#typing from beyond the grave

[opera-ghost]

[seefasters]

briefly considered an idea where julian's daughter visits the button house hotel before remembering she's literally a green party mp and it's a golf resort. rip julian you will never see your daughter again

[karinyosa]

(10:32) Well that was schoolboy stuff, in a boys’ school, where such things happen. That’s long, long, long ago.

gore vidal on jimmie trimble, united states of amnesia / john knowles, a separate peace / michael daly, gore vidal's great love, baseball prodigy james trimble with quotations from vidal (probably from palimpsest)

id in alt.

[wizardofrozz]

I DIDNT THINK I COULD GET MORE INSANE

I genuinely walking around my apartment trying to contain my screeches holy shit.

But this

Din watches as the mixture of their cum spills out of you before he gathers some on his fingers, pressing it back into you. You whimper quietly at the sudden intrusion to your sensitive walls.

"Let him do it, princess," Boba soothes you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. "You know he likes it."

This lauched me to the goddamn sun. I can't be okay after this.

Kinktober Day 16 - DP In One Hole

Summary: You’re their princess. They’ll do anything for you. 

Pairing: Boba x reader x Din

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, unprotected sex, threesome, oral, facesitting, handjob, double penetration, double penetration in one hole, spanking (it’s like one time), established relationship, reader gets called princess a lot, praise kink cause who am I without that praise kink thrown in, bisexual Din and Boba, hinted at breeding kink at the end

A/N: Y'all are gonna be grateful for that break yesterday. That's all I'll say.

MASTERLIST

Your legs clench around Boba’s head as he sucks at your clit. Calloused hands grip your thighs as you rock against his face, your hands braced against his chest. Your lips part in a moan, another calloused hand lifting to your face, his thumb dragging across your lips. Your body jerks, a high pitched moan rising from your throat as Boba’s teeth scrape across your clit. 

“Do that again.” Din says from where he’s straddling Boba’s thighs, one hand wrapped around both his and Boba’s cocks as he strokes them together. “She liked that.” 

Boba repeats the motion, your body jerking again. You lean into Din’s hand as he cups your face, staring up into those big brown eyes. Your legs are trembling, hips grinding against Boba’s face as you get closer and closer to your orgasm. 

You whimper as Boba’s hands slide up to your hips, lifting you from his face. “Not yet, princess.” He says. “Want you to cum on my cock.” 

You whimper again at his words, Din’s hands replacing his on your hips as he tugs you forward, letting Boba sit up, trapping you between their bodies. Boba’s lips trail across your shoulder as he presses against your back, your nipples brushing against Din’s chest with every heavy breath. 

“How do you want us, princess?” Boba asks, his voice rumbling through you.

You bite your lip as their hard cocks brush against your pussy. You let out a quiet sound as Din leans over your shoulder, pressing his lips to Boba’s. You wrap an arm around Din’s neck, the lewd sound of their kisses loud in your ear. 

“I want you both in my pussy.” You say, both men letting out a groan at your words. 

They pull back from each other, Din staring down at you. “Sure you can take us both, cyare?”

“She can take us.” Boba says, his lips brushing your neck. “Can’t you, princess?” 

“I’m sure as hell gonna try.” You say. 

The both chuckle, Boba pressing a kiss behind your ear before laying back down. “That’s our girl.” 

You turn yourself around to face him, back pressed against Din’s chest as you take Boba’s cock in your hand. You line yourself up, dragging his head through your slick folds a couple times before sinking down, gasping at the stretch. It’s already a tight fit, and you’re not sure how you’re going to get both inside you. Boba is thicker where Din is longer, but you can already feel the burning stretch just with Boba. 

Din’s hands guide your hips down until you’re fully seated on Boba, your eyes rolling back as your body adjusts around him. Boba’s hands grip your thighs, his chest rising and falling evenly as he stares up at you. 

Din’s lips trail across your shoulders, his thumbs massaging your hips. “Taking him so good.” He rasps against your shoulder. “Always so good for us.” 

You practically preen under the praise, rocking yourself a bit on Boba’s cock, hands braced on his stomach. Din’s hands guide your movements, watching the way Boba’s cock slides in and out of your pussy. 

Boba’s hands slide up your body to cup your face, pulling you down against his chest. He presses his lips to yours, hands holding you still as Din’s fingers trace your stretched pussy. You moan against Boba’s lips as Din slips two fingers inside you, stretching you out further. It burns a bit, but the feeling has you fluttering around Boba’s cock. Boba grunts against your lips, hands squeezing your hips. 

“Too much of that and I’m not going to last, princess.” He groans. 

A smirk lifts your lips as you squeeze around him again. You let out a yelp as his hand falls sharply on your ass cheek, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in the large room. You flutter around him instinctively, thighs dripping with your arousal as Din pulls his fingers from inside you. 

You feel him move up closer behind you, the head of his cock pressing against your pussy. You cling to Boba as he begins pressing into you, your body trying to fight the stretch, but you relax as best you can. Boba’s hands rub your back, helping you relax as Din’s cock presses further into you. 

You’re helpless to do anything but lay against Boba’s chest as you’re stretched open, little whines and moans slipping through your lips as you take both of them in your pussy. “Kriff!” You whimper, pussy fluttering around both of them. 

“Good girl.” Boba praises you, his voice breathy as Din begins to rock his hips, his cock dragging along Boba’s inside you. “Taking us so well. I knew you could do it, princess.” 

You curse again, clinging to Boba’s chest as every thrust of Din’s cock presses Boba against your walls. “Feels so good! Feels so full!” You moan, cheek resting against Boba’s chest. 

Din uses his hold on your hips to pull you against him with every thrust, Boba’s cock brushing that spot inside you with every movement. You’re not going to last much longer, and by the sound of it, neither is Boba. 

“Gonna cum!” You cry, legs squeezing around Boba’s hips as your pussy clamps down around both of them.

You cum with a cry, your orgasm burning through you as you shake and writhe between them. Boba’s hand grips the back of your neck as he cums with a groan, spilling into your pussy. Din fucks you both through your orgasms, rocking his hips as you clench tightly around him. The sensation is almost too much as he cums, spilling into you with a groan. 

Din releases your hips, falling against your back, trapping you between them. You’re trembling, all three of you breathing heavily as you come down from your highs. Gentle kisses are pressed against your skin, Boba’s thumb massaging the back of your neck. You stay pressed against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. 

Din pulls himself free from you with a groan, shifting your body just enough so that Boba’s softened cock slips free as well. Din watches as the mixture of their cum spills from your pussy before he gathers some on his fingers, pressing it back into you. You whimper quietly at the sudden intrusion to your sensitive walls. 

“Let him do it, princess.” Boba soothes you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You know he likes it.” 

You go lax against Boba’s chest as his hands gently massage your trembling body, letting Din stuff their cum back inside you. 

Ragu list:

@kaminocasey @rosechi @mxkyrie @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka @rain-on-kamino @thrawnspetgoose @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @starrylothcat @sev-on-kamino @freesia-writes @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @madameminor @eris-k @clio3kantarella @moonlightwarriorqueen @sleepingsun501 @originalcollectionartistry @maddiedrmr @idontgetanysleep @sinfulsalutations @clonemedickix @523rdrebel @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sunshinesdaydream @mooncommlink @lickylickylicky @sweetheartsnips @crosshairlovebot @ghostperson69 @captain_rexs_cyare @jediknightjana @jedi-hawkins @dalu-grantkylo

[harmonysanreads]

Thinking of that bath fic and I feel like Phainon would be the type to also touch you with cold feet or hands when you’re trying to sleep in order to tease you, and not let you move when you want to flinch away because he’s either being a little shit or cause he’s too clingy

Previously.

You were but a step away from melting into the curtain of darkness behind your eyes, a duvetyne cradle that reached out to embrace you — yanked away from it's grasp with a touch that made your whole soul flinch.

You were nowhere near a water source, but the breath you found yourself inhaling felt as if you've been drowning. There's a heat in your cheeks, you realize as the skin comes into the presence of a cool palm, easing you back to reality with its firm grip.

From beyond the veil of blur, you hear something like a chuckle. You turn your head towards the right, eyes getting acquainted with the shadows to realize the source of the smile.

It doesn't even take more than a second for your sleep stricken mind to connect the dots, brows pinching together and a wave of exasperation washing by your face to form a grave frown — Phainon's amusement vanishes quicker than you're capable of blinking.

“Whoa— hold on hold on!” you don't even get to swing one leg out of the side of the bed before he's got a grasp on you, instinct trained by a paranoia you are no stranger to.

“Phainon! Let me go!” you feel his flinch travel to your skin from the insistent grip around your waist. You know that he knows he's screwed up severely by now. He should abide by your order and a part of you gets coated in confusion by the way he ignores it instead, dragging you towards him till you're all but enveloped by him him him.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...” his mumbles sink into your shoulder, both arms clasped tight around your waist.

You crane your neck behind in an attempt to see his face, futile it turns out to be in front of him getting comfortable in the crook of your neck. “You of all people should know how much I hate being disturbed in my sleep. Do you think you deserve to be forgiven?”

There's a shiver in his nerves, you may not be able to see what expression he's making, but you know you've temporarily robbed him off his breath. Just as you need not see it to understand what goes through his head, he also requires not his sense of sight to picture what look you're giving him.

“I'm sorry, I couldn't see your face clearly and thought you were still awake. The curtains are closed so —” a sharp pinch to his arm shuts down his vagaries. You know it actually didn't hurt at all, he's simply memorized all your non-verbal cues by heart.

You try to twist out of his grasp and this time he clamps down with enough force to knock you out — almost. You blink, stilling in place meeting this desperation again. It was simply a feeling moments ago, but now you're certain there is more to this.

“Phainon...” you call out, careful to only sound stern and not venomous. A whimper rattles your ribcage, convincing you to abandon all anger altogether.

Using what little leverage you have, you try to turn around to face the Hero — understanding that you were not trying to run this time, he lets you. He clings to stubbornness for a bit longer though, keeping his head bowed. You gather his face in your hands, nudging him up.

“Goodness...” you thumb away a tear rolling down, mind blanking in the face of this predicament.

“I'm sorry...” it rings in your head, “I... I was actually checking... if you were still breathing...”

You catch his fall just in time, holding his head steady. Your eyes flit over the streams of pain cascading down his cheeks, his unsteady breaths, the way his fingers still cling to your clothes and you can't even remember why you were angry before.

You free him from your grip and gather him close. Phainon seizes the invitation, practically falling in your arms. You can already feel the fabric around chest dampening from his waterworks, but you can't bring yourself to mind. With some maneuvering, you manage to free one hand to tangle it in his snow white tresses, soothing down the stress in their roots. For a man that usually towers over most, he appeared so... tiny in that moment that it ached in your heart.

He pushed closer still, as if envying even the air that managed to sneak in between you two and you knew, that was just the beginning.

[ceilidho]

soap developing an unhealthy attachment to his therapist post his brush with death after being shot at point blank range. he was reluctant to see a therapist at first because he didn't like what it said about him that he was being more or less strong armed into seeing a shrink (like no one trusts him anymore; they don't think his head's on straight since being shot), but as time goes on, he grows to cherish the relationship he's cultivated with his therapist because,

well,

she understands him. she listens to him. where everyone else seems to want him to just hurry up and get better (the nightmares, the mid-sentence brain fog, the erratic mood swings, the silent brooding when he can't find the words, aphasia on the tip of his tongue, the constant, constant headaches and auditory hallucinations that he can't seem to kick), she doesn't put any pressure on him to heal right away. she works with him and his medical team; gives him the space to process what happened to him, and has a seemingly bottomless wealth of patience for him.

he can talk for hours in her presence. it's a shame their time together is limited to an hour and a half every week. the dulcet sound of her voice is such a comfort to him. it's a shame she politely but firmly rejects his advances when he finally asks her out, tells him that it wouldn't even be appropriate for them to be friends outside of his sessions. that it would in some way hinder his healing journey. which pisses him off because Soap has progressed in leaps and bounds since those early days when he used to stumble over his words sitting on the couch across from her, head in his hands when the language felt beyond his grasp, a fine tremor still running through his hands that he's since managed to contain,

and

his head is throbbing again. a sharp pain above his eye that pulsates like a drum in his head and -

he thinks about her constantly. in and out of sessions. she's a frequent topic of conversation when the brass finally lets him back out in the field, Makarov finally dealt with (resting six feet deep in an unmarked grave). he ignores the looks oscillating between concern and worry that Price gives him. ignores the way Ghost barks at him to quit bothering the bird in the tight skirt and fuck someone that won't get him discharged. ignores the way Gaz pulls him to the side to ask if maybe he needs to see another therapist, y'know, mate...get some distance.

they act like this is something new. an abberation and not his very nature. like he hasn't always been the type to lock onto a scent like a hunting dog. a sniper by training. he sits and he watches and he waits; waits for the right moment that he alone knows.

it comes to him on an inauspicious day, when he's leaving the training facilities and spots his sweet thing rummaging around in the boot of her car, her ass beckoning him forward like a siren's call. now, now, now, the little itch in his head says, the voice that knows when the time is right. it's a sense acquired through conscious and unconscious observation, letting it all filter into his frontal cortex until he knows without knowing that the parking lot is empty apart from the two of them and the men at the base gates half a mile away.

it would take nothing for him to come up behind her and push her into the boot. nothing to wrestle the purse from her hands and slam the trunk shut. nothing to drive off base with a flick of his fingers to the guards that hardly ever bother to question him before he leaves (though they know what car he actually drives), made complacent by familiarity.

and he knows that it's wrong, knows that there's a line that he shouldn't cross, that choices have consequences, but,

his mouth salivates when her hips twitch, the urge to take settling over him. surely they'd forgive him one indiscretion.

[vidals-harkness]

jealousy, jealousy (agatha harkness, rio vidal)

summary: pulling a stunt on your partners for their attention goes terribly wrong.

fic type: smut

pairings: agatha harkness x fem!reader, rio vidal x fem!reader

warnings: smut, jealousy, alight age gap, use of pet names (r is called bunny), mommy kink, daddy kink, oral sex (agatha and rio receiving), fingering, enchanted strap-on use, spanking (r receiving), degradation, mean!rio, mean!agatha, rough sex, choking (r receiving), orgasm denial, face sitting (agatha receiving).

word count: 2.1k

note: this is my first time writing smut, i apologise if it sucks, so please don’t judge me :<

This party was beyond boring. All you saw were people you barely recognised, smelt liquor you definitely weren’t allowed to drink, and saw your partners talking to everyone except you.

So, natural as it was, you wanted their attention all on you. What could you say? They had you craving more of them every time.

So, your eyes landed on the young Miss Wu-Gulliver, a sweet young woman who you quite liked being around.

You sat beside her, smiling angelically. “Hiya, sweetheart,” you winked, making her blush.

“Hey,” she nodded. “Um…s-sup,”

Your eyes caught Rio’s from across the room, and she raised a brow at you, earning a simple, enigmatic wink in return.

“You know you look damn pretty tonight,” you whispered, running a hand up Alice’s arm, making her breath hitch.

At the other end of the room, Agatha watched you and leaned closer to Rio, muttering through gritted teeth, “Looks like bunny’s putting up a bit of a show,”

Rio chuckled darkly, her eyes fixed on you as you began to dance your fingers over Alice’s thigh.

“Let her think she’s won, my love,” the primordial being laughed, sipping on her drink. “Bait her just a little,”

Agatha’s hands clenched into fists, eyes blazing as she saw Alice reciprocate, squeezing your hand in hers a little, pulling you a tad bit closer.

They snapped, it seemed, when you shot them a wink.

“Screw this, I’m making that brat pay,” Agatha hissed, going over to you both.

You leaned back in your seat, feigning innocence. “Aggie? You look a little bothered, what’s the matter?”

Agatha’s blood began to boil, and you knew it. A sly smirk came over you as she muttered a gruff word of adieu to Alice, leading you away.

“Let’s go,” she hissed to Rio, guiding you back to the car.

You waited for Agatha to speak as you sat in the back seat, but strangely she didn’t.

“Bunny…” came Rio’s voice—disconcertingly soft and gentle. “Exactly what did you think you were getting out of riling me and Agatha up?”

You fidgeted with your fingers. While you bratted out ever so often, getting reprimanded, however gently, still hurt.

“Attention…” you admitted ashamedly.

“Attention?!” Agatha spat, irritated. “The only thing you’re getting out of that stunt is a whole lot of punishment, bunny,”

"No, no, no, daddy, I'm sorry!" You exclaimed. Agatha and Rio's punishments were the worst. It always involved a lot of begging, a lot of crying, and enough denial to make you want to scream.

"Too bad, bunny," Rio chuckled. "You dug your own grave,"

You leaned your head back, eyes closing in defeat. You were very, very screwed.

The second you three entered the house, you were met with a sharp smack on your bottom, given by Rio.

"Upstairs, now," she said firmly.

"And strip while you're there, would you, bunny?" Agatha added, her sweet tone only giving away more of the fact that she was fuming.

You were quick to obey, dashing up the stairs to sit and wait for them, kneeling on the bed, naked and shivering a little.

As they entered, you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. Agatha's expression was, as usual, very readable, yet terrifying. She was mad, and you could tell by the way she didn't even look at you as she went to the 'special' drawer.

Rio, on the other hand, was a closed book with an enchanted lock. Her eyes were soft, her touch was the same, but her words were stinging, condescending, and conveying enough for you to know that she, too, was just as mad as Agatha.

She sat on the bed, stretched out and relaxed. She snapped her fingers, the command sharp and clear, "Come here, bunny,"

You quietly and obediently crawled over to her, not in the mood to worsen your punishment. You sat in front of her, not meeting her eyes. In response to your demeanour, she chuckled lowly, grabbing your chin firmly to make you face her.

"God, you're so stupid, aren't you bunny?" She chuckled, squeezing slightly. Your brows furrowed only slightly, as her gaze shot to Agatha, who was leaning against the foot of bed on her palms, eyes fixed on you.

"She really is," the woman agreed, standing straighter and coming closer. You caught a glimpse of what she was wearing--a purple lace lingerie set, the one you knew Rio liked.

"How do we begin, hm? Maybe our sweet bunny could choose the first punishment?" Rio purred, letting go of your chin. You took it as an allowance to look down, but as your head dropped, you felt the cold tip of her knife kiss the underside of your jaw. "Eyes on me, sweet girl," she laughed.

"No way," Agatha said, scowling. "She's gonna get twenty, and she's going to thank me for each and every one," her hands caressed your ass gently as she hissed, "Isn't that right, bunny?"

Before you could squeak out even the smallest 'yes daddy', she had landed one sharp smack on your ass, making you whimper softly. She'd positioned you on all fours such that you faced Rio, the knife keeping your eyes on her, leaving your bare behind to Agatha.

"Count," Rio ordered, pressing the knife against your skin hard enough to make you wince. "And thank her for each one,"

Agatha started over, each spank feeling harsher than the last. You didn't make a mistake, thankfully, but by the end you were a crying, soaking mess, your skin stinging.

"Aww..." Rio cooed, wiping your tears with her thumb gently. "Was daddy too harsh, bunny?"

You nodded with a whine, breathing a sigh of relief when you felt the knife lower, and crawled into Rio's arms, while Agatha rubbed some ointment on your reddened skin, providing some relief.

They were mad, but they never liked seeing you in too much pain.

"Alright, bunny," Agatha purred, snapping her fingers to make a velvet collar appear around your throat. She grabbed it and gently pulled you down so you were aligned with your face between Rio's thighs, which, with the help of magic, were devoid of any clothing.

“Make mommy feel good, bunny,” you heard Rio grin, laughing through her teeth in that gritty way which made you weak at the knees. “Be a good girl…”

Quietly and obediently, you began to suck on her clit, earning a sharp whine from her as her hips arched towards your head, her hand tangling into your hair. “Fuck, you’re so good, bunny…” she breathed, a heavy moan falling from her lips as you thrust your tongue inside her, eating her out expertly. You knew every inch of her, so every move of yours was calculated, feeling a rush of pride as a string of curses, praise and moans fell from her lips so effortlessly as you worked your magic.

Suddenly, you felt Agatha tug at your collar, a silent order to stop. You did so, earning a desperate whine from Rio.

“Daddy’s turn,” Agatha smirked, pinning you down on the bed, making you squeak in surprise ever so slightly. You felt her hand fist in your hair, the sharp pull feeling nice, sending a rush of pleasure to your already sensitive core.

She positioned herself over you, ordering curtly, “Make daddy cum, bunny,”

You nodded and put out your tongue, letting her ride your face, her clit bumping against your nose as she did, her moans like music to your ears. You felt Rio’s hands all over you, slipping between your slick folds every now and then to tease, making you a squirming mess, while you moaned il into Agatha’s dripping cunt.

“Such a good little slut for me and mommy, aren’t you, bunny?” She panted, her hips going at a steady pace, words punctuated by a breathy moan each time.

“Look at her, she’s dripping on the sheets,” Rio giggled, her two fingers running up and down your slit, making you whimper into Agatha.

“You get off on being used like this, bunny?” Agatha panted. “Like a cheap toy for us?”

You couldn’t speak, not with her using your face, but the answer was evident and clear: yes.

You heard Rio’s laugh, and felt Agatha’s hips starting to get more irregular in their pace. She came over your face with a loud moan, perhaps audible to the downstairs neighbours.

“Clean it up,” said Rio firmly, seeing you about to squirm away from under Agatha. Quietly and obediently you licked her clean, breathing deeply.

“Good girl, bunny,” Agatha purred, sliding off you and gently petting your head. “Why don’t you keep Mommy company till I get right back, hm?”

You let out a quiet whine, nodding as Rio smirked and pulled you onto her lap, her hand going down to your dripping, aching, needy cunt.

“Oh bunny, you’re damn near tears,” she gasped, hand gripping your chin and her fingers squeezing your cheeks gently. “Are Mommy and Daddy being a little too mean?”

You nodded, making her nod with you somewhat mockingly. “Yeah?” She pouted. “Yeah, we’re so mean, aren’t we? Maybe if you’d been good, just maybe if you hadn’t acted so stupid, perhaps then we wouldn’t be so mean,”

You whimpered softly when she stuffed you with two of her fingers, eyes rolling back as you bucked your hips, begging her to move.

“Don’t,” she warned firmly. “Stay still bunny,”

You heard the tone—heard how it invited no argument, no defiance, and absolutely no resistance.

You nodded, making her smile.

“There’s my obedient bunny,” she chuckled darkly, moving her fingers inside you agonisingly slowly.

Agatha came back, her favourite purple strap around her hips and looking positively gorgeous as per usual—her hair open and wild, as well as her whole body radiating that kind of overpowering dominance which always had you on your knees in seconds.

“Bunny, come,” she said, standing on the edge of the bed, her eyes on you, taking in your flushed cheeks, sensitive body.

You obediently, though somewhat reluctantly, moved off Rio’s fingers, crawling to her and kneeling on the bed, eyes fixated on her.

“Down,” she pointed at the floor, brow raised. “You’re gonna put that smart mouth to use, hm?”

You nodded and knelt on the floor, parting your lips obediently, not wanting a second of more punishment. You felt your cunt, ever neglected and sensitive, dripping on the floor a little, making Rio giggle.

“Oh look at her, making a mess, so pathetic,” she said, laughing.

Before you could turn and react, Agatha’s hand had fisted in your hair, making you take her strap in your warm mouth. The sensation clearly made her moan, and you knew immediately—enchanted strap. You bobbed your head up and down as she pleased, moaning around her length, relishing the soft whimpers and expletives which spilled past her soft lips.

She suddenly pulled out, her strap connecting to your lips with just a sliver of your drool, and she pretty much manhandled you into position, your face in between Rio's legs, and ass in the air. You felt the green witch grab your hair tightly and hold it there, showing what she wanted, and before you could comprehend anything, Agatha's length filled you up.

A muffled yelp came past your lips, making Rio groan at the vibration on her aching cunt. Agatha began thrusting in and out of you, bottoming out every single time. The feeling of your walls around her cock made her moan gutturally, and with their constant teasing so far, you were quick to approach your high.

"You gonna cum, pretty bunny?" Agatha growled, her hands finding their place on your hips, squeezing the soft skin as you moaned into Rio's pussy as you replied, her juices soaking your tongue and face.

Before your high could crash down over you, Agatha pulled out, making you push your head back from between Rio's legs.

"Daddy no, no, please--I was good!" You whimpered, the easy tears gathering at your eyes.

"Tears again, bunny? God, such an adorable crybaby," Agatha giggled, placing you simply next to Rio. "What I want you to do is keep those pretty, sweet, teary little eyes of yours on Mommy and I, yes?"

You nodded, but felt Rio squeeze your cheeks sharply, her words that same, firm command. "Words, bunny,"

"Y-Yes daddy," you nodded, looking at Agatha with wide, scared eyes.

“Oh look at you, so fucking terrified,” Agatha giggled, using magic to bind your hands above your head, before she started to fuck Rio brutally with her strap, both their moans making you start to feel like you were going to explode with arousal.

Your whined and whimpered, trying to get their attention. You only got it when Rio came over Agatha’s strap, coating it in her cum.

She slumped forwards, breathing heavily, slowing her high down a little.

“I think…” Rio panted. “I think bunny’s had enough punishment,”

Agatha nodded in agreement, her hands coming to your hips to pull you forwards so Rio could hold you from behind, her hands toying with your nipples gently as Agatha lined up with your dripping pussy.

She pushed the strap through your soaking walls, moaning at the feeling, her eyes rolling back.

“Fuck, so wet…” she groaned, thrusting slowly and gently, while Rio held you close and kissed your forehead.

“Easy, bunny,” Rio purred, when you yelped as Agatha bottomed out. “Easy…”

Agatha continued at the pace you wanted and your body was flooded with feelings of ecstasy throughout.

You mewled out a small, ‘I’m close’,

Which made Agatha reply, “Cum when you want, my love,”

It just took that one order to have you coming undone under her and in Rio’s arms. You cried out and whimpered, repeating their names constantly.

As you came down form your high, you saw the strap vanish, and immediately there was cool water pressing against your slit tenderly. Rio. She cleaned you up, while Agatha held you, whispering sweet nothings to you.

“What did we learn, bunny?” Rio asked as she started running a bath for the three of you.

“Don’t make Mommy and Daddy jealous,” you mumbled, hiding your face in Agatha’s neck, feeling her laugh and stroke your hair.

Once everyone was bathed, sheets were changed, and in comfortable clothes, you snuggled into them both, watching a sweet Christmas movie together.

You acted up, but in the end, you knew they loved you.

i hope you enjoyed this, bao buns! sorry for how overdue and late this is and for that ending, I couldn’t figure it out :< feel free to request!

love, jaya

[sailorsoons]

greedy (k.sy & c.hs)

PAIRING: Soonyoung x f. reader x Vernon

SUMMARY: Vernon is good at a lot of things - Soonyoung wants to help him be good at one more thing. 

WC: 1,151

AU: Idol AU

GENRE: Smut/PWP, Established Something

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Zero plot, all porn baby. Not as detailed as I would like it to be because I’m trying to behave and keep this as a drabble. Explicit language, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, overstimulation, squirting, something akin to subspace after an orgasm, implied poly-relationship of some sort, one (1) instance of spitting. 

A/N: I’m going to be honest I wanted this to be better because this is literally my dream pairing but I am trying to keep this to a reasonable word count and very specific to what was requested instead of writing an entire 15k fic about these three idiots. 

A/N 2: Written for this request. 

MASTERLIST | ASK | FOR MY MILESTONE EVENT | PERMANENT TAG LIST

“DO YOU THINK I NEED TO PRACTICE THAT PART MORE, HYUNG?” Vernon’s voice is raspy as he looks beyond your shoulder to where Soonyoung leans against the couch. Nevermind that your back is pressed against Soonyoung’s bare chest, sliding as you melt further into the couch between his legs. “I want it to be perfect.” 

“No it’s perfect,” Soonyoung assures, hooking his chin over your shoulder. You’re heaving against him, short of breath and twitching. “You’re always a fast learner.”

“Can you not talk about dance practice right now?” You beg, squirming in Soonyoung’s lap.

It’s a fair question. You’re overheating, near the edge of insanity as Vernon’s fingers slow, pressing deep into your cunt where you throb around him while he talks to Soonyoung about fucking dance practice. You don’t give a shit about their dance practice right now, more focused on the fact that Vernon’s worked you toward an orgasm three times now, only for Soonyoung to force his hand away.

You are on edge, nails digging into the sides of Soonyoung’s thighs. He hisses in pain and pleasure, always liking when your teeth and nails come into play. 

Vernon wiggles his fingers and you feel pressure against your g-spot, making you whine. “Sorry, were we not paying enough attention to you?”

No, you think, but can’t say it. Vernon steals your ability to speak again, dragging his fingers along the walls of your cunt. It makes your eyes roll back and you tremble, feeling the pressure mount in the lower part of your stomach.

Soonyoung presses his mouth to your shoulder, leaving a trail of wet kisses as he makes his way toward your ear. He nips your earlobe playfully and you twist in his arms until they lock around your middle, keeping you controlled. 

“Greedy,” Soonyoung murmurs in your ear, his hot mouth pressed against you. His voice is gravely and rough. You clench around Vernon’s fingers, making the youngest of the two laugh. “I’m trying to teach Vernon something.”

“Vernon knows how to deny an orgasm, Soonyoung.” 

You throw Vernon a venomous glare and he grins, shuffling back and forth on his knees to get comfortable. He leans over your pussy and spits before pressing his thumb firm against your clit. You whine, unable to escape him while Soonyoung keeps a grip on you. 

Vernon looks half demon, half angel. He’s still fully dressed but his face is flushed along the cheeks, hair a little sweaty from the effort of edging you for what feels like eternity. His eyes are blown and dark, watching you with the type of awe that makes you see stars. 

“Please,” you beg. You’re not sure which one of them you’re asking. The dynamics between the three of you change every time you’re together, never quite the same, but always comfortable. “Please let me cum.” 

“He’s going to,” Soonyoung promises with a quick kiss to your temple. If Vernon is the angel-demon between your legs, Soonyoung is the god Vernong answers to right now. “But he’s trying to make you squirt, baby. That’s not always easy. Now hush while I teach.”

Fuck. Soonyoung has never been unable to do something he has set his mind to, and he’d been able to figure you out pretty quickly. Which is why it’s him instructing Vernon to fuck his fingers into you until you almost come before stopping again, which is why he makes Vernon drag you so close to an orgasm that you’re ready to cry. 

It is right there. You feel it as Vernon starts to pick up the pace again, fingers pressing in leisurely. You close your eyes, breathing shakily at the relief, feeling the slow build of your orgasm again. It winds deep in your cut, a feeling so tight that you know it’ll happen this time.

Soonyoung can sense it, so attuned to you that it’s like he knows what will happen before you do. One of his hands unwraps from around your waist, sliding down your stomach until he’s right above your pussy, hand settling over your lower abdomen. He murmurs something you can barely hear over your own heavy breathing and presses his palm firmly down.

A strangled fuck leaves your mouth. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to force air in and out of your lungs. The pressure from Soonyoung’s hand on your lower stomach mixed with the way Vernon’s fingers hammer home each time boils your blood, turning you molten. It is so much and you can’t escape it, rooted between the oppressive heat in your stomach and the way they push and pull you. 

Your nails dig into Soonyoung’s thighs, sliding and raking down his sweaty skin. He ignores the sting, pressing his hand down harder as your ears start to ring, breath caught in your chest. It feels like you’re swelling, the pressure so packed that you’re going to pop and cease to exist.

Finally, you come undone with a hoarse shout, feeling the sudden flood of your orgasm as you melt around Vernon’s fingers. He doesn’t let up, the wet schlick of his fingers as he continues to finger fuck you audible over your gasping. 

“Fuck,” Soonyoung growls. “Just like that, good fucking girl. Keep going until she can’t take it, Vernon.”

You don’t know if you want to punch Soonyoung or thank him. Instead, you do nothing but turn into a puddle in his lap, going boneless when you finally can’t take the onslaught of Vernon’s fingers, giving way to nothing. 

On queue, Vernon’s fingers slow until gently, he removes them entirely. You’re twitching in Soonyoung’s hold, the sparks of your orgasm still firing even after it dies away. Soonyoung cradles you, pulling you further into his lap to keep you against his chest. 

Someone’s mouth is on your knee - Vernon’s - while Soonyoung’s is on your jaw, mouth gentle and murmuring something that you can’t hear. You’re successfully soaked from the waist down, feeling the air cool on the evidence of Vernon’s success at making you squirt around his fingers. 

They keep you like that, content to press butterfly-delicate kisses on your skin until you’re more coherent, coming back to yourself. You feel the weight of Soonyoung behind you, the rough scratch of Vernon’s fingers as he rubs his hands up and down your calves. 

“Fuck,” you wheeze, voice broken. Vernon chuckles, kissing your knee. “I think I died.”

“La panini more or whatever they say.”

Vernon sighs and corrects Soonyoung, “La petite mort.”

“That’s what I said,” Soonyoung assures him, nuzzling into your neck. That draws a tired smile from you. “Now get out of the way, Vernon. I want a taste.”

You make a strangled sound. “Who's greedy now, huh?” 

All three of you are gluttonous. You have been ever since whatever this was started a little over a year ago. It had been Soonyoung at first, taking as much as you’d let him and giving back tenfold. Vernon had somehow ended up in the mix, but now you can’t imagine him not being in the picture. 

Carefully, Soonyoung helps you out of his lap. He kisses Vernon briefly on the temple as they swap places, Vernon’s touch just as gentle and reverent. He murmurs a sweet thank you against your ear, squeezing your hip. 

You grin, happy. Happy and greedy. 

PERMANENT TAG LIST:

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn@thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched@eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy@gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume@yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries@archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersonaa @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen@mingumis @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp @eunyi@smiileflower @gyuhao365 @thefrozeneternity @heechwe

[nanamiskentos]

thinking about riding gojo so hard and he can't keep quiet

wowieeee so fun 🙂‍↕️ this is why no genie has granted my greedy ass three wishes bc i'd use it up on this !

minors dni ! gojo satoru x afab!reader

usually you're the loud one in bed, and gojo fucking loves that. he coos at you when he's hammering his fat cock into you, kissing the spongy patch in your inner walls over and over 😛 in a way that leaves you mewling and crying and moaning his name to the heavens and beyond

but when you're on top of him its an entirely different story. he's got the blindfold off, bright eyes crinkled at the corners and you swear you can see a glowy crackle in their depths right as you hover folds (absolutely wet with slick) right over the bulbous, red tip of his cock thats leaning towards his chiselled stomach.

he's been talking shit for the past half hour, saying that there's no way you can just take all of him like this. that you won't be able to take all his inches right inside of you and how he's gonna have to end up looking after his poor baby anyway

but the minute you start to mould right around his thick girth, it turns out he was running his mouth for nothing. you're doing your best to hold it together because no matter how many times you've fucked in the past, there's always a mild burn in your core from the stretch. so you've planted your hands on his pecs, determined to ride him like a champ

but he's just gone already. rest in peace gojo satoru (yes this is how the manga really ended) because you could really bring him back from the grave with this type of gummy grip 🫡 (this is real, he told me this himself)

at first, he's purring like there's genuinely a soft rumble from him as tufts of white hair on his groin brush past your mound, right as he's sheathed to the hilt. you're rocking your hips, back and forth. and yep, back and forth again.

he's got his large hands right on the curve of your ass, pushing your hips back and forward but now you're clenching around him a little bit too much and his fingers are just digging in to the fat of your hips

"yeah, that's it. look at you, you're falling apart trying to take me into your tight cunt!" (mind you, he's projecting because he's the one whimpering and moaning and groaning, low and raspy)

and his white hair is splayed out on the sheets, damp from the exertion of not busting his nut straight away, and all he can do is moan loudly at the pshhh sounds of your glistening, sopping pussy...

you probably have to slap your hand over his mouth, and he likes it so much that he ends up dropping a fat load in you right after he said he was hardly affected

[syrecjh]

──★✈️ ̟!! Swipe Error: He’s Right Behind Me

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Airports have a strange kind of gravity. Not the kind that keeps planes grounded, but the kind that tugs at your nerves — stretches time thin, stretches patience thinner. You’ve been sitting for over an hour at Gate 34, legs crossed on the uncomfortable vinyl bench—the kind that were designed by someone who clearly hated comfort , headphones dying and patience already declared missing in action. The boarding gate screen glows blue with your flight to New York: delayed by thirty minutes. You nearly throw your iced coffee across the terminal in protest.

You weren’t built for waiting. You were built for movement, for noise, for anything other than scrolling endlessly on your phone under cold fluorescent lighting. You’re traveling solo for the first time — a summer break declaration of independence from university and all its soul-crushing midterms. And as poetic as that sounds, the reality looks more like leg cramps, stale croissants, and a dying battery. Not to mention, you are surrounded by families bickering, kids screaming, and couples who apparently think PDA belongs in an airport.

Out of sheer boredom — or possibly desperation — you open Tinder.

A mistake. You know it’s a mistake. But you tell yourself it’s just to pass time, and maybe to flirt. Definitely not to find love. Just swiping. Just harmless, mindless swiping. You start swiping through profiles with the detached precision of someone sorting socks — right, left, maybe, definitely left. It’s not that you’re picky, it’s just… well, okay, maybe you are. Half the guys look like they’d ghost you after borrowing your charger. A left here, a right there, a brief pause for someone with a decent dog in their profile. Another left.

And then he shows up.

Blond. Fierce-eyed. Hero suit in one of the pictures. Dynamight. You squint. What is he doing on tinder? I mean you don't judge anyone with one but you can't help it. It's him after all. You’ve seen him on news clips before — the explosive pro hero with a temper and a fanbase that probably writes fanfiction about his jawline. His bio is short and alarming: Don’t be annoying. I cook better than your mom.

You raise an eyebrow. Bold. Definitely not your type.

Blond guys never were.

Swipe left.

“Damn,” a gravelly voice says just behind you. “Hard pass for that one?”

Your soul leaves your body.

You whip around like a gust of embarrassment made flesh, and there he is. Sitting directly behind you. Arms crossed, thighs spread, hair as unmistakable as his voice, red eyes glittering with something dark and amused. Katsuki freaking Bakugo. The literal walking embodiment of the profile you just rejected.

You feel your face catch fire.

“Oh my god—” you blurt, mortified beyond repair, trying to stuff your phone in your hoodie pocket like that’ll undo your crimes. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know it was me?” he says, feigning offense, leaning forward just slightly. “What gave it away, the hero name or the picture of my actual face?”

“I—I don’t even like blonde guys!” you blurt like that somehow helps.

“Oh, that makes it better,” he snorts, and there’s a devilish glint in his eye that says he’s going to be thinking about this for a long time. “So I’m not your type. Got it.”

“I mean—you’re handsome, obviously—” you sputter, digging a deeper grave with every word. “It was just… the vibe. You looked like you’d roast me alive for using the wrong fork.”

He leans back, arms stretching over the seat beside him like a throne. “Not wrong.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Kill me. This is why I don’t go outside.”

But Bakugo just chuckles — an actual chuckle — and something soft and dangerous unfurls in your chest. You glance up, blinking, just in time to catch the corners of his mouth still curved, his head tilted slightly.

“You’re funny when you panic.”

“And you’re mean when you’re smug.”

“So always?”

You glare at him, cheeks hot, but he just shrugs and props his boots up on his carry-on like he’s settling in for a show. You’re about to fire back when the gate agent’s voice cuts through the overhead speakers, finally announcing boarding for your flight.

You shuffle into line, praying to every deity that fate won’t take this joke any further. But of course, fate is petty.

You're seatmates.

23A and 23B.

You drop into the window seat like a woman being buried alive, and moments later, Bakugo slides in beside you with the lazy ease of someone who’s enjoying this.

“I swear I’m not a bad person,” you mutter as you adjust your tray table.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say you were. Just got a thing for brutal honesty, I guess.”

You blink at him, surprised.

And then he smirks.

“You’re really funny when you panic.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not. I just like watching people suffer.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

You both glance at each other — and the tension hangs there, electric and strange, somewhere between playful and unreal. You don’t know what’s happening, not really.

You scoff softly. “I’ve just humiliated myself in front of a national hero and then get stuck next to him for twelve hours.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could’ve swiped right.”

You snort, unable to help it — and from the corner of your eye, you see him smirk again.

You spend the flight talking, somehow. About trivial things at first — dumb airport food, weird quirks, how babies crying on planes should be banned. Then deeper things — pressure, expectations, what it's like to be known for something before you even figure out who you are.

You talk like people who have nothing to prove. You listen like people who might want to see each other again.

He tells you he plays music while cooking. You tell him you once cried because you dropped a slice of pizza face-down on your only pair of jeans. You exchange Instagram handles. He follows you before you even land.

Somewhere in the middle of the flight, you accidentally doze against his shoulder, he doesn’t shove you off. He just sighs — loud and dramatic — and lets you stay

And when the plane finally touches down in New York, taxiing slow across the runway, you turn to him, smiling despite yourself.

“So,” you say. “Still mad I swiped left?”

He stretches, cracking his knuckles with a lazy shrug. “Not really.”

Why not?”

He leans closer, voice warm like the sun creeping through the airplane window. “Because I’ve got twelve hours of proof you were wrong.”

You laugh, and he actually grins this time. Fully. Briefly. Like the sun rising and setting in one heartbeat.

As you walk off the plane side by side, you don’t feel like two strangers anymore. You feel like a story halfway told — and suddenly, you’re not so mad about the delay.

After all, some accidents are meant to happen.

────୨ৎ────

I actually got this idea weeks ago while scrolling through IG reels. It completely hooked me—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like it really happened to someone! Imagine swiping left on Tinder… only to realize the person you swiped left on is standing right behind you. I don’t know the name of the girl in the video, but yeah—thank youuu!

[viasdreams]

Nightwalker ཐི❤︎ཋྀ ~ after route: mortality

My Hyuck,

Hello my love, how are you? I hope with all my soul that you're well, but if not, just blame all your feelings on Jaemin, just like when we first met. I know these days the two of you are close but he did try to basically kill me once remember?

I would say I hope Mark got this letter to you, but I know he did. He's very reliable like that, that's exactly why I trusted him with this. I feel so at peace knowing you have people like him surrounding you. Please thank him for me.

Okay, I have to write out all my sappy feelings now so I'll try my best to be serious, even though we both know that was never my strong suit. Pardon me if I crack a few jokes in this. I'll try to keep them actually funny, don't worry. How embarrassing would it be if I was unfunny from beyond the grave?

Over the years, you asked me a few times if I wanted you to turn me. I only ever responded with a shake of the head and never gave you an explanation, not that you ever asked for one. To be honest, even now I don't really have a reason for not wanting to. It just never felt right for me. I always waited for my doubts to leave me, but they never did. I tried so hard to want it Hyuck, I really did. Sometimes I wish I just did it. I mean, I wouldn't have to write this if I turned. But, that wouldn't be fair to either of us.

Thank you for staying with me through everything. I searched for reservations in your eyes as time went on, but I never found any. Even as our public-facing relationship changed from a young couple going out to lunch to a nice young man helping an old lady cross the street, there was never a hint of regret or disappointment toward me in your gaze. Only love. So much love.

If I were given the choice to go back to any point in my life, I would go to that night by the deli so I could relive every moment with you. Every ounce of pain, physical or emotional, that I went through to be with you was worth it. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. That's something I have no doubts about.

Don't you dare read this and get all mopey okay? I know that's what you're going to want to do, but don't. Receiving this letter doesn't signify that the world ending, it's just the world changing, and that's okay. Everything's okay. You're okay.

You're the most amazing person I've ever met and I know you're going to continue to live an amazing life. Please continue living Hyuck. This is not the end. You have so much left to do, don't let my absence stop you. If not for yourself, live because I need something more entertaining to watch than Renjun and Jeno arguing in the nursing home.

I know I'm asking a lot for someone not there, but please look after Jisung for me. It hasn't happened yet, but I worry that Chenle is going to dull that boy's sparkle with his "Chenleness", so I need you to prevent that for me.

Writing this is making me reflect on my life and all my memories are overwhelmingly warm. It's not because I lived through intense global warming, although that definitely made my memories a lot sweatier. It's because of you. For such a physically cold man, you brought so much warmth into my life. My life was so happy because of you.

I love you so much Hyuck. My body might not be, but my love for you is immortal.

Thank you for experiencing life with me.

Thank you for loving me.

I love you.

Eternally,

Yn

hyuck finished reading your, now-framed, letter for the billionth time and slipped it back into his bag, careful not to crush the flowers he brought.

the weather, like it was every time he came to visit you, was sunny, making it hard for him to see his screen as he typed out a thank you text to mark. mark told him years ago that it wasn't necessary for hyuck to thank him after every readthrough of your letter, but you asked him to thank mark so that's what he was going to do. at this point, at least fifty percent of his and mark's text conversation consisted of thank yous.

with the text sent, hyuck made his way to his usual seat next to your headstone. he'd sat there so many times that the dirt had a permanent indent in the shape of his butt. he never dared fix it because he knew it would have made you laugh, if anything he tried his best to worsen the damage.

"hey beautiful," he greeted, "i got these for you."

he pulled the, slightly damaged, flowers out of his bag and switched out the ones from the last time he was there.

"i have so much to tell you, i don't even know where to start. oh let me tell you about the shit i saw jisung do-"

hyuck began, as he had done since the first time he read your letter, to tell you about how he was living his life.

masterlist ~ route two: immortality

a/n: i cried, you crew, we all crode T_T lowkey felt like i was actually on my deathbed writing to my lover </3 ALSO this isn't a bad ending at all 🙂‍↔️ sad does NAWT equal bad!! my bbys lived full happy lives, its just that now one is living for two <3

taglist (open): @miyawwn @nanaxwi @mystverse @mmoonlee @dudekiss3r @honeynanamin @haefelt @nneteyamss @iamsimplyasimp @roseangelxfuma @haechsworld @hyuck-me @catpjimin @toyoongg @sthwaaberry @kim-seungmins-gf @sunghoonsgfreal @sunflowerhae @galacticnct @slayhaechan @multifandomania @jasluvsjae @injunnie-lemon @swanyvess @hahaechans @aerivrs @kirbrary @akunoeyebrows @snowyseungs @keeryverse @alethea-moon @flaminghotyourmom @elsbunny @introvertatitsfinest @ypoom151999 @1starqi @emptynote @wonswondrland @smilefordongil @onlyforyoukook @gomdoleemyson @jaehyunandonly @kukkurookkoo @lampcults @nightcat101 @hyuckna25 @yanagisprettygf

(if the tag doesn’t go through, plz check your privacy settings ☺️)

[atlaswav]

CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence. 

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face. 

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’. 

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough. 

“Have you found it?” 

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster. 

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself. 

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write. 

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project. 

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project. 

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts. 

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect. 

Statuesque. 

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul. 

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning. 

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. 

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him. 

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand. 

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had. 

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself. 

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings. 

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him. 

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow. 

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman? 

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat. 

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils. 

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance. 

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist. 

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light. 

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair. 

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh? 

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name. 

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either. 

You were so wrong. 

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero. 

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious. 

“Ratio.” 

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue. 

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?” 

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings. 

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction. 

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer. 

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it. 

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant. 

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad. 

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks. 

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching. 

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line. 

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research. 

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands. 

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully. 

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines. 

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light. 

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy. 

You happened to be the one exception. 

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile. 

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas. 

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors. 

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such. 

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom. 

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns. 

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions. 

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was. 

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once. 

He hated it. 

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him. 

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you. 

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it. 

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back. 

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again. 

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble. 

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation. 

You wanted to slap him. 

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class. 

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you. 

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you. 

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself. 

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door. 

You were a picture to behold. 

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head. 

You were messing with him again. 

Two could play that game. 

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed. 

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be. 

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation. 

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed. 

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief. 

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge. 

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers. 

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown.  His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall. 

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness. 

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand. 

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass. 

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath. 

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?” 

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so.  He squints at the ground. 

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise. 

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south. 

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes. 

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else. 

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall. 

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze. 

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices. 

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast. 

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door. 

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it. 

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space. 

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this. 

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill. 

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

[fine-nephrit]

🥏 Where to find good XF fanfics

👽 On Tumblr

@lilydalexf has an encyclopedic knowledge of fics and continues to be an invaluable resource. You'll find a boatload of themed fic lists, individual rec posts and helpful answers to anon asks.

@txf-fic-chicks-blog seven years of almost daily recs, with well-written blurbs and a lot of fun, run by @kateyes224 and @piecesofscully. Look out for their themed days: "Casefile Monday", "Tumblr Tuesday", "Editor's Pick Wednesday", "Post-Ep/Missing Scene Thursday", "Novel Length Friday", "Smut Sunday", and the very cool "Because You Watched"

@msrlibrary a well-tagged library of MSR fics; each entry includes a short excerpt and a nicely chosen image from the show.

@201daysofxfiles a rewatch blog by fandom veteran @wendelah. Each episode in season 1-7 is paired with its own fic rec post.

@enigmaticxbee an aesthetically pleasing and neatly organized rewatch blog that is packed with great content, including excellent fic rec lists categorized by season, story type, trope, and more. Each episode guide sometimes features related fic recs.

@thatfragilecapricorn30 posts one fic rec every Friday, accompanied by a nice writeup.

@randomfoggytiger curates many fic rec lists sorted by often fun and creative categories.

@cecilysass has a google doc titled "fics I love", which is a fantastic fic list categorized by story type, complete with thoughtful blurbs. She's also shared two episode-related fic rec lists on Tumblr: here and here.

@pookie-mulder writes a monthly fic journal with good recs.

**self-promo plug** I post fic recs on my Tumblr blog @fine-nephrit under #nephrit's fic rec. Plus, I reblog others' fic recs that I come across!

👽 Rec Communities

XF Book Club: the best thing ever, an absolute gem that deserves to be preserved for posterity. During its run, 270 fics were recced and discussed in depth here. The community's intelligent and insightful comments on this blog are sometimes even more enjoyable to read than the fics themselves.

The Fic Filter (xf tag): well-curated selections with short blurbs.

Multifandom Het Recs (xf tag): a major rec site's xf section that offers nice "why this must be read" writeups. @het-reccers

Crack Van (xf tag): another major rec site with a big xf section, featuring endless recs and blurbs

Fancake (xf tag): another major rec community's xf section boasting an extensive thematic tagging system

👽 Personal Blogs

Emily Shore aka Naraht: meta essays, fanvid recs, fic recs—great stuff aplenty

Bad for the Fish aka Scarlet Baldy: fantastic fic list paired with highly enjoyable reviews and analyses of the fics she's read. @badforthefish

Ramblings of a Mind Untamed: reviews of a dozen or so classic fics

xxSKSxx XF Fanfic Recs: still active in 2024! @xxsksxxx

X-Libris: more of a fic library, this is the best place to download nicely-formatted ebooks of pre-AO3 oldies. What I love most is the incredibly detailed and extensive tagging system.

👽 Individual Rec Lists with good writeup

Character Manifesto - Dana Scully: a character analysis and 10 Scully-centric fic recs, categorized by "best of .." selections. Amazing format and choices!

Character Manifesto - Fox Mulder: same format as above for Spooky

bachlava's awesome fic rec essays, covering classic fics and slash fics

ShipRecced blog's classic MSR fics and newer MSR fics recs

luminary's 16-fic rec post

RivkaT recs fics and writers @rivkat

Anna Otto's favorite stories

Syntax6's rec list on her site, great rec list on Tumblr and FTF rec list @syntax6

👽 90s Old School Rec Sites

The Basement Office - Musea: a treasure trove of extensive fic lists with lovely written blurbs, recced by a group of talented writers from back in the day

The Other Side - Fanfic Recs from Beyond the Grave: a large collection of 'scary' or 'spooky' story recs with nice blurbs. Beautiful web design.

the Rookery - Favorite Authors: nice commentary on a list of classic fic writers

X-Files Fanfiction 101: an intro guide to fic categories and what to read for each

The Primal Screamers: a fun site run by a mailing list that hosts fic recs with blurbs, and a 'Coffee Talk' section full of delightful discussions of canon

Idealists Haven - Elemental Fanfic Archive: an archive with rec blurbs

Chronicle X: a large, well-organized archive with blurbs, plus a 'Can We Talk' discussion section of novel-length fics, plus a total of 46 author interviews. Simply incredible!

👽 Special Mention

The X-Files Lost and Found: a fic finder message board that is miraculously still very active today—How wonderful! Its FAQ page hosts a huge collection of well-categorized themed fic lists (not recs), including "Classics (or, Your Fanfic Education is Not Complete Until You've Read ...)".

Where do you find your next read? What did I miss? Reblog and share your favorites!

[blueiscoool]

Exceptional Sixth-Century Sword Unearthed in Anglo-Saxon Cemetery in the UK

Archaeologists have uncovered a spectacular sixth-century sword from an Anglo-Saxon cemetery near Canterbury, Kent, in a discovery hailed as one of the most remarkable of its kind. The weapon, distinguished by its exceptional preservation and craftsmanship, is being compared to the famous Sutton Hoo sword found in Suffolk in 1939.

The newly unearthed sword features a silver-and-gilt hilt with intricate decorative patterns and a blade inscribed with runic script. Even the leather-and-wood scabbard, lined with beaver fur, has survived the passage of time. A ring attached to the pommel may symbolize an oath to a king or high-ranking figure, reflecting the weapon’s elite status.

Lead archaeologist Professor Duncan Sayer of the University of Central Lancashire expressed awe at the find. “It’s really incredible, in the top echelons of swords, an elite object in every way. It rivals the swords from Dover and Sutton Hoo,” he said. The Sutton Hoo sword, crafted with gold and cloisonné garnets, is considered a pinnacle of Anglo-Saxon craftsmanship, but this recent discovery stands out for its remarkable condition.

Sutton Hoo Sword.

The cemetery, whose exact location remains undisclosed to protect the site, has so far revealed 12 graves, though researchers estimate it contains up to 200 burials. Male graves have yielded weapons such as spears and shields, while female burials include brooches, buckles, and knives. Notably, the grave containing the sword also held a gold pendant engraved with a serpent or dragon—a type of ornament typically associated with high-status women. Archaeologists suggest it may have been an heirloom or a gift from a female relative.

Other artifacts at the site hint at connections to regions beyond Britain. Scandinavian objects were found in a fifth-century woman’s grave, while items of Frankish origin appear in later burials. These findings illuminate the migration patterns and cultural exchanges following the Roman withdrawal from Britain in the early fifth century.

The excavation has also provided rare insights into Anglo-Saxon funerary customs. Conservator Dana Goodburn-Brown discovered fly pupae on the sword, suggesting the deceased’s body was left exposed for a time before burial, likely to allow loved ones to pay their respects. “So we’re learning something about the funerary practices,” she explained in the upcoming BBC Two series Digging for Britain.

The sword and other artifacts are undergoing conservation and will eventually be displayed at the Folkestone Museum. Prof Alice Roberts, presenter of Digging for Britain, described the site as “an extraordinary Anglo-Saxon cemetery with incredibly furnished graves… The sword is just astonishing.”

By Dario Radley.

[glitteryinknotes]

There is a level of deep, bitterly poetic and cruel irony in Astarion's death and his eventual fate as a vampire spawn. Laughable, even. Lamentable.

Where do I even begin. I once posted here my thoughts on who Astarion was before Cazador took him; and all my thoughts were based on what we can assume to be canon from scraps on information in - game and interviews with Neil. That Astarion Ancunin who was laid into the ground at Baldur's Gate cementary was a corrupt magistrate, a shining example of power abuse, indulgence, hedony, existence in privilege without any service to the world around.

We also know for a fact that Astarion is not a good person in a moral sense. Again, Neil Newbon himself talked about it. He has capability to grow, mature, open himself up, soak in the positive influence and feel for others, but he never will be the default upstanding type. That is simply not at his core.

This is why (I am aware we're talking a fictional character, headcanon is free to all in whichever way they think it suits and pleases them) I cannot for the world believe in all the fanfiction based on the notion of the tragic, tortured soul unjustly attacked and turned into a vampire, because to me - it misses the entire depth and essence of Astarion's personality and arc. He was not a "worthy" persona before Cazador; in fact, the beating he got from the Gur was well - deserved and the near - death experience... Probably so as well. Maybe if anything, this would open his eyes and force him to reflect at least a bit on his choices in the position he was occupying. (But given that he mentions begging Cazador to turn him to be able to take revenge, I highly doubt that.) So yeah... The man got what was coming to him. He deserved it.

But what he got in the end once Cazador allowed him to drink his blood and had him in his hold? Two hundred years of misery and abuse beyond description, being completely stripped of any identity and personhood? No one deserves that. Such fate should not be thrust upon anyone. Ever.

It is the cruellest, most wicked twist of fate that it took that kind of ordeal to change a corrupt little elf's view of the world and force him to even acknowledge the existence of evil deeds and abuse of power - something I am quite sure he never gave any thought to before. It took being transformed into an utterly helpless victim to make him truly see that there is good and bad and perpetuating the bad leads to pain and misery for the innocents (and you can never be sure if not for you as well), and only then, at his most pathetic, most vulnerable, after centuries of torment, it took meeting, trusting, admiring, being grateful to, befriending / loving and being influenced by a genuinely good and kind person (probably the exact opposite of who he was before) to shake and cause some shift in his inner moral compass, or rather the way he was choosing to use it. The full circle, a poignant, unwilling journey from the one abusing power, to the enslaved puppet of someone with considerably more power abusing it in the most inhuman ways possible, and this time to his own woe, to the one person able to break the abusive cycle given the right influence.

Isn't that simply poetic in the most sickly sense? A tragicomedy, if you will.

Forget about Astarion Ancunin. The grave was good for lovemaking and sharing an important moment, but whoever was laid there was not anyone worthy of your time (just like "Ascended Astarion" )The one who stands by your side now is. Your Astarion. The new Astarion, the same "lovable rogue" with a taste for theatrics, drama, debauchery, beauty, murder mayhem and loose morality, but - a better person all the same.

[follow up post here

https://www.tumblr.com/glitteryinknotes/733162725841289216/a-little-follow-up-to-my-previous-post?source=share]

[herofics]

No Longer Mine

A/N: So, basically this is about Gojo’s s/o “dying” and he eventually moves on with his life and then it turns out his s/o wasn’t dead after all. It’s basically all angst tbh. There's probably gonna be more parts to this eventually but idk...

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there when you needed him most, and now you were gone. You were burnt beyond recognition. If he didn’t know it was your body on the floor, he wouldn’t have even known there had been a human there once. There were still traces of your cursed energy around, even if they were faint. You must have tried to resist whoever had done this. Of course you would have, you wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. He made Shoko check the DNA results a dozen times, but it was always the same result. It had been your body that was found in the house you shared with him. You were gone, and so was your shared home. Burned to the ground by god knows who, with you inside it.

Gojo didn’t really accept you being gone for a long time. He was so numb, and your death almost killed him. All those lonely nights with just him and a bottle of strong liquor, talking to you. Talking to an empty room, while downing so much liquor that it would have put a normal person in the hospital. He talked about how angry he was, angry towards himself for not having caught whoever had taken you from him, angry at you for leaving him, angry at the world for all of it. One night, you started talking back to him. You told him how it wasn’t his fault and that you loved him. That’s when he knew he was in trouble. The dead don’t speak, they don’t converse with anyone, that’s not how the world works.

That was about a year after you died. He stopped drinking and your ghost started fading away. Your voice got more distant and the image of you got muddier. He didn’t want to lose you again. He didn’t want to forget, but somehow remembering was worse. Even though it was muddy, he could still see your smile. Oh, how he loved that smile.

Eventually, he found someone new. He fell in love again, but you never left him completely. The memories he shared with you were still dear to him, even if they were painful. He visited your grave every year on the anniversary of your death. He left flowers on your grave and while he wasn’t a religious man, he prayed that wherever you were, you had found peace.

Four years later, you reappeared. You were found unconscious on some side street in Tokyo and taken to the hospital. After you woke up, the first call you made was to Gojo.

“Hi, I’m sorry I missed dinner last night. I’m in the hospital, but I don’t know what happened”

“Whoever you are, this isn’t funny” a cold voice answered back.

“What do you mean Toru? It’s me, it’s (Name)”

“Don’t call this number again” Gojo said and hung up.

You were confused to say the least. You’d missed dinner, sure, but there was no way he would act that coldly towards you just because of that. Then you noticed the date on your hospital band. It was four years more than it should’ve been. That must have been a mistake, right? You started to panic, your heart rate was getting erratic and you were having trouble breathing. A nurse came in, trying to calm you down.

“What’s the date today? Please, what is it?” you asked frantically.

“It’s 17th of August 2016”

“2016?!” you gasped.

Who could be so cruel as to make a call like that to him? Sure, he had made many enemies in his life, but most of them were dead and wouldn’t be the type to pull such an egregious prank on him anyway. It couldn’t be you, it couldn’t possibly be you. He had confirmed your death himself. More importantly, Shoko had confirmed it, multiple times. It had been your cursed energy, your DNA. There was no doubt about it.

“Who was that?” his fiancée asked as he had put down the phone.

“Just a wrong number” Gojo muttered.

“You seem a bit rattled, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, it was nothing” Gojo said, brushing off his fiancée.

The call kept bothering him. Gojo couldn’t sleep that night and just laid in bed, awake, while his lover laid beside him, sleeping like a log. The thought of you being alive kept him awake all night. Could it really be possible? Had Shoko been wrong? Had he been wrong? He couldn’t get that little voice out of his head. That little nagging voice in the back of his head, telling him he needed to go to that hospital, he needed to make sure. Early the next morning, he made his way to the hospital.

You had been given some sedatives, because of how badly you had panicked when you found out what year it was. You’d been gone for four years, and you didn’t remember a single thing about it. When you woke up, you were groggy, and you weren’t really feeling great. You were still in shock about the missing four years.

“You were dead” a familiar voice said from the end of your bed.

“Toru?” you asked, blinking a bit to focus your vision better.

“You were dead” he repeated, but this time his voice wavered.

“What are you talking about?” you questioned.

“There was a body, in the rubble of our burned down house…”

“What…?” you whispered.

Gojo was still standing by the end of your bed. You were really there, clear as day. He was afraid that if he touched you, this would all turn out to be some kind of illusion. Still, he couldn’t help himself as he moved closer to you and reached his hand out to touch your cheek. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was too afraid, so he just held his hand next to your face, scared that you would disappear at any moment.

“Toru?” you asked, tears welling up in your eyes. “What happened?”

“You died (Name)... or at least we thought you did. It’s been four years since then” Gojo wasn’t sure if he should tell you about his engagement, but he wanted to be honest with you, like you’d been with each other before. “I moved on. I had to, losing you almost killed me”

Gojo’s hand fell back to his side and he hung his head. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He was just so confused.

It was heartbreaking to hear the pain in his voice, but you still felt angry. Even though you rationally knew it had been years for him, for you that missed dinner was yesterday. For you, he had found someone else overnight. Your love for him was just as strong as it had ever been, but he clearly didn’t feel the same anymore.

“I don’t have any memory of the past four years. Did you know that? To me, I last saw you yesterday, and now you’re saying you found someone else?”

“I-”

“You don’t need to explain. I get it, but I would have waited. I wouldn’t have given up on you” you said tearfully, looking away from him.

“I did look for you (Name). Your death almost killed me, Ava saved me after I hit rock bottom”

“That’s her name? Ava?” you asked, the sadness evident in your voice.

“Yes… we’re engaged"

"Oh”

It felt like someone punched you in the stomach. You felt sick, empty. He was engaged? The love of your life had moved on with someone else. He’d left you behind, a long time ago, apparently.

“I think you should leave” you sniffled, wiping the tears from your cheeks, trying to appear strong. Even though you felt everything but.

“I don’t-” Gojo started, but stopped himself. You probably didn’t want to know. “Of course, whatever you want” he sighed and turned to leave.

As Gojo left the room, he gave you one more glance. You looked broken, and he was certain it was his fault. Why hadn’t he kept looking? Why had he given up on you? No matter what anyone had told you, you would have kept going. You wouldn’t have given up until you found him. So why did he?

The second Gojo left the room and closed the door, you broke down. You were sobbing, burying your face into a pillow to stop anyone from hearing your cries. The person you loved since you were kids at Jujutsu High, the one you’d given your heart, soul and body to, had left you behind. You had nothing to go back to. You’d been robbed of four years of your life, and now it felt like your future was gone too. It all just felt like a massive lie, like someone was having fun at your expense. Your old life was gone.