be the jealousy, but something doesn’t sit right with him. “please, my intentions are entirely pure. i want nothing more than to see our beloved prefect resting well.”
jade put a hand over his heart, keeping his usual expression while hiding the beating of his heart. “mostro lounge might need their vice soon, no? the prefect may rest on my shoulder. i insist.” vil points to his shoulder, imploring you to place your head onto it. “huh?? guys it’s fine seriousl—“
“mostro lounge can handle itself, i assure you.” jade cuts you off, finding vil’s intense glare quite amusing. it was clear he was livid, and honestly that was the best source of entertainment jade could ask for. “i just wish to care for the prefect. your presence is excused.” vil waves jade off, signaling for him to get lost.
“oh? but wouldn’t having [MC] rest on your shoulder be harmful to your image and theirs? think of the scandals that might go around.. fufu, quite intriguing, hm?” jade hums, lifting a gloved hand to his chin. “i have a man taking care of any possible scandal that might go around, so that is truly the least of my concern.” vil smiles smugly, standing his ground.
as the argument, or rather, civil discussion, continued, the drowsiness began to capture your body. their murmuring began to sound like soft lullabies as you allowed the sleep to take you. your head rested against the hard wooden desk, staying unnoticed til both boys heard your snores.
“they look quite peaceful.” vil murmurs softly, looking at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “breathtaking.” jade coos, brushing stray hairs out of your face.
this rivalry wasn’t over, oh no, much farther from that. however, to keep you sleeping for as long as you could, they’ll hold off their insults and bite their tongue.
how could you turn him like this?
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A/N: sbsbsbsb writing is feeling difficult lately
date published: 9/16/24
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luneariaa · 5 months ago
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ᯓ★٠ ࣪⭑ PIECE OF ART. ✧ KENJI S.
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✰ — you and kenji being at the museum for plot reasons, kenji being sweet, pure fluff, might be ooc kenji, not much proof-read.
tagging : @xxladyballadxx @jinwoosungs @madeimoisellesoleil 💕
— ✩ m. list.
. dividers by @/strangergraphics 📜 !!
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A LIGHT grin is present upon your features, further observing the scattered paper arts close by— passing it in an unhurried pace. Dressed ever so casually, to say the least, yet perfectly fitting to the current location you were in. A sight to behold that still manages to go unnoticed within the sea of people.
It is just the beginning of the eventide, and the museum still continues to open and welcome new visitors as always. Your sole figure remains there, blending in with the several other people with dexterity.
The romantic time of the day, some may say. The mere location itself has given it away fully.
Due to the amount of passing minutes that you've been inside, you started to feel quite chilly all over— causing yourself to mentally curse for not bringing a coat along with you, blaming yourself for your small mistake.
It doesn't take long for you to endure with a slight shiver, when a certain someone suddenly covers your form up with a rather sizeable coat; warming you up almost instantly without fail.
Admittedly, you got startled from the gesture and the sudden appearance, before deciding to turn around to face the said person.
And of course, it didn't take long for you to be able to fully register upon the familiar sight altogether— eyes instantly widening with a beaming smile.
"Ken, you actually came!" Without wasting any second of hesitation, you pulled him into an embrace— burying your face onto his chest with pure joy.
"Mmhm," Kenji hums, adding more to his words further with an equally happy expression, along with a mellow tone. "Of course I do."
He gradually encircles his arms around you, returning the embrace with equal fervor. Lowering his head ever so slightly, he silently allows you to burrow your face further against his chest for the time being— relishing within one another's mere presence.
Everything about him screams security, allowing yourself to drown into him without any worries; starting to feel more addicted as if he's some sort of a drug that made you hold onto life itself.
He's a famous person that is loved by many, and you're almost.. Nothing, like him. It's what keeps you questioning sometimes, and the way you're able to establish a rather special connection with him.
The difference between you two is like day and night itself; one that is vast and perceptible. Yet if only you knew— that Kenji never once is bothered by any of those existing statuses, not even the slightest. He appreciates you for being who you truly are.
"I figured that you'd be quite busy. I mean, I understand if you're unable to stop by earlier, y'know."
"Hey, don't worry about it." Just like that— he's able to dispel the existing anxiousness within you effortlessly so, still keeping his hold around you with just the right amount of force; not too assertive, and it just felt right.
"I'll always make time for you, my love."
His simple response made you beam in delight; noting the truth of his words alone.
No one is around the area that you both are in, does it-? It's as if nothing much mattered at this present moment, shielding yourselves with the makeshift reality that you both have unconsciously created— lost within your own little world without a care.
The stillness around the both of you, except for the occasional breathing sounds, makes the moment special somehow. You could clearly feel the heat radiating off from him and his coat alone; his warm breath brushes past your ear.
"Feeling any better now?"
"Yeah," you nodded with a grateful smile of your own. "Thank you, Ken."
Has he ever told you on how much he loves it whenever you call him Ken? It just hits different whenever you call him like that. He would lose his damn mind if he wants to.
"I appreciate you a whole lot," you added. "You don't usually go to places like this, that is."
"I just can't help myself but to come and see you.." A velvety chuckle slips past through his lips— planting a small kiss upon your forehead before gently pushing you away for a bit, just so that he could gaze at you.
"Honestly, I just— yeah, I missed you, a lot. I know I've been busy lately, but still.."
Kenji is speaking nothing short of pure honesty lacing his words. He misses the feeling of your frame against his own; letting his thumb tracing the contours of your face with such delicacy— every detail of your features none left untouched.
"What if I told you that I feel the same way too?" A cliche answer, but it works every single time.
Your gaze now darted towards the large painting ahead, which ostensively have shown a pair of lovers— holding onto one another as the life of the other gradually withers away.
He simply chuckled over your statement, immediately taking notice of the shift of your gaze; following your line of sight after.
"The painting looks a bit depressing, to say the least," he remarks, paying close attention about what the artist is trying to convey through the art.
"Yeah." You approached closer to the aforementioned painting, and the coat— his coat, still settled snuggly around your figure, trying your best to discern the details as well.
"I wonder what goes through the artists' mind while making this."
Kenji now stood beside you; the height difference very much noticeable. His eyes seemed to be observing it in every angle possible as well, placing his chin atop of your head from behind— no longer standing beside you.
"I'm curious about it too."
"Maybe it was meant to portray, you know— some tragedy?"
"Well, that definitely worked." He agreed along with your words, accompanied with a quick nod.
When he's sure that you're not looking at anywhere else but the painting alone, Kenji took the opportunity to glance down at you, secretly— or not-so-secretly, admiring the way his coat hangs around you almost loosely; yet fittingly so. You looked so beautiful to him like this, and he didn't dare to let his mind wander too far.
At this point, you didn't have to bring him along to the museum to see the arts, when you are the whole art itself.
A precious piece of art that he would love to keep with him for as long as he's breathing— if you would let him.
Every single part of you screams divine perfection to him. The way your eyes would light up whenever you see anything that interests you, or the way you would bite your lip in pure concentration unknowingly.
The way you speak, and the way you walk— God, don't get him started on the way he would always, successfully so, getting any sort of reaction out of you. The list is endless, and it felt like a personal reward, one that he's not-so-willingly share with anyone else.
No one can truly blame him for doing so, honestly. Kenji couldn't help it— he cherishes you so much that it almost hurts so good. Not out of obsession, but damn, that man loves you a little too much.
Nevertheless, nothing is truly too much for him to love you just the way you are.
Yet rightfully so, you never minded even the slightest. Kenji could never get enough of you; his love for you is always, and somehow, endless.
You smiled lovingly underneath his soft gaze, rubbing his own arm that's currently encircling around you so tenderly. You know that stare, but you just didn't want to point it out and simply wanted to relish within that feeling.
The people might see him as the arrogant, boastful person in the public eye— a mere facade that he puts up every so often when it deems necessary. But he acts so differently whenever he's around you, daring himself to let his walls down and be completely vulnerable with you.
With you, he has nothing to hide, shamelessly showing and proving his devotion to you alone; showing you a side that only you get the privilege of seeing it.
Kenji Sato will never cease to treasure you.
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