#whether it's in bed or in like a fight or something

[delulustateofmind]

I fear I have gone soft, here is JJK husbands x Reader play fighting.

Satoru is, without a doubt, the most playful of husbands. Mischief practically sparkles in his bright blue eyes as he corners you, wiggling his fingers ominously before lunging. Whether you like it or not, you will be tickled. Just loves watching you scramble away, curling into a tiny, desperate ball, laughing breathlessly as you plead for mercy. But mercy isn’t in his vocabulary. Instead, he grins down at you, bright eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh? What’s this?” he coos, tilting his head dramatically. “A little snack-sized human? Guess I better show you what happens when a curse eats you.” Before you can protest, he’s on you - playfully nipping at your shoulders, your neck, even your cheeks. His teeth graze your skin between bouts of harsh tickling (he's not gentle with it, you will be bruised by morning), his warm hands squeezing your sides until you're a giggling, half-crying mess. He only stops when you're gasping for air, sprawled across the floor, cheeks flushed, and eyes watery. And even then, he kisses your forehead sweetly, whispering, “You’re too cute when you’re helpless.”

Suguru is different - rougher, slower, and far more smug. He doesn’t just play-fight with you; he toys with you. A playful smirk tugs at his lips as he effortlessly traps you, long fingers curling around your wrist as he twists your arm behind your back - gently, but with enough force to remind you that struggling is pointless. Leaning in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Shhh, baby. Just let it happen,” he whispers a slight chuckle leaving his lips. You wince as you try to pull away. “See? If you keep squirming, it’s only going to hurt more.” The way he restrains you feels almost too easy, and it doesn’t help that his chest is pressed flush against your back, his warmth seeping into you. Then you feel it - the unmistakable hardness against you. He knows you notice, and that only makes his smirk grow. “Aw, feeling shy now?” he taunts, pressing just a little closer. Play fighting with Suguru is always a dangerous game, because he knows exactly how to turn it into something else.

Nanami doesn’t engage in nonsense - at least, that’s what he wants you to believe. But if you’re feeling particularly brave and decide to poke the bear, he’ll indulge you. Just once. He lets out a deep, exasperated sigh, adjusting his tie as he watches you with mild amusement. And then, in a single swift motion, he grabs you, effortlessly tossing you onto the bed as if you weigh nothing. His large hands pin you down just long enough for you to realize - oh, he’s strong. There’s no smug teasing, no taunting - just the confidence of a man. He stares down at you with a small smirk, shaking his head. “Are you done?” he asks, voice calm, but there’s a hint at something playful in his tone. And when you huff in defiance, his lips twitch just slightly. “Good. Because I have work to do.” And yet, as he pulls away, there’s a fleeting touch - a warm palm grazing your hip, a small brush of his fingers along your cheek - that betrays just how much he enjoys indulging you.

Sukuna? Yeah, let’s not. The moment you so much as think about play fighting with him, he’s already watching you like a predator sizing up its prey. Lips curling into a sharp, nearly playful grin as he cracks his knuckles, tilting his head. “You sure about that, little one?” he muses, eyes gleaming at the challenge. If you try to land a playful shove, he’s immediately countering - grabbing your wrist so fast you barely register the movement before you’re flipped onto your back, pinned beneath his weight. His claws press lightly into your skin, enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with. “Tch. You’re too weak,” scoffing, though there’s something almost affectionate in the way he smirks down at you, another glint of amusement in his crimson gaze. He likes to watch you struggle, likes to see you realize there’s no winning against him. And if you pout? If you grumble that he’s being unfair? He only laughs - a deep, rich sound that vibrates through your chest as you squirm - before leaning down, lips ghosting over your ear. “Cry all you want, brat. You started this.”

[wisteriaiswriting]

Sonic Characters Love Languages

Words: 440

Summary: Sonic movie characters love languages (Featuring Sonic, Shadow, Knuckles and Tails)

Physical touch - How could he not (almost) constantly be in arms reach? He doesn’t know what it is about you, maybe it’s just… you? But he loves, no, adores being around you. Much more when the sun has set, everyone else has gone to bed while you both cuddle on the couch.

Quality time – Even if you don’t want to be touched, that's fine. He’s content to hang around, whether it’s him running around the room doing who knows what, everything apparently. While you do your own thing, as long as he can yap about everything and anything that comes to his mind, he’s fine.

Quality time - He is more than content to just be in the same room with you most of the time, there's just something comforting about you. There's times where he’ll silently enter your room, make sure you want him there, and just sit across from you for hours. If you ever want him to join your activity, he likely won't turn you down.

Acts of service - He definitely isn’t a man (Hedgehog?) of words, so he does his best to make up for that with actions. If there is anything you need or want done, he’ll do it without asking, surprising you when you get around to doing it.

Acts of service - His idea of ‘acts of service’ is fighting anyone you want, which is technically right. But you’ll have to teach him that there's more to do, which when he learns, kinda loves. If it’s for you, he doesn’t mind doing anything.

Receiving gifts - Another one who isn’t big on words, due to his life, he doesn’t know much about relationships. During yours though he learns how much he likes being given things, mainly from you. Most of the objects are being placed somewhere safe and where he can stare at them, the others are being used. (If the others want to give him something, they get you to do it most times.)

Words of affirmation - I mean this in the sense of you complimenting him, as words tend to not come as easily to him. Not saying that he won't try, he might stumble over his words a bit, but you can understand what he says. Finds it a lot easier to write down his feelings, leaving the note somewhere you’ll find it, waiting for you to come find him after.

Gift giving - Tying this in with words of affirmation, uses his machines to give you compliments. Like recording his voice saying different things, as a little pick me up type of machine, something you can listen to whenever you want. Sometimes though he has to ask Tom and Maddie what things to give you as some of the things aren’t… ideal.

[hishumanbellestories]

Hmhmhm..

What do you think about some old (but still lovely) trope for your domestic AU? Smth like Alastor taking care of "you" while "you're" sick or tired? Or maybe even HE could be the tired one? You could choose any interpretation of the trope actually. There's still a big room for creativity, I think

You’re curled up in bed, wrapped in heavy blankets, your body achy and exhausted from fever. Your head pounds, your throat is sore, and everything feels just a little too warm. The world outside your feverish haze is distant—until you hear a familiar voice humming a tune, rich and smooth, laced with mischief even now.

Alastor stands at your bedside, his sharp red eyes gleaming with amusement as he peers down at you. His grin is ever-present, but there’s something softer in his gaze.

“My, my, what a pitiful sight you are, my dear!” he chirps, clasping his hands together with exaggerated delight. “Sweaty, weak, and barely able to lift a finger—why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were just begging for someone to take advantage of your vulnerability!”

You groan, barely managing to glare at him. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a bright, crackling sound, like an old radio tuning in and out. But instead of continuing to tease you, he reaches out and presses the back of his clawed hand against your forehead. The coolness of his touch sends a shiver down your spine.

“Oh-ho! You’re positively burning up, darling,” he muses, dramatically shaking his head. “How unfortunate! And here I was, hoping you’d be strong enough to dance with me today.”

You close your eyes, feeling too exhausted to argue. “Why are you even here?”

Alastor tuts, wagging a finger. “Tsk, tsk, now that’s no way to speak to your devoted caregiver! Do you truly think I’d leave you to suffer alone? No, no, no, my dear, I insist on taking excellent care of you.”

Before you can protest, he snaps his fingers, and with a sudden flicker of dark magic, a steaming bowl of soup appears on your bedside table. Another snap, and a cool, damp cloth presses itself against your forehead.

You blink in surprise. “… Did you just—”

“I did indeed! You ought to feel honored—after all, it’s not every day I lower myself to such menial acts of kindness.” He winks, settling onto the edge of your bed. “Now, be a good patient and let me dote on you, won’t you?”

You grumble under your breath, but deep down, you can’t deny the warmth spreading through your chest—though whether it’s from the fever or Alastor’s strangely caring presence, you’re not entirely sure.

He stays with you, fussing in his own odd, over-the-top way. He insists on feeding you the soup.

“Say ‘ahhh’! Oh, come now, don’t be difficult!”, he says bringing the hot spoon closer to your mouth.

He makes sure you drink enough water, and even tells you delightfully eerie stories in an attempt to entertain you.

And when you start to drift off to sleep, too exhausted to fight it, you swear you feel his fingers combing gently through your hair.

“Rest well, my dear,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual.

“I’ll be here when you wake.”

And for once, there’s no teasing, no theatrics—just a quiet promise that lingers in the air as you slip into dreams.

As the fever pulls you deeper into exhaustion, the world around you blurs in a haze of heat and cold. But even in your delirium, you remain aware of him. The hum of an old jazz tune, the flicker of something dark and unholy shifting just beyond your sight, the careful, methodical way he tends to you despite his usual air of mischief.

Alastor doesn’t just sit at your bedside—he owns the space, as if your suffering is his personal stage. He plays the part of devoted caretaker with dramatic flair, his every movement deliberate. When he lifts the damp cloth from your forehead to refresh it, he does so with the delicate precision of an artist adjusting his masterpiece. When he tucks the blankets more securely around you, he makes a show of it, hands sweeping in grand, exaggerated gestures before patting them into place.

"Ah, how tragic," he sighs, his grin never wavering. "To think my dear little songbird has been reduced to such a pitiful state! Why, it’s almost enough to break my heart—if I had one!"

You try to roll your eyes at him, but even that feels like too much effort. Instead, you grumble, voice hoarse, "you’re so dramatic."

"And you’re so helpless," he counters cheerfully. "Lucky for you, I adore a captive audience!"

You feel the bed dip slightly as he leans closer, his presence radiating something both comforting and unsettling. His voice lowers into something smooth, velvety, as if meant to lull you further into your fevered dreams.

"Now, now, my dear, don’t look so miserable," he purrs, his clawed fingers ghosting over your temple in an almost absentminded caress. "You should relish this moment! How often do you get the pleasure of having me at your beck and call?"

You want to argue. You want to remind him that he showed up uninvited, that he is the one fussing over you, not the other way around. But your body betrays you, sinking into the warmth of his presence, unable to fight the exhaustion pressing down on you.

Alastor’s expression shifts—so subtly you might have missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him. The ever-present grin remains, but his eyes soften, something unreadable flickering in their crimson depths.

"That’s it," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper as he watches you struggle to stay conscious. "Just sleep, my dear."

For a moment, you think you feel his claws combing through your hair again, the touch strangely careful, reverent. And then—so light it might be your fevered imagination—you swear you feel something brush against your forehead. The ghost of a kiss, barely there, gone before you can fully register it.

"Sweet dreams," he breathes, and before the darkness fully claims you, you hear one final whisper—soft, almost uncertain:

"I’ll stay."

[adverbally]

More Than Words

Written for the @stmarchmm prompt “love confession” | wc: 660 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: Steddie, Steve POV character study, omega Steve, alpha Eddie, early relationship, falling in love, domesticity

———

Steve falls fast, as he always has. It’s different with Eddie, though– less like plunging off a cliff and more like sinking into a warm bath that he never wants to leave. More importantly, he thinks Eddie is right there with him.

There have been signs, subtle but there. Eddie can’t seem to keep his eyes off Steve, whether they’re driving home from the movies or wrangling the Party on D&D nights or making out on Steve’s couch. Then there are the constant touches– Eddie’s hand at the small of his back, linking their fingers, playing with Steve’s hair, tipping his chin up for a kiss.

Eddie listens, opens doors for him, calls him on the days they don’t see each other, gets him a fresh scent token for his nest every few days, tells the kids to knock it off when their teasing gets a little too harsh. He doesn’t complain when Steve has to cancel plans, whether it’s for a migraine or an unexpected double shift. He surprises Steve with flowers when he’s having a rough week. Eddie doesn’t expect more from him or say he’s too much. He seems to like Steve just as he is.

Which is great. Really. For most people, it would be a total non-problem. But Steve…

It’s never been like this before, is the thing. Dating has always been a performance for him, a way to show what a good Omega he could be. He could be pretty and sweet, and he could laugh at an Alpha’s jokes and compliment them and let them buy his dinner in exchange for a kiss goodnight. With Eddie, though, it doesn’t feel like a mask or a role to play; it’s real and vulnerable, it’s walking a tightrope without a safety net, and the scariest thing about it is that it doesn’t scare Steve at all. Not if Eddie’s there.

Steve doesn’t tell anyone, especially not Eddie, but he thinks about it for weeks. The words linger on the tip of his tongue any time he does anything with Eddie– wrestling for the bowl of popcorn on movie night or picking up the kids from their latest campaign session or saying goodnight at the end of their phone calls. A few times, Steve musters up the courage to test it out after he hangs the receiver back on the wall, whispering I love you into the silence of his empty house. It comes naturally, easily, and that’s how Steve knows it’s time to say it for real.

He had toyed with the idea of making some grand romantic gesture but in the end, it’s just the two of them, snuggled together under three layers of blankets in Eddie’s bed, laughing about something Dustin said earlier that day. The sheets and Steve’s borrowed pajamas smell like Eddie, sweet herbs and sharp citrus, and Eddie’s arms are secure around his waist as he curls around Steve from behind. Steve can’t stifle the purr of contentment that rumbles through him but he wouldn’t want to, not when he can let Eddie know just how happy he makes him.

“Comfy?” Eddie asks before stifling a yawn in the warm skin at the nape of Steve’s neck.

Steve hums in reply and nuzzles his cheek into Eddie’s pillow. He’s half-asleep already, his blinks growing longer and longer as he fights to keep his eyes open.

When Eddie snorts in amusement, Steve feels it more than hears it. “Okay, sleepyhead. Goodnight.”

The words stick in Steve’s throat for just a second before he sighs, “I love you.”

Eddie tucks his chin over Steve's shoulder and noses at his scent gland, inhaling deeply. “I love you, too, Stevie. But we can talk about it tomorrow.” He kisses the spot once, twice, three times, like he’s already thinking about how his bite would look there among Steve’s freckles. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

Steve falls asleep with the ghost of a smile still on his lips.

[daegall]

☆ unexpected company.

➷ in which the Gods give your boyfriend a shitty past few weeks, and you attempt to make up for it.

pairing: son of poseidon!jeno x daughter of apollo!reader

genre: reverse hurt comfort, fluff, angst, established relationship!AU

warnings: mentions of injuries (i think???)

word count: 2k words

a/n: jumpscare guys omg what the fuck i havent written since christmas 2 years ago LOOOOL um anyways........ comeback ? everyone say thank you jeno bc he is always and will always be my inspiration <3

btw this is basically . pt.2 of late night company so if you wanna go read that for just a little bit of context go crazy!! (you can read it without it tho)

The last few weeks in the infirmary have been busy, buzzing with clumsy teens and kids who carelessly run around in a sparring with someone clearly much stronger than them. You guess they get it from their god parent. As much as you love the infirmary and taking care of people, you're tired. Really tired. However, your (finally official) boyfriend for 2 months has always been there to help you through it.

Jeno Lee is someone you never expected to be so loving, but really, you should have known when he gave up his own team's flag just to go help you fight off Clairise during a capture the flag match. Despite his very busy schedule, Jeno loves to hang out around you, cracking jokes when you tend to crying, injured kids, getting you water when you don't realize you need it, and always attentively listening to you, whether it be a rant of frustration, or just a chat. Your favorite part is when he kisses you and tells you of how good of a job you've done.

As mentioned, Jeno has a very busy schedule. As expected, from a child of one of the big three gods. However, recently it's been… really packed. When Jeno does have the mercy of free time, he's always sleeping. You haven't seen him in two whole weeks. He's never talking to his friends, you never seen him swimming anymore,a nd worst of all? He's not eating. He loves to eat─and he's not eating. This calls for an emergency visit.

If only you had the ability to. You're in charge of the infirmary, however, and can never seem to find a replacement since your siblings always avoid the job and run away. You contemplate running away from your duties. For Jeno. You could send Jaemin to check up on him… no, he'd end up flirting with any girl (or guy!) he sees on the way. Damn Aphrodite kids. Finally, you decide to act on the former thought.

You don't even make it to the door, before you notice a very familiar presence by the door.

Your breath hitches as your eyes meet Jeno's. They look… tired. Nonetheless, you can still sense the love behind them, and it stirs something in you. You feel a small flame light in your heart, as if he's the one that set it on fire. The fire spreads to your feet as you make your way to him, to your fingertips as they reach out for him, and it's as if that fire has radiated on him, because he instantly melts into your touch, his nose bumping into your palm as he sighs out in what you can only make out to be satisfaction.

Despite his happy demeanor, you still can shake off the feeling of worry that stirs within you, noticing how his shoulders are tense─how he limps as you escort him towards a bed, how exhausted he looks. You wonder if this is how he felt when he saw you that night, on his dock, crying. If so, you'd never want him to feel this way ever again.

"I was just about to come to you, you know," You laugh softly, as you take a seat next to him and grab his hand in yours. It's warm, you've missed how warm it was.

Jeno's fingers instinctively curl between yours, and you feel the callouses of his fingertips on your skin, and it's oddly comforting. His head leans against yours, and he's strangely touchy, as if you were his battery source─like sunlight to a sunflower. "Oh? You were going to sneak out for me?"

You roll your eyes fondly. "I'd do anything for you."

"I know,"

And when his lips press against your temple, its you who melts this time, transforming into a giggly, grinning mess.

"I've missed you, you know,"

Jeno knows. He hopes you know that he's missed you even more. He's missed you every time he sees a band aid, he missed you every time someone made a lame joke, he saw you in every sunrise and sunset, he missed you when he gazed into water─which happens a lot, as a child of Poseidon. If he could, he'd abandon all these missions─what the hell are camp counselors thinking anyway, sending a kid off to beat the largest, most hazardous of creatures? He guesses that's the price of having power.

Jeno doesn't want power, however. He wants you. If power is in the way of him seeing you, he'd rather give it all away to the first person who asked, he'd give everything away for you.

"I've missed you too, baby,"

Your eyes tear away from your connected hands, trailing up to meet his own. They're longing and earnest. You smile, in hopes to comfort him.

It works, it always works. Jeno grins back, his other hand reaching up to brush your hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. He notices a small chunk of your hair is shorter than others, and thinks back to the letter you sent him, the one where you ranted out of frustration when your siblings pranked you during your sleep and cut your hair. He smiles.

"Tell me about your missions," You mumble, encouraging him to fill you in on everything you missed out.

"Well… I kicked ass. Got my ass kicked. End of story?"

Jeno yelps and laughs when you punch at his shoulder. "Fine, fine, it was… fun,"

"Really? But isn't it scary to be doing that all alone?"

In an instant, Jeno's face changes. Alone. He's been feeling that lately.

"uh… yeah, you could say that."

You notice the way his lips curl down, how his brows just furrow slightly. It tugs on your heart.

You squeeze his hand gently, head dipping down to chase his gaze. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Jeno's lips curl back into a smile, and though its weaker than before, it's still there. "Nothing, just a little tired." You nod at his words, processing and attempting to dissect his intentions. "…okay, do you wanna rest here? I can watch over you,"

At your pure intentions and even purer heart, Jeno melts, pulling you closer with a shake of his head. "No need, just want to be here, with you. No longer alone…"

"Hey," You give him a look. He knows that look. You've caught him red-handed. "I'm here for you, you know that. Tell me what's wrong…"

Jeno cracks almost instantly. He could never be dishonest when it comes to you─he could never hurt you. "I just… I was so lonely on those missions. Yeah, I was out at sea, and sure I did talk to my dad a few times but it's… it's not the same as camp, you know? Where you could spar endlessly just for fun, where every meal was full of laughter and not some cold, prepacked plate of literal shit. Where fighting never had me thinking that this could be my last fight."

He pauses for a moment, breathing in deep breaths, but you wait for him. You know when to talk, and now is not the time. Instead, you rub up and down comfortingly at his back, something he's always loved. You feel his breathing slow, and his muscles relax. Then, he continues.

"Nobody understands me. I'm the only Big Three child here, and I hate it. I hate that I'm the only one who doesn't get to join bonfire nights, I hate that I'm the only one that has to constantly live in fear of constant death, I hate that I can't love you the loudest─just to keep you safe! God, I hate that I can't give you everything… to tell you the truth… I hated it out there. I hated every second in solitude, I hated how my thoughts raced for no reason, and how I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and how empty I felt. I know I'm an introvert, and I love my personal time, but out there… I wasn't alone. I felt like death was creeping up on me, keeping me company. I didn't want death's company─I wanted your company. I missed you, Y/N… so much… and it killed me to know that you missed me too."

Your heart shatters at his words, and the glassy look in his eye, indicating his tears. Your palms envelop his cheeks, despite his tight grip, and you gently direct him to look down at you. "You're here now, aren't you? I'm here, with you," You start with a shaky breath. "and don't you dare say you don't give me everything. You give me everything and more. You'd give me the whole universe and still think it's too little, Jeno," You laugh airily, squeezing his cheeks fondly. "and even though you were away, I always felt loved. You don't need to be here physically for me to know, you know, that how much I trust you. So trust in me too, please. Trust that I'm satisfied, trust that I can take care of myself and that I want you to love me without any fears because we shouldn't have to have fears. Let go, you uptight man, and live! There might not be a lot of people out there who get exactly what you're going through, but people will relate on some level. People are just like that, empathizing and loving. Don't hate who you are, please, because you'd be hating something that I love, something I know is always worth my time and attention and something I will never give up on. Okay?"

Jeno stares at you, his eyes glossy with a tint of red on the outer corners of his eyes. He still looks handsome. He's always handsome. His hand are on your waist, his thumbs rubbing gently over the material of your t-shirt, gently tugging you towards him.

"…shit, did I ramble? Was I too fast? Do I need to say it all again? Gods─um, you give me everything, and more, and I trust you, and I─"

Jeno shuts you up effectively, nudging away your hands holding at his face to dip his head down and connect his lips with yours. They're salty with tears, and so soft, moving gently against yours as you reciprocate the kiss, your hands finding comfort in his hair. He kisses you with yearning, and he thinks that if you came just a millimeter closer, you'd feel the ache of his heart and his craving for you. Your comfort, your hugs, kisses, your smile and your gentle touches, your appreciative glances, your love. He craves your love, and now that he has it, he won't ever let go.

He makes it clear as he chases your lips when you pull away in what is, in his opinion, way too fast, gently maneuvering you closer to him, your chests pressed together and arms wrapped around one another. You wouldn't be surprised if your heart reached out and merged with his.

When Jeno does pull way, it's only to shower your face with kisses and hug you even tighter.

"I'm always here for you, Jen,"

"I know, baby."

You grin, taking his hand in yours as you gaze into his eyes. "Stay the night? I've missed your cuddles."

Jeno's nose bumps against yours as he nods, his smile mirroring yours. "Never wanted anything more."

As you lay in an infirmary bed, wrapped in Jeno's arms, you realize that Jeno has already given you the universe. The warmth you identified as a flame of adoration in your heart has grown into a sun, and Jeno's orbiting around that sun, keeping you loved and cared for. Much like how he is your moon, and you are the tide, constantly gravitating towards him. You like this universe he's gifted you.

[lvrsturniolo]

The Last Time ✧M.S

synopsis: you finally snap, not being able to carry the toxicity of your relationship any longer.

warnings: angst, toxic relationship, breakup, regret, use of y/n.

pairing: toxic!matt x reader

It started like all the other fights.

Sharp words. A bitter tone. That unbearable, suffocating tension thick enough to choke you.

But this time, it felt different.

You weren’t sure if it was the way Matt looked at you—like he was tired, like he couldn’t be bothered to fight anymore—or if it was the way your own body reacted, too exhausted to keep going in circles.

Either way, something in your chest cracked.

“I don’t even know why I try with you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt scoffed, running a hand through his hair, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Then don’t.”

Your heart twisted. “What?”

“If it’s so exhausting for you, Y/N, then don’t fucking try.” His voice was flat, cold—like he didn’t care, like you didn’t matter. “No one’s making you stay.”

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself, but the air felt too thick, too heavy. “You don’t mean that.”

Matt let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Maybe I do.”

You stared at him, searching for something—anything—in his expression that told you he didn’t mean it. That he was just angry, that he was just lashing out the way he always did.

But there was nothing. Just indifference.

Like he didn’t care whether you stayed or left.

Your hands shook as you crossed your arms over your chest, as if that could hold you together. “I love you,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips like a plea. Like a final chance.

Matt exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Yeah. Well.” He shrugged. “Love isn’t enough, is it?”

And that was it.

That was the moment you knew.

You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling. He didn’t stop you when you turned away. Didn’t move when you grabbed your bag, when you walked to the door.

He just stood there. Watching.

And when you hesitated, waiting for him to call you back—to fight for you—he said nothing.

So you left.

Matt had never thought about what life would be like without you—because he never had to.

You always came back.

The fights, the slammed doors, the sharp words exchanged in the heat of the moment—it was just part of the cycle. You’d cry, he’d let you go, you’d miss him, and then you’d return, slipping back into his arms like you never left.

So when you stormed out that night, he didn’t even get up. Just leaned back against the couch, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. You’d be back. You always came back.

But you didn’t.

Morning came, and his phone was empty. No texts, no missed calls. His stomach twisted, but he shoved it down, convinced you were just trying to prove a point.

Day two passed. Then day three.

And then a week.

And suddenly, nothing was funny anymore.

Matt felt it in his chest first. A slow, aching pressure that made it hard to breathe. Then came the hands—shaking when he tried to hold his phone, itching to text you but never knowing what to say. He tried to sleep, but the bed felt too cold, too empty, like a reminder that you weren’t just gone for the night.

He saw you everywhere. In the passenger seat of his car when he glanced over at the red light. In the reflection of the bathroom mirror, standing behind him with that soft, sleepy smile you always had in the mornings. He heard your voice in songs, in crowds, in his own goddamn head.

But when he reached for you—when he called, when he texted—there was nothing.

Matt had never known what withdrawal felt like. But now, he did.

It was waking up in a cold sweat, gasping like he was drowning. It was pacing his room at 2 AM, running his hands through his hair until it stood on end. It was not eating, not sleeping, not functioning.

It was knowing, deep in his gut, that he had finally pushed you too far.

The first time he called, he got your voicemail. The second time, the same. By the fifth, he was gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The text messages were pathetic.

“Okay. I get it. You need space.”

“Just tell me when you’re ready to come back.”

“Y/N.”

“Please.”

“Are you really not gonna talk to me?”

Nothing.

And then, one night, something snapped.

He found himself outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free. His fist pounded against the wood, voice raw, desperate.

“Y/N.” His breath hitched. “Come on, open the door.”

Silence.

His throat burned. He swallowed hard, pressing his forehead against the door. His voice cracked.

“Please, sweetheart. Y’breakin my heart here.”

More silence.

And then, a shadow passed by the window.

You were there. You saw him. And you still weren’t letting him in.

Matt stumbled back, the reality hitting him like a truck. His chest ached, his stomach churned. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but there was nothing to fight.

He had already lost.

For the first time in his life, you weren’t coming back.

And it was his own damn fault.

[naebaetwsog]

hiii :33 hope ur doing well love <33 whenever u have time, can i req smth ab sungchan n roommate trope?? love u mwahh

「・Roomies ft.sungchan°×

genre. Fluff; angst(?); opposite gender roommates

warning. Mention of fighting; crying; cursing

pairing. Roommate! Sungchan x fem!reader

note. I doing well thank you, I hope you are too. I tried my best and u hope you like it ml <3

Freshman year was already chaotic enough, but somehow, you found yourself in an even rarer situation—sharing an apartment with a boy. Not just any boy, but Sungchan. It was uncommon for the university to assign mixed-gender roommates, but due to a last-minute housing mix-up, here you were.

At first, it was a little awkward. Neither of you knew each other, but moving in on the same day helped ease things. You divided the rooms fairly, helped each other unpack, and even made a list of house rules together:

1. No shoes in the house.

2. No random hookups (out of respect for each other).

3. keep the house clean

4. Loud noises only allowed until 9 PM.

5. Wake each other up for classes.

6. No stealing food without permission.

7. Do your laundry.

8. Wash the dishes.

9. Please shower daily.

10. Grocery shopping is a team effort.

11. Mutual respect is a must.

12. Saturdays are cleaning day.

Despite the initial awkwardness, you and Sungchan got along surprisingly well. You weren’t polar opposites—just different enough to balance each other out. He was a gym rat, while you exercised casually. You loved to cook, and he… well, he could barely fry an egg. He made up for it by cleaning and handling other chores, though he had a habit of breaking dishes and constantly bumping into furniture.

Even though he was naturally goofy and playful, he was respectful, knowing you might not be used to living with a guy. He never overstepped boundaries or made you uncomfortable. But he did walk around shirtless a lot, which you quickly learned to ignore (or at least pretend to).

Over time, you became best friends. He loved teasing you, whether it was by stealing bites of your food or hiding your things just to watch you get annoyed. But he also looked out for you, making sure you ate, checking in after long days, and—most importantly—never bringing girls over without asking.

At first, you brushed off how comfortable you felt around him. How safe. You told yourself that dating him would be ridiculous—what if things didn’t work out? You’d still have to live together until graduation. It wasn’t worth the risk.

But then, everything changed.

—

That day, you came home completely different. No bright smile, no sarcastic comment about how he left his shoes in the hallway again. Instead, you walked straight to your room, shutting the door behind you.

Sungchan noticed immediately.

He hesitated for a moment before knocking. “Hey… you good?”

No answer.

He frowned. Sure, you weren’t always talkative after a long day, but this was off. Without thinking twice, he opened the door.

And there you were—curled up on your bed, crying.

His stomach dropped. He had never seen you like this.

“Hey, hey,” he rushed over, sitting on the edge of your bed. “What happened?”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes, before whispering, “I was seeing someone.”

His jaw clenched. He had never met the guy, but he knew about the situationship. He also knew you really liked him.

“What did he do?” Sungchan asked, his voice dangerously calm.

You swallowed hard before answering. “He told me he wanted to make things official.”

Sungchan waited, sensing there was more.

“But today… I found him kissing my best friend.”

Silence.

For the first time in your friendship, Sungchan wasn’t cracking a joke, teasing you, or making light of the situation.

Instead, he was furious.

His blood boiled at the thought of someone hurting you like this—someone you trusted. He wanted to hit something. No—he wanted to hit that guy.

But right now, you didn’t need that. You needed him to just be there.

So he did the only thing he could—he pulled you into his arms, letting you cry against his shoulder. “He’s an idiot,” Sungchan muttered. “And she is too. You didn’t deserve that.”

You just nodded against him, gripping his hoodie. You didn’t know when, but eventually, you fell asleep. And for the first time ever, Sungchan stayed with you, lying awake as he stared at the ceiling, wondering how anyone could hurt you like this.

—

The next morning, things felt normal again. Or at least, you tried to pretend they were. Sungchan, on the other hand, was not pretending.

You found out through a friend later that he fought the guy.

For the next few weeks, things shifted between you two. Sungchan was even more protective than usual. He walked you to classes when he could, made you laugh whenever you were down, and—even though he never outright said it—you knew.

He liked you.

And you liked him.

But you were still scared. What if it ruined your friendship? What if things got messy?

Sungchan, however, wasn’t scared at all.

One evening, while you were making dinner, he leaned against the counter and asked, “Do you ever think about us?”

You froze for a second before turning to him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Like… being more than just roommates.”

You swallowed. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it?”

“Sungchan, we live together—”

“I know.” He smiled, but it wasn’t teasing this time. “And that’s why I know it would work.”

You stared at him. “How are you so sure?”

“Because I already feel like I’m dating you.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“You wake me up for classes, cook for me, scold me when I forget to do my chores. I know all your little habits, and you know mine. And I like it. I like you.” He exhaled. “I’ve liked you for a while now.”

You looked away, biting your lip. “And if it doesn’t work out?”

Sungchan reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

You hesitated for a moment before whispering, “I like you too.”

His face lit up. “Yeah?”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Yeah.”

Sungchan grinned. “So… can I kiss you?”

You laughed, finally looking up at him. “Sungchan, just do the dishes first.”

He groaned, but the lovestruck look on his face didn’t fade as he grabbed a sponge. “Fine, fine. But after that, you’re mine.”

And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit.

[prentissmultiverse]

Midnight Cravings

Emily Prentiss isn’t just hauntingly beautiful—she’s a vampire, her allure both deadly and irresistible. As the night deepens, you’ll be forced to face the choice of whether to fight the pull or fall into her dark embrace. Emily Prentiss x fem!reader TW: smut, vampirism, blood/blood play (i mean she's a vampire), fear/power dynamics, 18+ only

8.6k words

The warm summer breeze stirred the thin curtains by the window, making them billow softly in the night air. The open window, four stories high, had always felt like a promise of safety, far too high for anyone to intrude. The city sounds outside were distant, muffled by the height and the gentle hum of nightfall. Stars glittered above, tiny points of light dotting the sky, as the gentle rhythm of your breathing matched the sway of the breeze. Your beige silk nightdress clung lightly to your form, the fabric smooth against your skin, lulling you deeper into slumber.

A shadow moved across the moonlit room.

It slipped in with the breeze silently, predatory, yet graceful. The dark figure paused at the foot of your bed, surveying you with a gaze that pierced the darkness. There was an unsettling stillness, a quiet that felt too purposeful for this calm night.

Watchful eyes lingered on the young woman before her, tracing the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. Each rise and fall of your chest was measured, undisturbed, the peaceful cadence of someone who had no reason to believe they were being watched. The night air carried the soft scent of your skin, warm and inviting, tinged with the faint sweetness of sleep.

The sheets had slipped low on your body, gathering at your waist, revealing the delicate silk of your nightdress. The fabric clung to you, a whisper of beige against your skin, offering a tantalizing glimpse of bare shoulders, the gentle curve of the top of your breasts. You shifted slightly, a sigh escaping your parted lips, and she felt it then: the slow, unhurried beat of your heart. A rhythm so achingly steady, so unaware of the danger that loomed just beyond the veil of sleep.

She listened, enraptured. The blood pulsing beneath your skin called to her, a song too sweet to ignore. But she did not move…yet. Instead, she watched. Memorizing the way your lashes fluttered faintly against your cheeks, the way your fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your sheets, the way warmth radiated from every inch of you, so blissfully alive.

Then, finally, she acted.

Cool, featherlight fingers brushed along your arm, sending an electric shiver down your spine. The touch was deliberate, as though savoring every inch of skin they grazed. Your brow furrowed in sleep, caught in that liminal space between dream and waking. Another stroke—this time along the curve of your jaw. Soft. Intimate. Icy cold.

Your eyes shot open.

Your heart pounded wildly, slamming against your ribs as though it were trying to break free. The world was a blur at first, a hazy melding of shadows and moonlight. And then, standing above you, silhouetted against the silvery light streaming in through the window, was a woman.

No, not just any woman. Her presence was both haunting and alluring, as though she had stepped out of a nightmare, or perhaps... a dream.

Her sharp features were framed by jet-black hair that fell straight down to her shoulders, cascading like liquid night. Her lips, painted a deep crimson, curved into a mischievous smirk that sent a thrill of fear and something darker through you. But it was her eyes that captured you—dark, almost black, like bottomless pits that could swallow you whole. They glittered with an unnatural intensity, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that they saw straight through to your soul, stripping away any illusion of safety.

In your dazed panic, you scrambled back, clutching the sheets to your chest in a desperate attempt to shield yourself. You pressed your back against the headboard, the cold metallic surface biting into your skin as your breath came in short, frantic gasps.

Her smirk deepened as she watched you, clearly amused by your reaction. Her gaze flicked briefly to your trembling hands, gripping the fabric for dear life, and then back to your face. She moved slowly, purposefully, every step a calculated grace as if she were the predator and you her prey, cornered, vulnerable.

Her outfit was striking, as if she had walked straight out of a dark fantasy. A low-cut black blouse clung to her body, highlighting the pale skin that glowed faintly in the moonlight. Her pants were flared, cinched at her waist with a large, chunky belt, the off-center buckle gleaming with a metallic sheen. Black heeled boots added to her height, making her seem even more imposing as she stood at the edge of your bed, the embodiment of dangerous elegance.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," she teased, her voice low and smooth, like velvet draped in shadows. Her lips quirked in a half-smile, revealing just the faintest hint of sharp teeth behind them.

Your heart raced even faster, too fast, you realized, as her expression shifted slightly, her eyes darkening with a predatory glint. She could hear your frantic heartbeat, the pulse of your blood rushing through your veins. You could almost feel the pull, the way her gaze lingered on your throat, on the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breathing.

"Relax," she cooed, her voice almost soothing, if not for the dangerous edge beneath it. "If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would’ve done it already?"

Her words were laced with sarcasm, but there was something else too, an odd sort of gentleness, as though she was trying to calm you despite the terror she was causing. The contradiction left you even more confused, your mind racing to catch up with the impossibility of the situation.

Who was she? And how had she even gotten into your apartment?

You swallowed hard, throat dry. Your voice came out barely above a whisper, small and trembling.

"Who... who are you?" you managed to stammer.

"Emily," she said simply. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her eyes never leaving yours. Carefully, she sat down at the edge of your bed.

"You know," she continued, shifting slightly on the mattress with that same predatory grace, "you really shouldn’t leave your windows open at night. It makes you an easy target." Her fingers reached out again, tracing along your jawline, featherlight and icy cold, just as before. "Especially for someone like me."

The implication hung in the air between you. The silence between you was suffocating, thick with tension and the rapid beat of your heart. Emily watched you with an eerie stillness, her dark eyes fixed on you as if she were savoring every second of your fear. The moonlight bathed her in silver, accentuating the sharp planes of her face, the curve of her lips still curled into that damned smirk.

"W-What are you?"

Emily exhaled a soft, amused breath, tilting her head slightly, almost as if she was delighted by your question. Her fingers drummed idly against her knee before she leaned forward, her tone dropping to something rich and velvety.

"That’s the fun part, isn’t it?" she mused. "Figuring it out. Rationalizing it. Convincing yourself you’re dreaming." Her smirk widened as she watched the way your chest rose and fell too quickly, your mind scrambling for any reasonable explanation for what was happening. "I bet you're already trying to convince yourself I’m just some hallucination. Some fever dream brought on by the summer heat."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Her voice lowered further, almost a whisper. "But I’m not, sweetheart."

You shivered.

Emily shifted slightly, her blouse slipping just enough to expose more of her neckline, her skin ghostly pale under the moonlight. Her lips parted slightly, just enough for you to glimpse what you’d been dreading to see—fangs. Sharp, gleaming, predatory.

She let you take it in, let you process the realization that sat like ice in your veins. Then, with that same easy confidence, she leaned back, resting her weight on her hands.

"I’m a vampire."

The words settled in your chest like a stone. Your body screamed at you to move, to do something, but you were locked in place, unable to comprehend the reality of what was sitting at the foot of your bed.

Emily hummed, watching the fear flicker in your eyes. "Ah, there it is," she mused. "That little moment of hesitation. When your brain finally catches up to what your gut already knew."

Your fingers tightened in the silk sheets.

Emily sighed dramatically, tilting her head. "You humans always do this. The denial. The fear. The ‘this can’t be real’ nonsense." She rolled her eyes. "It’s cute, really."

Your gaze flickered toward your bedroom door, your mind racing, thoughts spiraling into frantic calculations. The door was only a few feet away—if you moved quickly enough, if you pushed past the lingering haze of fear locking your limbs in place, maybe, just maybe you could make it.

But then—

A quiet, knowing tsk. It sliced through the silence like a blade, sharp and deliberate, and your entire body locked up on instinct.

"Uh-uh," Emily drawled, shaking her head in mock disappointment, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. "I wouldn’t try that if I were you."

Your pulse pounded against your throat, your breathing uneven as you forced yourself to meet her gaze. She was smirking. Like she already knew exactly what you were thinking. Like she had known before you had even realized it yourself.

Emily sighed, the sound almost fond, as if she found your attempt at escape nothing more than an endearing little game.

"Not that I don’t enjoy a good chase," she mused, tilting her head as though she were considering the idea, her black hair cascading over one shoulder. "But let’s be honest, sweetheart." She leaned in slightly, just enough for the weight of her presence to press down on you again, her voice dropping to something slower, more teasing. "You wouldn’t even make it two steps before I caught you."

The words sent a chill racing through your spine, but it wasn’t just fear that made your breath hitch.

Emily watched your reaction, her smirk deepening as she lifted a hand, dragging one cool finger down the column of your throat, tracing the frantic pulse beneath your skin.

"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice was a purr, soaked in amusement. "You know I’m right, don’t you?"

Your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your mind screamed at you to move. Run. Do something. But your body—your traitorous, betraying body—remained frozen beneath her.

Emily sighed again, tapping a single finger against your throat as if in thought, her touch featherlight, teasing. "What’s it gonna be, sweetheart?" she murmured. "Freeze up like a deer in headlights?" She paused, eyes glinting with something wicked. "Or—"

Before she could finish, you lunged.

Your body moved on instinct, pushing past the fear as you threw yourself out of bed, feet hitting the floor in a frantic dash toward the door. You didn’t look back, you couldn’t. You just focused on the doorknob, on the sliver of hope that you could make it out.

And then…

She was there.

Emily blocked the doorway effortlessly, her back against the wood, arms crossed, a cocky grin stretched across her lips.

"Told you so," she quipped, amused.

Your stomach dropped.

You barely had a second to react before you tried again, pushing off your heels, determined to get past her. But suddenly the world tilted. A blur of motion, a rush of cool air, and before you could even comprehend what was happening, you were flat on your back on your bed, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

Emily was above you, straddling your waist, her strong hands pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress. The world had tilted in the blink of an eye; one moment you were scrambling back, and the next, she was on top of you, her inhuman speed turning everything into a dizzying blur. Your vision spun as you gasped for air, your chest rising and falling erratically beneath the weight of her presence.

Her thighs, clad in smooth black fabric, pressed firmly against your bare legs. The soft material of her flared pants brushed against your skin with every slight movement, the contrast between her cool body and your warmth sending a sharp jolt of sensation through you. Her weight settled just above your thighs; not fully crushing, but heavy enough to leave no doubt that you were trapped beneath her.

The low-cut blouse she wore dipped dangerously close to your face, revealing the pale expanse of her collarbone and her décolletage. The scent of something faintly sweet and dark clung to her, a mix of leather, faint perfume, and something far more primal. Her grip on your wrists was firm, her fingers cool and unyielding against your skin, but not painful, just enough to remind you of her strength, her control.

Every breath you took pressed your body closer against her, and you were suddenly acutely aware of how stark the contrast between you was—warmth against ice, breathless fear against unwavering composure.

Above you, Emily watched with dark, unreadable eyes, her smirk deepening as she took in the way your body responded to hers. She smirked down at you, clearly pleased with herself. "You really should listen when I give you advice," she teased. "Would save you the trouble."

Your heart slammed against your ribs, your breathing uneven as you stared up at her, utterly trapped beneath her weight. Your voice was barely more than a whisper when you finally managed to speak, raw and uneven. “What… do you want?”

Emily didn’t answer right away. She watched you, her expression unreadable, but something in her eyes deepened. A flicker of something darker, something ancient and hungry. A chill crawled up your spine under the weight of that gaze, the realization settling in your bones that she was in no rush. She was savoring this.

Then, finally, she spoke, her voice smooth as silk, rich as wine.

“Blood.”

The single word sent a violent shudder through you. Your breath hitched, your body tensing instinctively beneath her.

“Your blood.”

Emily tilted her head, watching the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed, the slight tremor in your limbs, the way your pulse fluttered beneath her grip like a caged bird. Her fingers, still pinning your wrists above your head, loosened just slightly—not enough to free you, but enough to make you wonder if she was offering you the illusion of control.

“Relax,” she murmured, her tone softer now, almost soothing. “I don’t take anything that isn’t offered.”

Your brows knitted together in confusion, uncertainty flickering in your gaze. She was toying with you, testing the way you reacted to every word, every movement.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she mused, her voice carrying the weight of amusement. “I may be a vampire, but I have standards.”

Her grip on one wrist loosened fully, only to have both of your wrists pinned from the other hand. Her freed hand trailed down your forearm with a featherlight touch. Fingertips, cool and deliberate, ghosted along your pulse point, tracing the rhythm of your racing heartbeat.

“I don’t steal,” she continued, her fingers dancing along the inside of your wrist, her touch teasing. “I ask.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Emily leaned in closer, the press of her body against yours sending a sharp, dizzying jolt through you. Her breath brushed over your skin, impossibly cool against the heat pooling in your chest, your throat. The scent of her filled the space between you.

“And you’d be amazed,” she whispered, her voice dipping into something lower, something sinfully smooth, “at how many people are willing to say yes… when asked the right way.”

Your pulse pounded against her fingers.

And Emily?

She smiled.

Your heartbeat was deafening. It filled the room, filled your head, thrumming wildly in your chest like something caged, something desperate to escape. But it wasn’t just fear keeping it frantic—it was something else, something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

Above you, Emily stilled, her lips parting slightly. Her head tilted, as if listening to something only she could hear. Her dark eyes glittered, sharp with amusement.

"God," she murmured, voice low, sultry, dragging over your skin like silk. "Your heartbeat is so loud."

Your breath hitched, and her gaze flicked down, tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. Her smirk deepened. And then her fingers, those cool, featherlight fingers that had first woken you, moved again. They slid from your wrist, gliding along the soft skin of your arm slowly, savoring the sensation. Your skin prickled in response, goosebumps rising in the wake of her touch. And then lower, along your collarbone, where she lingered, pressing the faintest amount of pressure against you.

Then, with a slow, wicked sort of curiosity, she let her fingers drift lower following the delicate curve of your nightdress’s neckline, her cold fingers skimming over the swell of your breasts, until two of them rested right over your heart.

You gasped, barely audible, but she heard it. She felt the way your heartbeat leapt beneath her fingertips, pounding violently against your ribs.

Emily hummed, her gaze drinking in every little reaction, every shiver, every involuntary movement. "Tell me," she mused, tilting her head, studying you like something fascinating. "Is it fear that makes your pulse race like this?" Her fingers moved again, trailing lightly over your breasts again and up to the column of your throat, as if tracing the very path her fangs could take. "Or is it something else?"

Your body betrayed you before you could even think of an answer—your breath hitched, your back arching the smallest fraction beneath her weight.

Emily exhaled a soft, knowing breath, so close to your throat that you felt it.

"That’s what I thought."

Your fingers dug into your palm, desperate for something to ground you, something solid, something real. But Emily was the only thing that felt real in that moment—the weight of her straddling your thighs, pressing you deeper into the mattress, her one hand still holding your wrists above your head, her presence suffocating in the best and worst of ways.

And then, just as slowly, she pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. She was watching you. Not just looking, watching. Studying. Measuring every little shift in your body, every sharp inhale, every micro-expression that crossed your face. She was waiting. Because she had told you the truth: she never took what wasn’t offered.

And God help you, some part of you wanted her to ruin you. Some part of you wanted her to take, to claim.

Emily saw it. Of course, she saw it.

Emily leaned back down again, her movements slow, every shift of her body calculated to draw out the tension coiling in your muscles. As she descended, the fabric of her silky blouse skimmed over your bare skin, featherlight and smooth, a teasing contrast to the cool weight of her body pressing you into the mattress. The dip of her neckline hovered just above yours, a mere whisper away.

You were even more hyper-aware of every place your bodies touched.

Her voice was a murmur, but it wrapped around you like smoke, thick and intoxicating. "Sweet girls never say no to me."

Her fingers slid up, a slow, teasing path from your chest, along the curve of your neck, until they reached your jaw. She tilted your chin slightly, forcing you to look at her, forcing you to see the hunger in her dark, endless eyes.

"I wonder, sweetheart…" She leaned in, her lips so close to your pulse you swore you could feel them ghosting over your skin. "Will you be any different?" She paused, letting the weight of the question settle between you, letting you feel the heat of her presence, the coolness of her skin.

Your breath hitched, your entire body going rigid as her lips hovered over the curve where your neck met your shoulder. For a heartbeat, everything stilled, the cool press of her mouth, the unbearable anticipation coiling in your stomach. Then, just as you braced for the sharp sting of fangs piercing your skin, her lips parted…only to leave the softest, most delicate kiss instead.

A sharp, shuddering breath escaped your lips, your body torn between tension and something far more dangerous. The anticipation had been unbearable, the certainty that she would bite—the way your entire body had braced for it—only to be met with something impossibly soft instead. The contrast sent a violent shiver down your spine.

Your fingers curled around the metal bars of your headboard, gripping them as if they could anchor you, but it was useless. The moment stretched, thick and charged, your pulse hammering beneath her lips, betraying everything you wanted to keep hidden.

A quiet, involuntary whimper slipped past your lips before you could swallow it down.

Emily stilled. Then she exhaled against your skin, her breath cool, teasing.

"Oh," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "You liked that, didn’t you?"

Her lips remained on your neck for a moment, as if savoring your reaction. Then, slowly, she breathed in, taking you in, your scent, the warmth radiating off of you, the undeniable pull of the blood thrumming just beneath your skin. A quiet, satisfied hum escaped her. “Mmmmh… so sweet.”

The words, murmured against your skin, sent another shiver cascading down your spine.

The room was unbearably silent except for your breathing, shallow and uneven, and the merciless pounding of your heart against your ribs. It was too loud, deafening, and you knew she could hear it.

Emily shifted, pressing her weight more firmly into you, her thighs bracketing your own, holding you in place with such ease it made your pulse spike all over again.

She noticed. Of course, she noticed. "Still afraid?" she mused, her voice edged with a teasing lilt. "Or have we moved past that now?"

Her fingers, which had been resting lightly against your collarbone, began to move—tracing slow, languid circles over your skin. Testing. Tantalizing. And then, as if her curiosity had gotten the better of her, they slid higher, brushing along the delicate strap of your nightdress.

Your breath caught.

She noticed that, too.

Emily made a pleased little noise, a hum of amusement as she toyed with the thin silk between her fingers.

"You don’t seem very eager to push me away," she observed, her lips grazing your jawline. "Is it because you know you can’t?" she asked, voice dropping into something richer, something almost cruel in its amusement. "Or is it because you don’t want to?"

You swallowed, your throat working under her touch. Emily already knew the answer to that. You tried to find an explanation for yourself, but you couldn’t. "I—" You hesitated, breath catching as her lips brushed your throat.

Emily exhaled a slow breath, as her mouth brushed along the column of your throat as she moved, dragging her lips lower, exploring, until she reached the spot where your pulse pounded the hardest. She pressed another slow, lingering kiss to your skin.

And then, with infuriating patience, her fingers tugged lightly at your strap, easing it down your shoulder, baring more of you to the warm air of the summer night. The silk slid against your skin with a whisper-soft touch, a contrast to the weight of her body still pinning you beneath her.

Your entire body tensed, only to betray you immediately after, a slow shudder running through you at the contact and a small needy gasp, almost a moan, escaped your lips.

Emily smirked. Low, sultry, dripping with satisfaction.

"Oh," she murmured, tilting her head so she could watch your face properly, dark eyes gleaming with something wicked. "That was pretty, sweetheart."

Heat flared in your cheeks, mortification battling something much, much worse.

Emily’s smirk widened. "I barely touched you."

She released your wrists fully now, guiding your arms down to tug both straps down your arms, watching you all the while. The nightdress slid down another inch, exposing your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts, more of your already feverish skin.

Emily leaned in again, pressing another kiss to your newly exposed skin.

Then another.

And another.

Each one slower than the last, more deliberate, as if she was learning you, memorizing the way your body reacted under her touch.

Her lips hovered just over your pulse again, and this time, she let her fangs graze against you, not pressing down, not biting, just letting you feel them. A warning. A promise of more.

Your breath shuddered out of you, and Emily sighed, pleased. She shifted, just enough to press her weight into you more firmly, one of her thighs slotted between your legs in a way that made heat flare through your entire body. Emily pressed it against your core, your nightdress inching up in the process, revealing the expansion of your legs.

Your breath hitched, but this time, a soft, helpless moan escaped before you could stop it.

Emily hummed in satisfaction, her lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. "That’s what I wanted to hear."

Her hand drifted down, fingers tracing over your ribs with an agonizing slowness, feeling the way your body trembled beneath her touch.

"I can feel your heart racing," she murmured, her voice thick with amusement.

You pressed your lips together, as if that alone could still the frantic beating in your chest, could somehow suppress the way your body responded to her. But it was useless. She was everywhere—her scent, her touch, the cool weight of her body keeping you caged beneath her. And she was taking her time, savoring every reaction, every unsteady breath you gave her.

She shifted again, her lips finding the column of your throat once more.

You gasped at the sensation, at the way her body moved against yours.

Emily exhaled softly, as if reveling in it. "Do you have any idea how good you smell?"

Her fingers skimmed lower, teasing at the edge of where your nightdress had ridden up, tracing lazy circles against the sensitive skin of your upper thighs. The silk fabric pooled higher, barely a barrier between you and her. And then there was her thigh pressing against you deliciously. The pressure was subtle but impossible to ignore, a constant, teasing presence against your core.

You swallowed hard, your breath stuttering as she shifted, just enough to remind you that she was there, that she could feel every reaction, every betraying tremor of your body.

"Emily…" Her name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, barely a whisper, more plea than question.

She hummed in response, a low, satisfied sound, her lips still hovering near your throat. "Yes?"

You didn’t know what you wanted to say.

Did you want her to stop? Did you want her to keep going?

Your mind screamed at you to push her away, to fight, to run—but your body… your body did nothing. Your body arched instead, instinct betraying logic, heat pooling in your core as your lips parted, as if inviting more.

Emily chuckled, dark and knowing. “You’re thinking too much.”

One of her hands began to trail down your body again, cool fingers tracing the length of your arm, across your collarbone, down your sternum, before ghosting over your waist. A path designed to pull you deeper into her hold, to make you feel exactly how little control you had.

She dipped her head lower, her lips brushing along your jaw now, teasing, never quite where you wanted them. “I could make it easier for you,” she murmured against your skin. “All you have to do is say it.”

Say it.

You already knew this wasn’t just about your blood.

Emily wanted to take you.

Claim you.

And you knew if you gave in, if you spoke the words, it wouldn’t just be a bite. It would be everything. A pleasure so sharp it would unravel you. A process that would leave no part of you untouched, untouched by her.

Her fingers tightened slightly at your waist, her thigh pressing just a little harder between your legs, sending a delicious, maddening friction through you. She was patient, but not endlessly so.

“Say it,” Emily whispered again, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her voice like velvet and sin.

She wanted to hear it from you.

She needed you to say it.

And the worst part?

You wanted to.

And God help you—

You did.

The words were barely more than a breath, your voice trembling as they slipped past your parted lips: "Take me...please."

A whisper, a plea—an offering. So quiet it might have been lost in the night air, but Emily heard it. Her hearing was far too sharp to miss the way your lips parted, the way your voice trembled, the way your pulse jumped the second you gave yourself away.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips.

"Good girl."

The praise sent a bolt of heat through you, something shameful curling in your stomach at how easily those two words unraveled you.

Emily moved then—smooth, fluid, as if she’d been holding herself back until now. Her hands slid down, fingers gripping your thighs, nails grazing your skin just enough to make you shudder. She adjusted, pressing her thigh more firmly against your core, and the friction had you sucking in a sharp breath, back arching involuntarily.

She chuckled darkly. "So eager," she mused, dipping her head lower, lips grazing your throat once more—but still, she didn’t bite. No, she was savoring this, savoring you. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the salt on your skin, and she hummed in satisfaction.

"You should see yourself," she murmured against your skin. "So warm, so soft…" She nipped at your pulse point, just enough for you to feel the sharp press of her fangs without breaking skin.

"You knew what this was," Emily continued, voice smooth as silk. "You knew I wouldn’t stop at just your blood."

Your breath hitched.

She was right.

God, she was right.

"Tell me you want this," she murmured, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Tell me you want me."

Her voice was hypnotic, a dark spell wrapping around you, pulling you deeper under her control. And maybe it was the way she touched you, the way she held you in place like you belonged to her already, or maybe it was the part of you that had wanted this all along, the part that ached for something more, something dangerous, something only she could give you.

Your lips parted, your body betraying you yet again as you whispered the only words that mattered.

"I want you."

Emily’s eyes darkened, a slow smirk curving her lips as her hands settled on your thighs, cold against the warmth of your skin.

Her fingers inched higher, dragging the delicate silk of your nightdress with them. The thin straps had already slipped from your shoulders, your body practically offering itself to her, but she took her time, watching you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, how your breath hitched with every slow touch.

Her thigh shifted between yours, pressing, teasing, and another quiet gasp escaped your lips. Emily chuckled, low and pleased, before finally she gathered the fabric at your waist, her knuckles grazing your stomach as she pulled the dress higher, exposing more of you to the cool air.

"Such a shame to get rid of something so pretty," she murmured, voice laced with something sinful, "but I prefer you like this."

She tugged the silk over your head, letting it slip from her fingers to the floor, forgotten.

You shivered, not from cold, but from the way her dark gaze roamed over you, how her eyes lingered on your bare breasts, how her tongue flicked out to wet her lips as though she were deciding where to taste first.

Emily hummed, pleased with what she saw. "Beautiful," she murmured, her fingers tracing along your ribs, down the curve of your waist, pausing at the band of your black panties. She hooked a single finger under the elastic, pulling it just enough to make you squirm.

"So willing," she added, smirking as her hands slid back up your thighs, letting the elastic snap against your skin. She kneaded the soft flesh of your thighs, her thumbs brushing dangerously close to where you ached for her most.

Your thighs instinctively tensed beneath her touch. Heat bloomed in your core, a slow, aching pulse thrumming through your bundle of nerves.

"I—I'm not—" you stammered, but the words barely carried any weight, breathless and unsteady.

Emily let out a low, knowing laugh. "Oh, sweetheart." Her thumbs pressed firmer into your soft flesh. "You can say whatever you want." She leaned in, her breath cool against your overheated skin. "But your body? It’s already begging for me."

She started slow, lips grazing over your collarbone, teasing, tasting. The first kiss was featherlight, barely there, but the next—oh, the next—was firmer, open-mouthed, her tongue flicking out to trace along your pulse.

Her hands roamed, exploring, claiming, fingers trailing over the swell of your breasts with a reverence that made you dizzy.

She hummed, amused at the way your breath hitched beneath her touch. "Oh, and so responsive," she murmured, her lips curving against your skin.

Her lips closed around the peak of your breast, sucking, teasing, her tongue circling before she bit down without breaking your skin.  She soothed the sting with another slow lick, her free hand palming the other, kneading, her fingers rolling over your sensitive flesh, her touch both sinful and worshipful at once.

You arched into her, your fingers tangling in the dark silk of her hair as she lavished attention on you, leaving a trail of soft bites and open-mouthed kisses in her wake. Her fangs scraped just enough to remind you of exactly what she was.

Exactly what she could do.

Exactly how easily she could ruin you.

Emily groaned against your skin, her thigh pressing harder between your legs as if she could already feel how badly you needed her. She nipped at the soft flesh of your breast, smirking when your body jolted.

"Tell me," she purred, her voice dark, molten, dangerous. "Do you want me to be gentle?"

The way she asked it, the way her teeth skimmed over your skin again, made it clear—gentle was the last thing on her mind.

Your lips parted, but no words came at first—just a shuddering breath, your body betraying you with the way it arched into her touch. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, the ache she had so effortlessly coaxed from you.

Did you want her to be gentle?

No.

Not really.

"I don’t want gentle," you finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with need. "I want you to take me. Completely."

She stilled for a moment, as if savoring your answer, as if committing it to memory. Then, a slow, predatory smile spread across her lips.

"Good," she purred, voice thick with satisfaction. "I didn’t want to be."

And with that, she descended again, claiming every inch of your skin as if it belonged to her.

Her lips moved with purpose, tracing the curve of your collarbone, the slope of your shoulders, the valley between your ribs. Featherlight kisses followed the path of her hands, her cool breath ghosting over heated skin, leaving you shivering in anticipation. And yet, there was always the teasing scrape of something sharper—the press of her fangs against your skin, a promise, a warning, a thrill.

You gasped as she nipped just below your breasts, a sharp contrast between pleasure and the faintest sting, and she chuckled, pleased by your reaction.

"So sensitive," she murmured against your skin. "I could ruin you so easily."

And the worst part?

You wanted her to.

Emily shifted, settling lower, her hands splayed against your sides, holding you in place as she leaned in. You felt the briefest press of her lips against the center of your chest, right between your breasts, deceptively soft—before the sharp edge of a fang kissed your skin.

A delicate slice. A thin, crimson line drawn between your breasts.

You hissed out. The sting was fleeting, a breath of pain drowned in the overwhelming sensation of her tongue following the mark she’d made, lapping up the blood in one slow, languid stroke.

You moaned, your body arching into her, and Emily groaned in response, like she was savoring the finest thing she’d ever tasted.

"Sweet," she murmured, voice dark and reverent. "So fucking sweet."

She barely gave you time to catch your breath before she was on you again and this time, her lips pressing against yours, claiming you completely.

Emily didn’t just kiss you—she devoured you. Her lips moved with purpose, deepening the connection, her tongue teasing yours in a slow, claiming dance. The lingering taste of your own blood sent a shiver through you, as if it was something sacred, something forbidden, and yet, you welcomed it.

She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her dark eyes filled with something dangerous, something hungry. Then, with a smirk, she bit down on your lower lip—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to send a spark of pain laced with pleasure straight to your core. A small gasp escaped you, and she groaned in response as the metallic tang of your blood touched her tongue again.

"God, you're intoxicating," she whispered, her voice low and filled with desire.

Before you could fully process the words, she was moving, descending down your body with a path of open-mouthed kisses, nips, and teasing bites that left your skin burning in their wake. She made sure to linger at your throat, her fangs ghosting over your pulse point, making you shudder. And instead of biting, she gently kissed the tender skin beneath your ear, her lips lingering there. "Not yet," she murmured, her voice thick with anticipation.

Her hands ghosted down your sides, slow and deliberate, as she shifted lower. With a wicked smirk, Emily dipped her head, her lips brushing over the swell of your breast. She kissed the soft skin there, teasing, before letting her fangs drag ever so lightly against it, enough to make your breath hitch. Then, her tongue followed, tracing a slow, agonizing path around your hardened nipple before she took it into her mouth again, sucking with just enough pressure to make your back arch instinctively.

She hummed in satisfaction, her fingers slipping under the weight of your other breast, kneading gently before her mouth switched sides, lavishing equal attention on the neglected peak. You whimpered as she alternated between soft, teasing flicks of her tongue and sharp, electric nips that sent heat pooling low in your belly.

By the time she worked her way down again, over the curve of your ribs, along the flat plane of your stomach, her hands keeping you pinned as she feasted on every inch of skin she could reach, you were trembling beneath her, aching, desperate for more.

A deep, throaty purr rumbled from Emily, vibrating against your skin like a predator savoring its prey.

Then, without warning, she dipped her head and bit into the fabric of your panties, tugging them down with her mouth. The action alone sent heat rushing through you, but when her fangs accidentally sliced through the delicate fabric in the process, tearing them with a sharp rip—you swore your entire body caught fire.

She pulled the ruined scrap of lace from your body with a smirk, letting it fall somewhere to the floor, forgotten. Then she settled between your legs, her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open with ease as her dark eyes drank you in, devoured you, owned you.

“God, you’re perfect,” she whispered, her breath cool against the heat of your skin, her lips sinful as they traced lower.

And then—she gave in to her hunger.

Emily wasted no time.

She descended on you with purpose, her mouth claiming you in a way that sent a sharp, electric jolt through your entire body. Her tongue worked you open as it glid through your folds, parting you for her. Your skin glistened under the soft moonlight spilling through your large window.

Emily was ravenous devouring you like she had been starving for you, like tasting you was a need, not a want. A burst of tangy sweetness flooded her tongue, spreading across her taste buds in waves. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring it, her lips soft against your glistening skin.

The moment her tongue flicked just right, a choked gasp tore from your lips, your back arching against the sheets. But Emily didn’t slow. If anything, she doubled down, her grip on your thighs tightening, bruising, holding you firmly in place as she worked you open.

Her lips tingled, but now, she’s no longer content to simply eating you out. With slow deliberation, she raised her index and middle finger and teased your entrance while her tongue lapped at your sensitive bundle of nerves. Her fingers slid inside with practiced ease, stretching, curling, pressing against that devastating spot with perfect precision.

A broken moan spilled from your lips, raw and desperate, as the dual sensation of her mouth and fingers sent pleasure rippling through you. Your body jerked, overwhelmed, thighs trembling beneath her unyielding grip.

Your hands shot out blindly, grasping at the sheets, the pillow—anything to ground yourself—but nothing was enough. The pleasure was too much, too consuming. When your fingers finally found her hair, you fisted it, tugging just hard enough to make her growl against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

Your breath hitched, a whimper escaping as she curled her fingers just right, pressing against that devastating spot inside you. The world blurred at the edges, your only reality the relentless rhythm of her tongue, the slick thrust of her fingers, the sound of your own ragged gasps echoing in the room.

“Emily—” Her name tumbled from your lips, barely coherent, half a plea, half a prayer.

You could hear the slick sounds of her mouth working against you, hear the quiet, satisfied hums she made when you clenched around her fingers, the obscene wetness of every thrust and stroke. Your own breath was ragged, sharp, each exhale coming faster as she unraveled you, piece by piece.

She knew exactly what she was doing. You could feel it in the way she played with the pace, alternating between slow, agonizing strokes and sudden, merciless pressure, dragging you to the edge only to pull you back, over and over again.

A moan slipped from your lips, breathy and desperate. Emily groaned at the sound, her pace stuttering for half a second before she refocused, thrusting her fingers deeper, sucking harder, making everything spiral, spiral, spiral.

Emily pressed her fingers even deeper, twisting them slightly, stretching you. You trembled in her grip, sticky juices coating her fingers as she buried her fingertips further inside, stroking your spongy flesh with the right amount of pressure.

 A sharp, keening whimper escaped your lips, your entire body tensing as the pressure of her fingers sent another jolt of pleasure straight through you. Your grip on her hair tightened instinctively, nails scraping against her scalp as your hips jerked up, arching into her touch, desperate for more. The slick sounds of her fingers moving inside you and her mouth lapping at everything you gave filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, mixing with the ragged, breathless moans spilling from your throat.

“Emily—” you gasped again, voice shaking, your thighs quivering around her shoulders. You could feel her smirk against your skin, the vibration of her low hum sending shivers through your core as she twisted her fingers again, pressing deeper, harder, unraveling you completely.

And then—she pulled back just enough.

Her mouth hovered over you, her breath cool against your slick, overheated skin, teasing but not touching. A whimper of protest slipped from your lips, your hips instinctively lifting, chasing the pleasure she so cruelly denied.

Emily chuckled, dark and knowing, her fingers still buried deep inside you, still moving, still working you open. Her eyes met yours, pupils blown wide with hunger, lips glistening with the taste of you.

“Come for me,” she commanded, her voice low, rich, dripping with authority.

Then, before you could even process the order, she was on you again—mouth claiming you, tongue flicking mercilessly over your swollen, sensitive clit as she pressed a third finger inside, stretching you further, filling you completely as she pumped in and out of you.

The coil inside you snapped with violent force, and your whole body seized as pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave. A strangled, broken cry ripped from your throat, your thighs trembling as the climax tore through you, drowning you, shattering you completely.

Emily’s name spilled from your lips like a prayer—though she was no saint. No divine being sent from above. No, she was something darker, something that belonged more to hell than to heaven. And yet, in this moment, she was your salvation, your destruction, your everything.

Your body convulsed beneath her, pleasure ripping through you in merciless waves, leaving you gasping, trembling, lost. Your fingers fisted in her hair, nails digging into her scalp as if holding onto her was the only thing tethering you to this world.

But Emily didn’t stop.

She dragged you through it, prolonging your unraveling with slow, deliberate strokes, her mouth still working you, her fingers still buried deep, stretching, filling, owning. Your mind was a haze of white-hot bliss, your breath coming in ragged sobs as the aftershocks wracked through you, relentless and consuming.

And still, her name fell from your lips—worshipful, desperate—because whether she was angel or demon, she had you. Had you completely.

Even as the aftershocks dimmed, she kept moving, prolonging, teasing, keeping you right there on the precipice between pleasure and overstimulation.

A sharp, shuddering gasp tore from your lips, your body jerking violently beneath her as the pleasure refused to ebb, stretching into something almost unbearable. Your thighs twitched around her, trying to clamp shut, but Emily’s grip was unyielding, keeping you spread open, exposed to her relentless touch.

Your breath came in ragged, broken sobs, hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto. You grasped at the sheets, at her hair, at the unyielding strength of her shoulders, desperate for an anchor as your body writhed under the onslaught.

“Emily—” you whimpered, voice wrecked, trembling. It was too much, too intense—yet at the same time, not enough.

She didn’t stop.

Your hips bucked against her fingers involuntarily, oversensitive yet craving more, your body caught between escape and submission. Every stroke, every flick of her tongue sent another aftershock rolling through you, making your stomach tighten, your legs quake, your mind dissolve into pure sensation.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, the pleasure so overwhelming it blurred the line between bliss and surrender. You had no control—only her, only this, only the wicked, merciless way she played your body like she owned it.

Then suddenly her mouth moved lower, leaving your swollen lips exposed to the cold air.

You barely registered the soft press of her lips against your inner thigh before her soft kisses turned into open-mouthed kisses, her sharp fangs gazed your skin. She lingered, breathing in the scent of you, savoring the way you trembled beneath her, your body still twitching from the high she had pulled from you. Her fingers where still buried inside you.

And then she bit down.

A sharp, searing pain shot through you, your body jolting at the sudden intrusion. A strangled gasp tore from your throat, your fingers tightening around the sheets—around her hair—anything to ground yourself. The initial sting was brutal, raw, but it lasted only a moment before something else took its place.

Pleasure. Deep, all-consuming, unbearable pleasure.

The sounds she made were sinful—low, guttural moans vibrating against your skin, each one sending aftershocks of sensation ricocheting through your body.

Heat spread through you like wildfire, burning through every nerve, every inch of your already over-sensitized body. A desperate, wrecked sound escaped your lips as Emily sucked deep, her fangs buried in your flesh, her fingers still inside you, still moving, holding you open as she took what she wanted. The sensation was too much, too overwhelming, and yet your body craved more.

You clenched around her fingers, the pressure building impossibly fast, spiraling out of control. Another orgasm tore through you, sudden and violent, your muscles seizing, your body arching into her as wave after wave of pleasure wracked through you. Your breath hitched, another sharp cry slipping from your lips as your body locked up, trembling violently beneath her. Her name broke from you like a prayer, like a plea, like something sacred.

Emily groaned against your skin, the sound dark and indulgent, her fingers never still, keeping you in her grasp, dragging the pleasure out until you had nothing left to give. And still, she held you there, her grip unyielding, her mouth sealing over your thigh with a slow, deliberate pull, as if she could drain the very last of your strength along with your blood.

And then, finally, she relented.

You registered it when her fingers withdrew from inside you, leaving you empty. When her fangs withdrew from your inner thigh, and her tongue swept over the punctures, warm and slow, sealing the wound with one last lingering lap. She lifted her head—and when you saw her—your breath caught, a new kind of heat pooling deep in your core.

Her lips were slick, painted in red. The deep stain of your blood still coated her fangs, a single drop slipping from the corner of her mouth, trailing down the curve of her chin. She didn’t move to wipe it away. She let it linger, let you see it, let you feel it.

And it was the most sinful, most devastatingly beautiful thing you had ever witnessed.

Emily exhaled, rolling her tongue over one sharp fang as if savoring the taste of you all over again. Her lips, slick with crimson, parted slightly as her gaze locked onto yours, something ravenous still burning behind her satisfaction.

Your body still trembled, muscles weak, spent—but that sight alone sent another slow shudder rolling through you, something dark and deep stirring in your chest.

Emily exhaled, slow and deliberate, her tongue flicking out to catch the last stray drop of crimson before it could escape, savoring it like the richest of wines. Her gaze held yours, something unreadable swimming in those endless, abyss-dark eyes—something possessive, something that sent a sharp thrill curling through your spine.

She tilted her head, languid and predatory, her lips curving into a knowing smirk as her gaze dragged over your body once more, as if committing every mark, every tremor, every sign of surrender to memory.

"Mmmh…" She hummed, low and satisfied, her voice curling around you like silk. "I never believed in heaven, you know."

She lifted a finger to her lip, gathering the blood that still lingered there, before slipping it past her lips, sucking it clean with slow, deliberate intent.

"But if I did… I imagine it would taste like this."

[peggyao3]

Here it is lovely Aunt Peggy

My thoughts and questions and thirst...from watching Dune Part 2, as you requested. I can't imagine why you'd want to open the floodgates, but who am I to deprive you, dearest. Fuck you (lovingly) for booking my ticket on the Feyd train without me noticing! Love you lots xoxo 😭😍❤️

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen: Thoughts

Killed his mother?! Mommy issues x 1000; what happened and does his uncle even care that his sister was killed by her own son?!

His concubines/slaves lust after him; hang onto his every word, but…are also afraid of him?

He cares about feeding his “darlings” but tests dagger sharpness on two of said loyal slaves?! Practically fucks one with the blade…(kinda erotic) – no regard for their lives… or punishment for the blademaster’s mistake?!

Did his Uncle try to kill him or show him who he is?! - turned him from a playboy (haha fair) into a Hero?

Feyd says as he kills the traitor doctor in the arena, “You fought well, Atreides” so he has honor? Seeks a worthy opponent? Also dies saying the exact same thing to Paul during their fight for the seat as emperor.

Made his brother Rabban kiss his boot for shaming the family… protective of the Harkonnen legacy, but he wants to see his uncle dead!?! And took pleasure in seeing Paul kill him?

Lady Fenring seduces him (seemed slightly attracted to him but just sees it as work?) to get him to participate in the test for Bene Gesserit. How did he do?!? Did he pass? How was the umm…copulating (for science) did he have his hand in HER box?!? (also for science) OOH did she use the ‘force’ on him to kneel or did he do it willingly?! 

Does Lady Fenring pity him/sympathize with him? Does she enjoy the game of seduction more than the actual job?! She gives me dominatrix vibes after seeing her expressions when she turns away from Feyd in the corridor (hiding her lust to gain the upperhand? Or was this disgust/disdain?!)

Bene Gesserit and/or Fenring deems him: an intelligent, cruel sociopath - guided by honor and (longs to be hurt to feel something or?) loves pain(sadist); sexually vulnerable - easy to control with desire and humiliation

Do they paint their teeth black or are they naturally like that? What would white and black body paint symbolize? High contrast? Harsh reality - everything is black and white to them, simple? — Rule or be ruled?

Much love,

- T🌙

HELLO MY DARLING ❤️ words cannot express how happy I am that you gave Dune and Feyd a chance and that I now get to reply to these fantastic thoughts and questions of yours 😍😍 My replies are under the read more cut, hehehe ✨

Killed his mother, mommy issues

YES, I am 100% on board with the mommy issues 🥵 It is in fact my favorite trope to include when I write about him. I just want to hug that violent little sociopath to my bosom 🥹 The *book* lore is that Glossu "Beast" Rabban, Feyd's brother, killed their father Abulord Rabban (formerly Harkonnen; he is the Baron's brother but said bye bye to Harkonnen values and took on his wife's last name). But for the movies, they added that Feyd killed their mother. I would argue that the Baron definitely knows but doesn't care, or even endorses it. When and how Feyd killed his mother is up to the individual headcanons, and I definitely have my own 🥹

2. Feyd's darlings/concubines + testing blades on servants

There are many headcanons about Feyd's "darlings" but the most common is that they're not "real humans" but rather genetically engineered creations specifically for him, which is why they hiss and snarl in such an animalistic manner and feast on human meat 😩 opinions differ on whether he beds them or not. He definitely doesn't value the servants' (more likels slaves') lives. Some point out that he only stabbed the slaves who actually previously *touched* him. There is this awesome post which philosophizes about Feyd's choice (or lack of choice) of clothing, and specifically the loincloth scene.

3. Did his uncle try to kill him, or was the arena fight a gift?

I personally think it was definitely a bit of a backhanded gift. The Baron's and Feyd's relationship is highly abusive. It was glossed over in the movie, but in the books it becomes very clear that the Baron has been sexually abusing Feyd when he was a boy. Whether he still does it is unclear 🥺 So, I expect everything the Baron does to Feyd to be some kind of power play. The Baron has declared Feyd (his *youngest* nephew) his heir and even let him take on the Harkonnen last name, whereas his brother Glossu "Beast" Rabban had to keep the Rabban last name. But at what cost? You've noticed how ecstatic and borderline aroused Feyd looked when Paul killed his uncle, and their backstory definitely also comes into play there.

4. Feyd's honor, seeking worthy opponents

Yes, Feyd is definitely strongly motivated by honor. At least when it comes to person vs person combat, I'd say 🥺 The parallels between the arena fight and the final fight are definitely noticeable and I like to imagine that Feyd didn't mind dying to Paul's blade, because at least he died to a worthy opponent 🥺

5. "Kiss my feet, brother."

In the books, there was even more of a political agenda behind whether Rabban or Feyd gets to govern Arrakis. Rabban had been doing so until now, but he's said to be a brute and not the most delicate and the population of Arrakis fears him for it. So, Feyd replacing Rabban via a ploy of their uncle, Feyd was meant to fulfill the role of a bit of a savior to the people on Arrakis, because he's less brutish, smarter, well-spoken and all that. Personally, I see an intense rivalry between Rabban and his baby brother. So, I'm sure Feyd thoroughly enjoyed humiliating his brother there.

6. Lady Fenring

In book canon, I'm pretty sure it was just a job for her to secure the bloodline. In the books, she's also a grown woman and Feyd is only 17 or 18, and in his hormonal teenage ardor, he even wanted to dedicate his arena kills to her, but he told him not to (she's also married) 😅 In the movie, they gave the scene a much more seductive vibe (which I approve of xD) Whether she takes pity in him and/or enjoys herself is up to the headcanon, I'd say. Also whether she forced him to kneel via voice or not is open for interpretation. I'd say a part of him was definitely intrigued and, as she stated afterwards, he loves pain, so this encounter may have been enjoyable for him. He also passed the test (which is the same test that the Reverend Mother conducted on Paul in the first movie). If he didn't pass (aka if he pulled his hand out of the box), she would have nicked him with that deadly poison needle, the Gom Jabbar 🥺 Whether someone passes the test or not determines if they are deemed usable for the Bene Gesserit breeding program, which has been going on for I think 90 generations, to produce some kind of superhuman.

Personally, I really detest the Bene Gesserit as a faction, because they're a powerful female faction clearly designed by a man, because the only way they can be powerful is by being deceitful and utilizing their wombs 😅 I don't ship Margot and Feyd and the scene has a bit of a rapey vibe in my mind and I know a few other authors interpret it a similar way, but there's no right or wrong way to read it, of course!! Feyd did look very intrigued in the movie, but the truth is that she would have taken his seed whether he wanted it or not. I'm good with noncon done to my own OCs and reader inserts, but I'm not okay with noncon done to my babyboy 🤣🤣

7. "Desire and humiliation, those are his levers"

And also, "he's a sociopath, cruel, but driven and strongly motivated by honor. He yearns to be hurt. He loves pain." I feel like these lines inspired an entire fandom asdfg 🥹🥹🤭 Feyd and his pain kink are my favorite thing in the WORLD. That and his mommy issues and sociopathy make him the perfect crush for me 🤣

8. Black teeth and body paint

In the movies, I think the only characters shown with black teeth are Feyd and his darlings. It is most likely paint, and people have drawn the comparison to Geishas and how the black teeth can be seen as a symbol of vanity, making him literally the prettiest prince in the palace 🤭 Personally, I like to headcanon that people native to Giedi Prime can be born with black teeth, and another *very* common headcanon is also that they have black blood and cum ✨🤭 About the paint, those are some great ideas!! If there's any 'common headcanons', I'm not aware of them 👀 The entire loincloth scene was not in the books, and neither was the paint, so I generally think it was an interesting choice (for the girlies ✨) to introduce Feyd to the audience like THAT 🤭

[i-crei]

The arcane fandom has a really serious problem with respecting non-conventional headcanons.

[selamat-linting]

classpecting the iasip gang because i have nothing better to do with my life

-dennis : prince of heart (derse)

put up a facade of a calculating mastermind but is actually the dumbest man alive who cant express affection without two hundred layers of irony and violence.

-dee : page of light (prospit)

narrative's favorite butt monkey. oftentimes deemed as irrelevant and claws her way to relevance and luck no matter what and fails very very, often. actually the most reckless member of the gang.

-charlie : bard of time (derse)

the wildcard. musical genius. intelligence level correlate to what the episode needs. neglected and abused but refuse to accept it even happens to him by escaping into substance abuse and passivity. surrounded w/ filth, death and decay.

-mac : maid of hope (derse)

his faith in religion and hope that his parents care about him in some way allows him to survive to adulthood but it also sets him back as a person because he was blinded by his own convictions and internalized homophobia. he's also gullible.

-frank : thief of space (prospit)

the sleazy businessman who fund the gang's schemes. inadvertently stuns the twins capability for personal growth and chance to have a new beginning outside of their dysfunctional upbringing by being an absent parent but coming back to them when theyre adults. struggles with feelings of stagnation and unfulfillment. egg motifs.

[shieldwife]

"the lash of duty" what if I killed myself

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

Stuck on the idea of vampires as a kind of reverse fae, or like someone's twisted, perverse attempt at moulding humans into fae.

They're repelled by liminal spaces.

A vampire could never enter fairyland, not just because they'd never be welcomed, but because most of the usual entry-ways are naturally barred to them.

They can't cross running water. They can't be seen in mirrors. They will wait forever at a crossroads, unable to pick a direction to go in. They can't even step over a thresh-hold unless there is absolutely no ambiguity about whether they are welcome inside.

They crave human blood, iron and salt, but are repelled by herbs and plants. They are supernaturally prevented from harming you unless the rules of hospitality have been invoked.

A fairy may replace your newborn child with something unnatural and ever-hungry. A vampire will do the same, but with your grandmother's corpse.

The fae are typically associated, even in stories where they're the bad guys, with flourishing and purity. Vampires, even in stories where they're the good guys, are typically associated with decay and corruption.

The fae turn ancient human burial mounds into fancy halls for their courts. Vampires take ancient human castles and let them grow mildewed and cobwebbed, exchanging the beds for coffins, turning them into burial places.

Fae don't tend to live among humans, but can generally pass for them with relative ease if they so choose. Vampires nearly always live among humans, but tend to find not revealing themselves a huge struggle.

I can't think of many stories I've read where fae and vampires even exist in the same universe, let alone ones where they actively interact. I feel like their enmity is almost more inevitable than that between vampires and werewolves, however.

The rivalry between vampires and werewolves is, essentially, the rivalry between two apex predator species who share a territory. (Even in stories where the werewolves aren't actually hunting humans.)

The vampires hate the werewolves because the werewolves interfere with their access to prey. The werewolves hate the vampires either because they consider themselves aligned with humans (the prey species), or because they are also predators and the vampires are competing with them.

By comparison, I think there's some story potential in the fae finding something genuinely creepy and uncanny valley about vampires.

They're immortal, like them, but also dead. They can be beautiful, like them, but that beauty is something they actively require humans to sustain. They like to inhabit beautiful and ancient ex-human dwellings, like them, but they actively work to make those places dark, damp and empty.

Fairies who are unflappable in the face of all sorts of Otherworldly monsters, can look an eldritch horror in the eye(s) without blinking, and have never been phased yet by any human, but will recoil from even the weakest vampire.

Vampires who hate fairies just as much, but in a more envious way. The way that the creature for whom immortality is a curse is bound to hate the creatures for whom immortality is an eternity of sunlight and laughter.

Maybe their touches burn each other. Maybe vampires can't stand physical contact with anything so alive and vital. Maybe immortal fairies become ill from too much exposure to the undead.

Maybe they fight over the human population when their territories overlap. The fairy need for servants and people to make deals with, competing with the vampire need for thralls and blood to drink.

Just… fairies and vampires. We need more stories about them interacting.

[littlelamy]

Teach Me

nerd!rafe x experienced!reader

Rafe Cameron wasn’t usually this quiet.

He wasn’t the loudest guy by any means, but his nervous energy tonight was new. Usually, his shyness came with a sort of clumsy charm, a stammered compliment or a soft laugh that always made your heart ache in the best way. But as he sat stiffly on the edge of your bed, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, he looked like he might bolt at any moment.

“Rafey,” you said softly, stepping closer and leaning into his line of sight. “You okay?”

His head snapped up, blue eyes wide behind the smudge on his glasses. He pushed them up his nose, his hand shaking slightly, and dropped his gaze back to his lap. His long fingers twisted together, pale from how tightly he was holding them.

“Y-yeah,” he mumbled, though his voice betrayed him with its unsteady wobble.

Your lips curved into a soft smile as you reached out, fingertips brushing his jawline. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Rafe swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, but didn’t meet your gaze. “I just… I want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” You perched beside him on the bed, close enough that your knees bumped. “I’m listening.”

His lips parted, then closed again, as though the words were stuck in his throat. Finally, he managed, “I want to… I mean, I need to… be better for you. Better at, um, pleasing you.”

Your chest tightened at his vulnerable confession. “Rafe, you’re already amazing. You don’t have to—”

“No.” His voice came out firm, but he winced at his own abruptness. “I mean, thank you. But I want to do more for you. I want to know how to… touch you the way you deserve.”

The raw sincerity in his words made your heart swell. His cheeks were stained with a deep blush, and he looked like he was fighting every instinct to hide his face in his hands.

“You’re so sweet,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through his and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We can take our time, baby. I’ll show you everything you want to know.”

Rafe relaxed slightly as you guided him to sit cross-legged on the bed. His hoodie lay discarded nearby, and his glasses perched crookedly on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat in the room.

“First thing,” you said, settling in front of him, “is to pay attention. My body will tell you when something feels good—whether it’s my breathing, the way I move, or the sounds I make.”

His eyes widened, and he nodded quickly, his gaze flickering nervously between your face and your body.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I can do that.”

You reached for his hand, gently placing it on your thigh. “Start here. Gentle touches, nothing rushed. Feel how warm my skin is? That’s a good sign.”

Rafe’s fingers were warm and hesitant, but they began to explore as you encouraged him. He let his hand glide up slowly, his breath hitching when his fingertips grazed the hem of your shorts.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice low and strained.

You smiled, running a hand through his messy hair. “That’s perfect.”

As his touch grew more assured, his fingers dipped under the fabric, skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The softness of his movements contrasted with the heat pooling in your stomach, and a quiet sigh escaped your lips.

“Like that?” he asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched your face for affirmation.

“Exactly like that,” you murmured, your voice catching.

You shifted back against the pillows, tugging him down beside you. “Now, from here, you can explore more. Don’t overthink it. Use your hands, your mouth—just do what feels natural.”

Rafe’s blush deepened, but he nodded. His hand skimmed up your stomach, pausing when he reached the curve of your hip. His fingers trembled slightly, but the reverence in his touch sent a shiver through you.

When his lips brushed your collarbone, warm and tentative, you let out a soft moan. His head snapped up, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Was that too much?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him back down for a kiss. “Not at all. That was perfect. Keep going, Rafey.”

Encouraged, he pressed his lips to your skin again, lingering this time. His kisses grew bolder, trailing down to the swell of your chest. His hands followed, brushing over you with featherlight touches that left your skin tingling.

“See how my body reacts?” you whispered, your breath hitching as his hand grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “That’s what I mean by listening.”

Rafe’s lips quirked into a shy smile, and he leaned into your touch with newfound confidence.

Rafe’s hand hesitated at the waistband of your panties, his fingertips brushing the soft fabric with a touch so light it sent a shiver up your spine. His wide blue eyes searched yours, filled with nervous anticipation, his lips slightly parted as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take the next step.

“Can I?” His voice was barely above a whisper, trembling but threaded with yearning.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice soft but certain.

His exhale was shaky as he focused his attention fully on you, his hand dipping beneath the fabric with deliberate slowness. The first brush of his fingers against your bare skin sent a jolt of electricity through your body, your breath catching audibly. His touch was tentative, his movements almost reverent, as though he couldn’t believe you were letting him do this.

“Rafey,” you murmured, your voice a mix of encouragement and need.

His fingers explored with unsteady care, tracing the slickness pooling there. His thumb brushed experimentally against your clit, and your body responded instantly, arching slightly under his touch. The sensation was almost too much yet not nearly enough, a delicious pressure that made you gasp softly.

“Is that good?” he asked, his brows furrowing in concentration as he watched your reaction.

“So good,” you managed, your voice a little breathless. “Keep going, just like that.”

The reassurance made his shoulders relax, and his movements grew bolder. His thumb pressed more firmly, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with a rhythm that made your thighs clench instinctively around his hand. The quiet whimper that slipped from your lips seemed to spur him on, his other hand coming to rest on your hip to steady you as his fingers moved with growing confidence.

Your body was alive under his touch, every nerve alight as he adjusted his movements, clearly paying attention to how you squirmed and sighed beneath him. The hesitancy from earlier was melting away, replaced by a kind of focused eagerness that made your chest tighten with affection.

“That feels good,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his messy hair. “You’re doing so good, Rafe.”

His lips curved into the smallest, shyest smile, but his fingers didn’t falter. He leaned down then, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, trailing lower with every press of his lips. His hair tickled against your skin, the sensation adding to the whirlwind of pleasure building inside you.

When his kisses reached the hollow of your throat, you tilted your head back, giving him better access. He took it eagerly, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. The combination of his mouth and his hand working together was intoxicating, a steady rhythm that had you biting your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill out.

“You like that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and velvety. The rare confidence in his tone sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but nod, your fingers gripping his hair tighter.

“I love it,” you whispered, your voice trembling with pure pleasure.

His movements stilled for a moment as he shifted, his glasses slightly askew as he glanced up at you. “I… Can I try something else?” he asked, his voice softer now, more uncertain.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, your heart racing as his hands gently eased your panties down your legs.

Rafe paused, his breath catching as he took in the sight of you fully. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, but his gaze was captivated, reverent. Slowly, he settled himself lower, his shoulders nestled between your thighs.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but the determined look in his eyes stopped you.

“I want to,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The first press of his lips to your inner thigh was soft, almost hesitant. He lingered there, kissing a trail upward, his breath warm against your skin. Each kiss was tender, deliberate, until he was just where you wanted him most.

His lips brushed against you then, soft and unhurried, and the sensation sent a gasp tumbling from your lips. He hesitated, his blue eyes flicking up to yours for reassurance, and when he saw the way your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, he pressed another kiss, firmer this time.

The wet warmth of his mouth and the softness of his tongue as he tentatively explored made your entire body tense with pleasure. He was careful, almost shy, but each touch carried a sincerity that left you breathless.

“Rafey,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

The sound of his name on your lips seemed to embolden him. His hands gripped your thighs gently, pulling you closer as he deepened his movements, his tongue finding the rhythm that made you gasp and arch beneath him. Every flick, every press, was deliberate, his sole focus on making you fall apart under his care.

“Is this… okay?” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against you.

“Perfect,” you managed, your voice breaking on the word. “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

Rafe’s mouth was insistent now, his shyness giving way to a careful confidence as he listened to every sound you made, adjusting his movements to match the reactions he drew from you. Your hands found his hair, tugging gently as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensations he was giving you.

Every kiss, every caress, was a revelation—an unspoken promise that he was there to learn every inch of you, to cherish you completely. The pleasure built steadily, an intoxicating crescendo that left you breathless, your thighs trembling as he found just the right rhythm with his mouth. His lips latched around that sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking softly at first, then with increasing determination as your whimpers turned into desperate cries of his name.

“Rafey,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as your hips pressed up against him, unable to control the way your body chased the peak he was bringing you toward.

His hands gripped your thighs firmly but gently, holding you in place as he gave it one last, deliberate suck. The sensation sent you spiraling, your body arching as the climax washed over you in waves, leaving you shaking and completely at his mercy. Your breath hitched, the room filled with the sound of your soft cries and his satisfied hum against you.

When the intensity finally began to drop, Rafe eased his touch, his mouth leaving a final tender kiss against your skin before he pulled away. His lips were parted, his breathing ragged, and his face was flushed with both pride and nervousness. His lips and chin glistened, a mix of his efforts and your release, and the sight alone sent another shiver through you.

He climbed back up the bed, his gaze locked on yours as if silently asking for reassurance. Leaning over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, he pressed his lips to yours in a tentative kiss. The taste of yourself lingered on his lips, and the sound he made—low, guttural, and almost shy—vibrated against your mouth.

“Did I… Was that okay?” he asked softly, his voice trembling with vulnerability. His blue eyes searched yours, his glasses slightly askew, and his lips glistening as he hovered just inches from you.

Your heart swelled at the nervousness in his voice, and instead of answering right away, you pulled him into another kiss. This time, it was deep, lingering, your fingers threading through his hair to pull him even closer. When you finally broke away, his lips were even more swollen, and his breath mingled with yours.

“You did amazing, sweetie,” you whispered, your voice full of affection and awe.

The words flooded him with relief, his shoulders relaxing as a shy yet proud smile tugged at the corners of his damp lips. Unable to resist, you reached up to wipe your arousal from his chin, your thumb grazing his flushed skin before leaning in to kiss him again.

Rafe melted into you, his earlier hesitation completely gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that had your heart racing all over again. And as he buried his face in your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, you knew this was just the beginning of something even more beautiful between you.

a/n: last post of the day🥵

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

[girl-lostconnection]

Hear me out

Bloodhound Knight Johnny x Witch!Reader.

Johnny who lived his whole life being a good instrument for his master, being a proper weapon in other’s hands.

Johnny whose training strips his words from him, his dignity, his honour. Dogs don’t have honour after all.

Dogs hear “bite” and they bite. Dogs hear “run” and they run.

Dogs return to their owners no matter how cruel the hand feeding them is. Because that’s what dogs do. That’s how it works.

Johnny who gets his knee injured badly and suddenly after years of servitude and being a good weapon he’s useless. He’s broken. No one needs a dog that can’t run. No one needs a dog that can’t hunt for its master.

They drop him off somewhere in the wilderness, not letting him keep even his sword, the weapon that became part of him, the weapon hilt of which is soaked in his blood and sweat and tears.

It’s his bloody sword! It’s his weapon! He earned it! Why can’t he keep it? Why isn’t he allowed to keep at least this much?

Why isn’t he allowed to keep anything?

But he’s dropped off in the woods and he doesn’t even know where the fuck he is. He doesn’t know what to do — shame and humiliation choking him out, pain in his knee agonising whenever he tries to hobble somewhere.

Dogs in the wild either die or become feral. Johnny isn’t sure what is better for him. He doesn’t have anything left in him to fight more.

He doesn’t have a reason to. Nobody tells him to bite or to run or to break himself piece by piece.

He’s feverish from pain and he’s hungry, god he’s so fucking hungry.

He hasn’t been so hungry since he was a wee thing and his mum couldn’t feed them more than once per day.

Family too big in a place that’s too cold and too barren to feed them properly. Family without men other than him.

Johnny closes his eyes, looking up at the sky, lips chapped and dry.

He doesn’t really mind dying. But he doesn’t want to be hungry. God he doesn’t want to die hungry, he let people break him to fit in the dog hide so he doesn’t die hungry.

And at the brink of it all. You find him.

You smell like herbs and something citrus-y, sweet and homey scent. Warm scent. Delicious scent.

Johnny tilts his head, not sure whether it not you are another hallucination of his feverish mind. Maybe you are. Well, at least that’s something.

Small mercies for a useless dog like him.

You say something, brows furrowed and eyes wary but Johnny doesn’t have any more energy to attack. There’s no fight left in him.

But you tug on him for some reason, you make him drink something — sweet and tangy, his empty stomach clenching with renewed hunger.

“Look at the state of you. Come on, knight, it’s no place to die. Come on, you need to get up”, you hiss at him, forcing him up and make him drink a little more of whatever you have in the flask of yours.

It dulls his pain a little, it sobers him up, his jaws clacking together, almost biting the tip of his own tongue.

It’s humiliating. He’s been his master’s best dog, the leanest hound, the favourite fucking weapon and now he’s just a broken toy that reeks of sweat and blood and infection, knee throbbing.

You should just leave him here. You should let him die.

But you don’t.

You force him to walk, hissing back when he clacks his jaws at you — his leg making the hobble a right bloody adventure but you are relentless. Pouring your drink down his throat, pulling him further in the woods.

Johnny thinks he blacked out for a while because the next time he’s out of delirium he’s lying on the bed, fire cracking in the heath.

His armour propped on the chair next to the bed.

You didn’t take it away. Why didn’t you take it away? He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a bad dog, a weak dog, a useless dog.

Can’t you see his knee? Don’t you know that he won’t be a good weapon for you, witch? What’s use to save him if he’s not useful?

But you don’t allow him to wallow in his own misery, spoon feeding him your weird fucking medicine, making him eat and pushing out of the house so he sits on the fallen tree.

“Some fresh air will do you good”, you hum matter-of-factly and he snarls at you, but it’s half-hearted at best. More for the show and you know it so well it’s infuriating.

You thrust watering can in his hands when he’s out of the woods and no longer risking to fall when he stands up too fast. Johnny looks at it, bewildered and looks back at you, earning himself an exasperated sigh and “water plants around yourself, you big oaf. Yeah, these ones near the log you sit on”.

Johnny feels fucking ridiculous sitting on the bloody log and watering plants around himself. Who the fuck is he? A garden gnome?

Johnny who doesn’t know what use he is to you but you come up with tasks for him and even if he finds them ridiculous…he’s not gonna turn his nose away from work.

You feed him, you house him, you patch up his clothing and make a polish for his armour. You save him for some unknown reason so if you say “water the rosemary, oaf” he’s going to water the rosemary.

His knee slowly gets better but the damage unfortunately is irreversible. He doesn’t lose his leg entirely but you quietly announce that he’s not gonna be able to run again.

Johnny nods, swallowing down his anger and bitterness, back of his throat hurting and spasming, bile rising up.

It’s not fair. He was a good dog, he was the best dog. It’s not fair that he won’t run again.

But you still push him to move, lending your shoulder when he awkwardly stumbles and limps, making ointments for his knee, teaching him how to bandage the thing properly.

He lives through the whole summer with you — sleeping in your bed, eating food you grow, watching you silently.

It’s not until first snow he starts speaking again, the first time scaring the living day out of you — his voice a raspy and wrong thing.

He haven’t used it in 20 years.

But he does now. Starts with clipped “yeah” and “nae”, building up to “thank you” and “morning”. He doesn’t talk much but he does talk and that’s already more than before.

More than he was allowed.

You teach him proper sheep shearing and with your combined efforts he gets himself a warm winter cloak. Then a sweater. Then another one.

It’s foreign and the clothes are warm, keeping him from shivering in winds that grow colder when he cleans the pathway to your house from snow.

You keep him warm.

The thought is a sharp thorn that grows in his mind, poking from inside, something long forgotten inside of him watching you with new intensity.

He still sleeps in your bed with you taking a small cot in the kitchen which wasn’t an issue during summer but winters are cold and when he notices the slight shiver that goes through you…

You keep him warm. It’s only fair if he repays the favour.

You wake up warm and fuzzy from sleep, mind hazy, eyes bleary and you aren’t sure why are you so warm, kitchen cools off during the night. Usually you are shivering when you wake up.

Someone’s breathing tickles your ear and you freeze, turning your head — Johnny’s impossibly blue eyes staring right back at you. Watching you with the same intensity hounds do when they lock in on the target.

With the same quiet obsession stray dogs that adore their owners have.

“What are you doing?”, you murmur quietly, voice husky from sleep, eyes squinting at him.

“Nothing”

Johnny isn’t sure what to do with the hot shiver he feels at the sound of your voice, so he just nudges you back under the blanket and to his absolute delight you comply.

Face pressing into his chest, dozing off in a matter of seconds.

Johnny wraps his arms tighter around you, warm and comfortable. You are soft in his hands, his fingers sinking in the softer parts of your body and god, you still smell good.

Herbs and dried citrus. Homey. Delicious.

Johnny guards you while you sleep, starting to move only when you stir awake. You got your rest. Wonderful.

Johnny nuzzles in your neck, lips mouthing at soft skin and he’s not sure what he’s doing or where he needs to go from there. But you make a soft breathy sound when he licks a wet stripe on your skin and he growls in appreciation.

Maybe it would’ve been better if you were like his previous master. Maybe it would’ve been better if you told him to bite or to run.

Maybe it would’ve been better if you chose his new purpose for him.

But you didn’t. So he chooses it himself.

Johnny’s palms slide under the thin fabric of your shirt, his body nudging your legs open so he can settle in between — slowly sliding under the blankets.

Yeah, he chose alright. Maybe his pretty witch doesn’t need a weapon. Or a dog. Or an instrument to use.

But he needs you.

Johnny rumbles out “bonnie” when he looks back up at you, eyes heavy and hungry.

Didn’t you know that hounds sink their teeth into their prey and don’t let go? Should’ve known better.

Now you aren’t getting rid of him.

Continuation

[polarisjisung]

ꨄ X-O, KISS ME, DON'T SAY NO

KISSES WITH ENHYPEN

pairings: enha x fem! reader genre: fluff wc: 1k warnings: use of petnames, slightly suggestive notes: I wrote this for dream had to do it for enha too ! | LIBRARY

HEESEUNG — desperate, flirty kisses

A simple peck doesn't exist for Heeseung. You're like his drug, once he gets a taste, he's addicted. Quick morning kisses are impossible. One peck on your forehead easily turns into a full makeout session and suddenly you're late for work. And not for a second is Heeseung worried about your impending anger, instead he'll try and convince you to call in sick, no work meant more time for kisses, right?

“Heeseung, I have places to be” You know it's no use arguing but you seem to try anyway.

You'd been in this situation countless times before, and it ended the same way each time. In your defence, Heeseung was pretty good at convincing.

“Yeah, want me to list a few?”

Something about a kiss-driven Heeseung is so exceptionally flirty. You both know that you're never getting out of this your way. “My arms, the bed, against the wall if you're into that.

Okay maybe you didn't take much convincing either.

“All of the above?”

Heeseung can't dispute that.

JAY — forehead kisses

Jay's kisses are spontaneous, but so tender and loving, like a scene cut out straight from a high school romance.

You're perched up on the sofa with your nose stuck in one of those picture-perfect romance books you love so much.

Jay can barely make out your face from the material of the hood pulled over your head.

You look cute. There's a pair of blue light glasses resting on your nose and your eyebrows are furrowed with concentration. Jay couldn't help but leave a soft peck against your forehead. He takes a couple moments to just sit beside you and stare, truly wondering how he ever got so lucky.

Next thing you know, his hand moves carefully to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his thumb positioned just under your chin, guiding you into a slow, soft kiss.

JAKE — messy kisses

Jake kisses like a man starved.

Hands tugging at your hair, arms around your waist, loud, shallow pants filling the room. It's like he can't get enough.

He pulls back to stare at you, breathless. But only for a moment.

To Jake, catching his breath seems awfully difficult when you're staring up at him with swollen lips and a sultry gaze.

“I could kiss you forever.”

His words are more a promise than a statement, and how could you not believe him when he pulls you back in so impossibly close, letting his cold fingertips run across your skin.

Both his hands cup your cheeks, passionately. Lips moving over yours with an unsteady, fervent rhythm, and so much urgency, you swear you feel your heart beat out of your chest.

Each time you kiss is like the first, brash. But Jake always holds you so tight, like he's afraid you'll disappear the second he lets go.

When he does finally pull away, Jake exhales a soft laugh, giggling almost.

“You alright?”

You can only nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

SUNGHOON — distracted kisses

Playful fights or debates like whether orange juice is better than apple (it's not) or whether milk comes before or after the cereal always seem to arise with you and Sunghoon.

Part of it has to do with the fact that Sunghoon thinks you look so insanely fine when you're passionately arguing your point forwards.

But somewhere along the way Sunghoon stops listening to what you're saying, eyes zeroing in on your lips when he'd come to a sudden realisation. That shade of lipstick suited you, a little too well maybe.

“Hoon, are you even listening?”

He nods, he's not listening.

He wouldn't have this problem if the lipstick wasn't there. But you were still explaining in full detail, hand gestures and everything. And as much as he loved to hear you ramble, Sunghoon could not concentrate.

He was going insane— he needed to kiss you. Now.

You don't really know why you continue, seeing as Sunghoon's clearly not present, but you can't help but gasp when he pulls you in close and crashes his lips to yours.

“You're right, I wasn't listening”

JUNGWON — soft morning kisses

Soft and intimate, that's what kissing Jungwon feels like.

There’s quiet whispers of ‘I love you's’ and the sweetest compliments.

Even if you've just rolled out of bed, when your hair's a mess and your eyes can barely open all the way, Jungwon thinks you're beautiful.

“Good morning my love” he presses a kiss to the back of your head, just below your ear as he slips past you on the couch, making his way to the kitchen so he can check on breakfast.

But he can only stay away for so long, running back a few minutes later with your morning coffee and a couple kisses to keep you occupied while you wait for it to cool down.

“I love you.” he'd keep it short and sweet, holding your face in hands with so much care. By the time breakfast is ready, not a single inch of your pretty face remains unkissed and that's an achievement Jungwon is insanely proud of.

SUNOO — giggly kisses

You and Sunoo are like the epitome of PDA— cuddling, quick pecks on the cheeks, always holding hands— you have to have your hands on each other at all times. It's sickeningly sweet.

And matters only get worse when your behind closed doors, Sunoo would spend all his time with his lips glued to yours if he could.

He's obsessed with you, and your strawberry flavoured chapstick is anything but helpful. He needs kisses, no matter what it is you're doing.

“Sunoo, I'm busy.” You roll your eyes at him playfully, but he only shrugs, spinning you around on your desk chair.

“Too busy for kisses?”

When you nod, it's Sunoo's turn to roll his eyes.

“Wrong answer.”

And he crashes his lips to yours just as he had intended, illiciting a few giggles from you, laughing at his urgency.

NI-KI — kisses in the rain

Kisses never last too long with riki, quick pecks, passionate and loving but short. Long kisses, something you'd both be down to try but had never actually made the effort to. It's felt scary, awkward, maybe?

The two of you always had a more easygoing relationship, so your more affectionate gestures had always been kept to a minimum.

Until one night when your car broke down and you found yourself stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Rain pelted down from the sky and the wind whistled loudly, but even so, you'd be a fool not to step out of the car and watch the sunset in person.

You and Riki sat with your legs crossed, dangerously close to the cliff edge, bodies pressed against each other as an attempt to conserve heat.

There was something about that moment— maybe the soft glow of the sky as the sun dipped just below the horizon — or the way your eyes beamed and sparkled as each strand of your hair slowly grew wet. Something so raw.

Riki couldn't even bring himself to hesitate, pulling you into his lap in one swift motion and kissing you urgently.

One hand reached back to grip your hair, and another cradled your chin, guiding your lips further into his.

Safe to say, kissing in the rain might just be his favourite.

taglist: @chenlezip @nanawrlds @mystverse @jenobubbles @flaminghotyourmom @lotties-readings