#wicked is tiding me over though

[stargazinglesbian]

got a new phone case, a new charger, the wicked book, babel by rf kuang, a wicked poster, and like 2 shirts. I ❤️ GIFT VOUCHERS AND KMART

[enchantedflameandflower]

Billy Butcher x you oneshot!

Billy knows how to really take care of you when you need it most…

18+ only, smut, piv, cockwarming

Merry Christmas! 😘

karl urban masterlist

~*~*~

It was getting late. Butcher was watching a movie on the couch, but you were sitting at the table, finishing up some work.

When you were finally done, you gave a huge sigh of relief and checked your email one last time.

"Fuck," you groaned as you opened the 5th message from your boss that night asking you for a report on one of your projects. Frustration and anxiety surged inside of you like a tide, and for a moment all you could do was sit there and stare at the screen.

Butcher had paused halfway through his movie as he got up to get a glass of whiskey and seemed to sense what was happening. Honestly, you were stressed a lot these days. Most of the time he wouldn't notice, or at least would just let you be, but right now you felt like you were at your tipping point.

"C'mere doll," he said from behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder to tell him you were busy, but the fierce look in his eyes told you he was not going to take no for an answer.

You sighed when you stood up and went over to him but all you were thinking was 'he noticed.'

Butcher slid his hands around your waist, tugging you against him. "You've been workin' too hard."

All of the breath in your lungs seemed to escape in one big whoosh. "It's just how it is this time of year. I just have one more report to work on. And I need to do my laundry. And it's Thursday."

Butcher leaned back, lifting his eyebrow at you.

"Dusting day," you explained meekly.

Billy gave you a look. "I'll do yer laundry with mine and dustin' can wait. What can I do tonight to make ya sit still for a while and let yerself go?"

You leaned forward wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against his broad chest. He was right, you felt like you were about to collapse but there was still so much to do...

"Maybe just hold me," you said softly.

"I'd be chuffed, love, but yer mind would still be whirlin' wouldn't it. Need somethin' to distract that pretty head o' yours too."

He rubbed your back for a moment as he thought and a soft, but tired, little sound escaped your throat. He knew you, and he knew it had to be something different to truly get your mind off of your worries right now.

He glanced at the tv where the movie was paused, then back to you. "Up for a little playin', love? I've got an idea."

The look in his eye told you it was something interesting and you couldn't help immediately being intrigued. "Maybe...what would I have to do?"

"Nothin'. Go and change inta somethin' comfy. Just a shirt, nothin' else, then come back out and sit with me."

You nodded and gave him a kiss before you retreated into your shared bedroom.

When you came back out he had turned the lights down and he was sitting on the couch. He rumbled in appreciation as soon as he saw you.

"Fuck me," he muttered.

You smiled at him, pleased. You'd changed into one of his shirts, and you'd left it unbuttoned, though it was pulled around you at the moment. It was soft and it barely came to the tops of your thighs.

"Well c'mon," he husked, patting his lap and letting his heated gaze roam over you.

You climbed into his lap kneeling over him and sitting back on his thighs. "If your idea is to fuck me..." you deadpanned.

The smirk he gave you was wicked, his hands sliding to your hips. "Nah it ain't that. You know you'd be comin' in minutes, love, then you'd be right back to your troubles again wouldn't ya? Need somethin' to relax yer brain for a lot longer than that. Besides I need t'finish me film."

Well...he wasn't wrong.

For a moment you met his eyes, gleaming with mischief, and you could feel his cock swelling beneath you...and then you realized what he wanted to do. A surprising pulse of lust surged through your veins and you knew you were immediately wet for him. It wasn't something you'd ever thought of before but now that you did...now that you did you were more than eager to try. That might actually work.

His hazel eyes glinted with desire even as they darkened. "Be a good girl and get me cock out, yeah?"

You swallowed, nodding your head and sliding back off his lap. He gave you a look and you obeyed instantly, working his belt free and opening his jeans. He shifted his hips so you could tug them down just enough to free his length, already hard and ready for you.

"How do you want me?" you whispered.

"Facin' the telly, yeah? Wouldn't want you to miss the rest o' the film."

You hadn't really seen the first half as you'd been working at the same time, but you had a feeling that didn't matter. And maybe it would help to have something to watch to help distract you from his...distracting.

You stood up and turned around as he slid one big hand around the base of his cock to steady it, and gripped your hip with the other.

"Ready, doll," he murmured low, and you moved to sit on him slowly, his hand positioning you with a tight grip.

When you felt the head of his cock at your entrance, a little moan left your lips but he kept guiding you down without pause.

"Fuck..." you breathed. Without much preparation, the fit was tight and he stretched you almost uncomfortably but you knew your body would adjust, and it did almost immediately.

"Fuckin' hell, love, your gushin'," he groaned. "Must've liked this idea more than I realized."

You wanted to argue but a broken moan was all that left your lips. You took a breath as you took him all way, you bottom quickly pressing flush against his thighs. "Oh my god..." you whimpered. Syrupy pleasure flooded through your body, making your clit throb and your cunt flutter around his cock as you thought about him making you stay like this.

Billy gripped your hips hard with both hands and you felt another gush of wetness around his cock. "Easy now. Take a deep breath for me, love. Yer gonna have to calm down if yer gonna be a good girl and let me keep ya on me cock till I'm done watchin'."

"Oh fuck," you moaned breathily, closing your eyes and biting your lip hard. Breathe.

His hands rubbed soothingly over your hips and outer thighs and you took a slow deep breath and licked your lips, focusing on the tv in front of you. You caught sight of the time bar and you almost groaned at the amount of time that was left, just a little less than an hour.

He felt so thick inside of you, the size of him alone lighting up every nerve ending you had. But you had a long way to go so you took another deep breath, and finally your body let go of some of the tension, just a little.

That's my girl," Billy murmured low from behind you. He slid one arm around you and urged you to press back against his chest. "Just rest here for a bit, filled up with me cock, not thinkin' 'bout nothin' else."

Your only answer was another whimper and he gave a low chuckle as he started the movie again.

Your bare legs were draped over his jean clad thighs and you had to be careful not to let his open zipper scrape across your inner thighs or worse. Incentive not to move, you supposed.

You swallowed again, trying hard not to clench around him, but you couldn't help the little flutters of your cunt anytime his cock twitched or he shifted even the tiniest bit.

How he was keeping his own control so easily, you had no idea. Probably had a wank in the shower earlier.

His chest was warm against your back and his big hand was rubbing your thigh. You really tried to watch the movie, but fuck, he was so deep like this. His cock was fiery hot inside of you and you swore you could feel the veins that ran the length of it. You felt every inch of him.

Minutes ticked by slowly, and you did your best for almost 15 of them, but as pleasure continued to pool in your center, and your body adjusted to his size, relaxing and taking him deeper, all you could think about was getting relief. You were dripping and you were sure he could feel it, but still he seemed as relaxed as ever, lazily stroking your thigh as he watched the tv.

Then before you could try to stop yourself, your hips rocked on top of his lap and a soft little cry escaped as bliss erupted inside you, making your whole body tense and buzz, making your fingertips tingle.

Billy rumbled and caught your hips with both hands, gripping hard, holding you still. "No movin', doll."

Your clit throbbed helplessly, completely neglected and you had to bite your lip to keep from whining pathetically, clenching your hands on your thighs.

"Breathe," he murmured, his beard tickling the curve of your neck as he leaned forward. You took a gulp of air, and then another, not even realizing you'd stopped.

Breathe.

Finally, you caught your breath and your lust lowered back to a simmer.

"That's a good girl for me," Billy said, kneading your hips in reward but all you could do was moan at his praise and it made your cunt flutter around him again.

"Don't say that," you whimpered.

He gave a quiet laugh and patted your leg. "We'll have to keep practicin' this," he said low against the shell of your ear, then went back to watching the movie.

You slumped back against his broad chest again and his arm came around you. Instead of thinking about the way he was filling you, you tried to focus on letting your palm play over the little hairs on his forearm. After another 15 minutes, a hazy-sweet fog started to drift over your mind, some combination of dazed and still wildly turned on.

Anytime he moved it sent a jolt of pleasure through you but you were starting to get used to it, learning to let it soften into your body, banking it for later. After a while you couldn't even tell where he ended and you began, he was just a part of you.

At some point you must have completely spaced out, because you suddenly realized the tv was off. Billy was smoothing his hands slowly over your stomach and your thighs and your hips, still thick and big inside of you.

"Did I do it?" you murmured languidly.

Billy leaned closer, kissing the side of your neck, his his beard scratching sensitive skin spectacularly. "You did it. Such a good girl. My girl..."

You made a lilting, blissful sound and wrapped your fingers around his forearms, desperately needing to hold on to something.

"Think you can come for me now, pet?" His voice was gravelly and rough in your ear.

"Mmmm...mmhmm..." You gripped his arm tighter, unable to get your mind to even form another word. Every single worry was completely gone and you couldn't care less about anything except this right here.

Billy shifted underneath you, pushing his jeans further down his thighs and the movement made him thrust up into you.

You cried out, trembling with need, and he made a low sound to soothe you. "I've got ya, love. I'll take care now..."

It was too much to hold yourself up so you fell back against him and he rumbled approvingly. The vibration in his chest only added to your pleasure.

He pulled the edges of his shirt that you were wearing apart so you were completely exposed and tugged it down so your shoulders were bare but didn't bother taking it all the way off. Then he wrapped his hands around your bare waist and began to thrust up into you. "Fuck," he groaned. "Wasn't gonna last much longer either, love."

One of his big hands slid up to engulf your breast, kneading the weight of it in his palm then pinching your peaked nipple tightly between his thumb and forefinger. Your heart stuttered as you gasped for breath, every nerve lighting up. Billy knew how to make your body sing.

Lifting one arm, you curled it around him to thread your fingers through his hair and let your eyes flutter closed, just feeling him.

Every single thrust hit the right spot and made you whimper or moan or cry. Pleasure seemed to only crest higher and higher inside you, no limit in sight.

Within moments, as he had predicted earlier, you were on the brink of orgasm, but you wanted more, needed it. Grabbing at his hand on your waist, you pushed it down, guiding his fingers to where you were joined.

Billy moaned, his lips brushing the nape of your neck. "Mmmm, needy little thing, ain't ya..." he teased, but he deftly nestled two fingertips right over your swollen clit.

The second he started to circle over the throbbing nub your bliss heightened ten-fold...it had been left ignored for too long.

Your cries now were so loud that you vaguely wondered if the neighbors would be concerned, but there was nothing you could do about it, and Billy didn't seem to care at all.

His fingers slowed when he sensed you were close and he used his free hand to move your knees to the outside of his so he could push your legs farther apart with his own, wide open for him and stuffed full.

Then his fingertips returned to their fast, slick circles with haste.

The eruption of your climax happened immediately and all you could do was cry out his name. Your entire body spasmed in pleasure, wave after wave crashing through you in relentless pulses, gushing for him as he continued to stroke your clit.

The growl Billy let loose against your shoulder in response was earth-shaking. You had never felt an orgasm this intense before and you could tell your thighs and his fingers and his cock were drenched from you.

"Fuckin' "ell," he groaned. He moved to grip your hips with both hands one last time, the fingers on one hand still slick, and he bucked up into you, rough and erratic as his own orgasm began.

Burying his face against the curve of your neck, he bit down, moaning, low and gruff.

Broken whimpers and unintelligible words fell from your lips as every sensation continued to bounce and ping through your body like a pinball machine.

You could feel his come, hot and thick, spurting deep inside you. It felt just as good as everything else you’d experience this night.

By the end of it you were completely expended, weak in his lap. You wouldn't be able to move even if the apartment caught on fire.

Billy was slumped into the couch now too, but his arms were around you and he was still inside you.

You had no idea how long the two of you lazed there, but eventually Billy regained his strength.

You whimpered as he finally slid out of you then gathered you up in his arms.

Your own strength was long gone and it was not coming back. He carried you into the bathroom and you were too fucked out to even care he stayed. After he cleaned both of you, he scooped you up again and set you on the bed. He found your favorite, softest t-shirt to sleep in and tucked you in. In the next minute he was sliding under the blankets too and he hauled you against his chest.

"Alright love?" he murmured.

"Mmmmmm. Mmmhmmmm." You were nestled in his arms, his skin warm beneath you and your face pressed to his shoulder. You wanted to say thank you but you were pretty sure only a mumble of half-formed words came out. His hand rubbed soothingly over your back and you felt him nuzzle the top of your head only seconds before you were out.

You couldn't go to work the next day, much to Butcher's smug amusement.

~*~*~

thank you for reading 🥹 thank you for all the inspiration to write this ❤️

tag list: @chocolategiverzombie @kus-babygirl @jynx15 @cassiopeia-grimm @karlurbanism @weallhaveadestiny @violent-darkness @fenyxhawthorn @smallsadjellyfish @butchersboobs @bobabilbil @galaxyshifting @angelically-yours @burntsaltsblog @multifandomqueen199032 @waerwena @rebelled-angel @spikycritter

karl urban masterlist

[villainsoftheweek]

the devil can't have you.

chapter one.

explicit. 18+ only. - 4.3k+ - Alastor x f!reader

content: rivalry: Lucifer vs. Alastor, possessive behavior, obsession, jealousy, smut, blood, voyeurism / implied eavesdropping, marking / claiming, non-ACE Alastor

you laughed at the Morningstar’s joke — and Alastor made sure you screamed his name loud enough for all of Hell to hear.

The ballroom glittered like the throat of a dying star—opulent, suffocating, gilded in corruption. Every inch of Lucifer’s palace was polished decadence, from the stained-glass chandeliers dripping with ruby light to the polished obsidian floors that mirrored a thousand wicked smiles. The air smelled of perfumed sin and sweet rot, heavy with incense and the faintest burn of ozone, as if even the architecture held its breath in reverence or restraint.

Tonight’s gala was no mere display of infernal wealth. It pulsed with tension—something theatrical, electric, and cruel. There was music, yes: a haunting string quartet playing in minor thirds, the notes winding like serpents between whispered conversation and brittle laughter. But beneath it all thrummed something darker. The walls seemed to lean in. The candles danced too high. This wasn’t celebration. It was spectacle.

It was amusement.

You stood near the edge of the marble dais, your posture poised, the stem of your wineglass cool and delicate between your fingers. The liquid inside swirled like blood caught in a spell, darker than crimson, deeper than ruby. Your dress clung to you like shadow and flame — midnight velvet with glimmers of ember thread, its low back baring you to the flickering light and every covetous gaze it drew. You were made to be watched, and tonight, you were on full display.

Alastor was beside you, tall and composed, one gloved hand resting lightly — possessively — on the small of your back. His grin gleamed like a razor, his eyes narrow slits of broadcast gleam. Every inch of him radiated static elegance, the illusion of effortless charm sharpened into something dangerous. He murmured small barbs and flatteries to passing guests with his usual cordial sadism, but never once did his hand leave your body. Not for a second. Not until you sweely requested he fill your drink again — and even then it was full of reluctance.

And yet, across the room, Lucifer watched you with the patience of a god denied tribute.

He stood elevated on his own dais, surrounded by sycophants in gold-threaded attire and velvet cloaks. And still, his gaze never wavered from you. It bored through satin and skin and bone, so warm it was cold. He looked at you not like prey, nor prize — but as if he were the one holding your leash, and Alastor had dared to borrow it.

When he approached, the crowd parted without question. His presence rolled forward like a tide, calm and inevitable, drowning all conversation in his wake. He smiled as he reached you — slow, radiant, too white.

“Tell me, darling,” he purred, voice silk stretched over a blade, “how does one enchant a man like him?”

You blinked, not because you didn’t understand, but because your brain refused to answer fast enough.

“Pardon?”

Lucifer’s laugh was soft and lilting, like the final chord of a church hymn as it echoes off ancient stone — too beautiful to be trusted. “Alastor,” he said, as though tasting the name. “He’s been circling you like a predator since the moment you arrived. Unusual, for him. I was beginning to think his appetites had gone entirely stale.”

The thought of his appetites going stale pulled a soft giggle from you, the crinkles at the edges of your eyes that Alastor had grown so fond of kissing forming briefly. He, unfortunately, took it as an invitation to press his luck.

His gaze dropped to your wrist, where his fingers brushed lightly, as though testing the pulse. The touch burned, not hot but divine — an echo of Heaven still lingering in the devil's skin. His thumb stroked once, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Do you even know the power you hold?”

It wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning. A mirror held up too close. A reflection through him you didn’t want to see.

Before you could shape a reply, the atmosphere shifted like a radio dial snapping to a new frequency. Alastor reappeared, his shadow preceding him in sharp angles. His smile didn’t change, but the air around him did — cooler, crackling faintly, as if the entire ballroom had drifted into a broadcast lull.

“Ah, Lucifer,” he said sweetly, his voice honey-glazed static, a dangerous edge threatening beneath the cracks. “Always the charmer. But let’s not flatter my dear too much — she might begin to think she belongs to someone else!”

He tilted his head just slightly toward you, his grin tightening at the edges.

Lucifer’s grin widened in turn, all teeth and sacrilege.

“Oh?” he asked, gaze flickering lazily between the two of you. “Tell me — do you love her, or do you simply hate the idea that I could?”

Alastor’s fingers, still nestled against your spine, pressed in harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to speak. Mine. He didn’t feel it necessary to answer a question with such an obvious answer.

The moment hung there like a held breath, thick with the scent of ancient rivalry and something far more primal. Lucifer’s eyes gleamed. Alastor’s grip flexed. And you — caught between divinity and distortion — felt your own blood begin to sing.

Lucifer took one slow step back, the smirk never leaving his lips. His gaze flicked lazily from Alastor’s clawed hand at your spine to your parted lips, your breath caught like prey between them.

Then he chuckled — low, intimate, the sound of stained-glass cracking under pressure.

“Careful, Alastor. Keep clutching her like that, and someone might think you’re afraid she’ll stray.”

His eyes slid back to yours, warm and unhurried.

“You do wear danger beautifully, little one,” he murmured, voice curling around you like smoke. “Try not to let him smother the shine.”

And with that, Lucifer turned — not retreating, but receding, like the tide before a storm — and vanished into the gala’s gilded gloom.

Your lips parted to speak again, but Alastor was already circling. Not like a man — like something older, coiling. The air grew tight with invisible threads, radio static weaving into the edges of your hearing. A thousand distant voices whispered nonsense beneath it all, like channels caught between stations.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he murmured behind you, his breath ghosting your ear. “He always did enjoy watching the stars burn out. There’s something exquisite about the moment right before collapse. So bright. So final.”

One gloved hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying possessively over your stomach. The other crept higher — up your spine, between your shoulder blades, guiding you subtly back against his chest.

“I’ve seen it,” he continued, voice low and rich with static. “He did it to kings. To angels. Even to his own daughter.”

You stiffened.

He smiled against your neck, lips not quite touching. His grip tightened — subtly, not painfully, but with intent. Anchoring. Binding.

“But tonight…tonight he didn’t watch them.” His mouth brushed your temple, your cheek. “He watched you.”

His hand at your waist slid downward, palm flattening against your hip, holding you still.

“Not just a glance. Not just curiosity.” His voice dipped lower, static wrapping the words like barbed wire in velvet. “He watched you the way a man watches a feast he’s been fasting for. The way a hunter watches a wounded fawn stumble.”

You turned your head slightly, but his grip didn't allow escape — he followed, pressing in.

“And you glowed for him,” Alastor hissed, his grin faltering at the edges. “He made you shine. You laughed, and the sound caught in his throat like a hook.”

His hand moved again, this time gliding up your chest, fingers brushing the base of your throat.

“Do you know what it’s like to hear that?” he whispered. “To feel it — on every station, across every thread of static — your laugh lighting up for him?”

He leaned in closer, cheek to cheek, his smile now a trembling thing, stretched too wide.

“I should cut his ears off for listening.”

You inhaled sharply.

Alastor laughed, soft and terrible. “But I won’t. No…no, he deserves to hear what comes next.”

He bent, lips grazing the skin below your jaw.

“Because you’re mine,” he purred, tongue flicking against your pulse like a metronome. “And I’m going to make sure he never forgets what that sounds like.”

His voice was dipped in that awful sweetness again — like sugared poison. He took a step closer. Then another. Until the hem of his coat brushed your knees and the air between you crackled like a live wire.

You swallowed, every nerve on edge.

“…Are you angry?” you asked at last, voice small beneath the weight of him.

Alastor stilled.

Then: a low, velvet laugh.

“No, no, my dear. Anger is so uncouth,” he cooed, almost lovingly. “This?” His fingers slid higher, curling just under your chin, tilting your face toward him. “This is inspiration.”

His grin returned, terrible and sharp.

“I’ve never been so motivated to compose.”

“Why does it matter then?” you asked, quieter than you meant. “You said you weren’t angry.”

“I’m not,” he cooed, tilting his head. “I’m simply jealous.”

He leaned in then, almost nose to nose, his smile feral. “Because I know exactly what he saw in you. And I know he wants to take it for himself.”

His gloved fingers finally touched your chin — gentle, guiding, lifting.

“But he won’t,” Alastor murmured. “Because I saw it first. I tuned into your frequency before he even knew you existed.”

A flash of something darker flared behind his eyes. “You’re already mine, sweetheart. The dial’s been set.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“And I’d rather ruin you than share.”

You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Alastor’s fingers lingered at your chin, still poised like a conductor holding the final note of a symphony. His grin had not faltered, but it no longer reached his eyes — it hung there, brittle and bloodless, as though carved from porcelain.

For a moment, the room felt like a coffin. Velvet-lined. Airless.

Then, just as suddenly as the pressure had risen, it fell away.

He stepped back.

Composed himself.

Adjusted his cuffs.

And offered you his arm like nothing had happened.

“Shall we?”

You hesitated. But your hand slid into the crook of his elbow nonetheless.

The hall outside was quieter than it should have been. Even the shadows along the walls seemed to draw back, afraid of proximity. Alastor hummed a pleasant tune softly as you descended the grand staircase — an old jazz refrain about heartbreak and hellfire, off-key in places, like he was letting it rot on purpose.

No one dared look at you.

No one dared stop him.

You felt the weight of it trailing behind you, not your dress, not your heels, but the gaze of a devil you hadn’t known you’d tempted.

You didn’t speak much on the way home.

Alastor was all old-world elegance: arm hooked through yours, his gait measured, his smile serene, a quiet hum trailing from his lips like a lullaby soaked in formaldehyde. He offered pleasantries to passersby, nodded to the shadows that bowed at his presence. But something about him felt too precise — too measured. Every movement laced with tension so tightly wound it became indistinguishable from grace. Like a ballroom dancer spun too many times, the mask barely clinging.

Like a marionette waiting for the strings to snap.

The cold outside clung to your skin even as you entered the Hazbin Hotel, the warmth inside doing little to ease the chill crawling up your spine. Red velvet and flickering neon cast the familiar halls in their usual infernal glow, but it felt different now — uncomfortably close. Like the walls had heard something they shouldn’t.

He said nothing as you climbed the stairs.

When you reached your suite and pushed the door open, he followed without being asked. Still humming that same, saccharine tune — something old, something half-forgotten, a warbled relic from a phonograph long broken. The notes trailed him like fog.

He didn’t speak. Not even when the door clicked shut behind you.

Then came the lock.

Then the seal.

The faint, ghostly whisper of enchanted wards slithered over the frame. Sigils shimmered on the wood for a breath before vanishing, replaced by a low hum, like a radio tuned just slightly off-station. The air turned viscous. The corners of the room dimmed. A single bulb flickered once, then stilled.

Your back straightened. Instinctively. Your fingers tightened around the hem of your dress.

“Alastor— ”

“Do you know,” he interrupted, voice level and unblinking, “how many frequencies he listens to?”

His silhouette stretched across the floor in the dim light, casting his grin longer than his body. He took a step forward, still smiling.

“How many walls his voice passes through? How many rooms it reaches — even when he isn't there?”

You turned to face him fully now, your heart climbing its way up your throat. “Alastor, it was just —”

“He heard you laugh.” His tone remained calm, almost conversational. But his eyes gleamed with something serrated beneath the static. “He saw your eyes shine for him. For Lucifer.”

His name hung in the air like sulfur. Like a challenge.

You opened your mouth, breath catching on the rise of protest, but Alastor was already moving. Not quickly. Slowly. Casually. Like the inevitable walk of a storm toward your doorstep.

“Alastor, I didn’t —”

“Oh, darling.” The word curdled sweet in his mouth. His grin split wider, crueler, almost joyous in its blade-edge clarity. “I insist that I’m not angry.”

Another step.

“I’m inspired.”

His shadow swallowed the distance between you. One gloved hand reached up — not to strike, not to grab — but to gently brush a strand of hair from your cheek. Tender. Reverent. Terrifying.

“You let him see the shine in you,” Alastor murmured, his voice a velvet snarl. “But let me show you what it reflects when it’s truly mine.”

The room buzzed louder. The hum was inside your teeth now.

And the strings — those invisible, buried strings — tightened.

The air was thick with tension, and magic, and something darker still — possessive hunger coiled just beneath the surface of civility. The hum in the room wasn’t just static anymore. It was a low, electric throb, like a tuning fork buried in your bones, responding to the fury behind Alastor’s calm.

He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Until your spine met the wall with a soft thud, and you realized — too late — that the exit was no longer an option.

Not that you’d ever exit his stage.

He leaned in, not with menace, but with dreadful control. His hand rose, slow as smoke curling through a cathedral, and brushed another lock of hair from your face. The motion was gentle — loving, almost. But his fingers lingered too long. Pressed too deliberately behind your ear, like he could tune you if he tried.

“You laughed for him,” he said again, voice like syrup left too long on the burner.

“I laughed at a joke —”

“You touched his arm.”

“He reached out first —”

“You let him look at you.”

That silenced you.

Because he was right.

You hadn’t stopped Lucifer. Hadn’t looked away.

Alastor’s smile cooled like a dead flame, all polish, no warmth. Calculated. Cutting.

“That’s the thing about being mine,” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to let the light catch the sharp edge of his grin. “It’s not spoken — it’s proven.”

And then his mouth was on yours.

He didn’t wait for permission. He never did.

The kiss was a strike — not soft, not coaxing, but claiming. His lips crashed into yours, all sharp edges and static. You tasted iron and ozone and something sweeter beneath, like rot soaked in red wine. His teeth scraped your lower lip — not by accident. It was a warning. A mark.

His hands, gloved and sure, clamped at your waist, dragging you forward into him until there was no space left at all. Your body sparked under his touch, nerves alight, trembling. The hum of his power wrapped around you like radio cords, unseen but unmistakably there.

Then he turned you — suddenly, dizzyingly. The room spun. The world shifted.

You hit the bed, silk sheets hissing beneath your body like water on a hot pan. Before you could rise or even breathe, he was over you — on you — climbing your form like smoke, like wrath given form. His legs bracketed yours. His presence swallowed the light.

“Let’s make sure he hears everything,” Alastor said, and his voice had changed — lower, more primal, deliciously cruel. “Since he clearly so adores listening to you.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

He smiled down at you like a showman stepping into the spotlight. Too wide. Too bright. Wrong.

“Oh, he’s listening,” he purred, gesturing toward the door. “I made sure of it.”

He leaned in close, his mouth at your ear. “Every moan. Every scream. Every time you beg for me instead of him.”

Your mouth opened, words faltering on the edge of protest or surrender — only to choke off into a gasp as he shoved your thighs apart, one knee slotting between them with sudden, merciless force. His hands gripped your flesh with bruising intent, not to hurt but to brand.

The look in his eyes was pure theatre — rapturous, commanding, entertained.

But the way his hands trembled just faintly said more: jealousy wasn't the root of this — it was the spark. Obsession was the fire.

And tonight, he was going to burn you down for the world to hear.

Clothes vanished in flashes of red and sound, torn away with the wild abandon of a storm breaking free. There was no ceremony here — no delicate unbuttoning or slow slide of fabric. His claws raked at the delicate weave of your dress, ripping straps and shredding silk until it hung in ragged shards, barely clinging to your skin. The remnants fell away like dying embers, pooling silently on the floor beneath you.

He left you bare. Vulnerable. Breathless.

The cold air kissed your exposed flesh, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him — the quiet storm of desire crackling in every measured breath, every tense muscle.

Alastor knelt between your thighs, the world narrowing to the curve of your hips and the sharp edges of his presence. For once, that maddening grin softened — dimmed — not from restraint or denial, but from a hunger so deep it was almost worship.

His pupils dilated, black and shimmering like twin voids pulling you in. His lips parted slightly, a breath caught between adoration and appetite.

“I’ll make you sing,” he whispered, voice low and rough as static sliding over wire. His tongue traced a deliberate path, slow and reverent, from the hollow just inside your knee, crawling upward over silken skin, inching toward the secret warmth of your inner thigh.

Every nerve in your body ignited.

His mouth descended next — a soft, searing touch that silenced all thought. The world ceased to exist beyond the exquisite, burning pressure of him against you.

The way his lips moved, slow and precise, was a language older than sin itself. He mapped you with whispered promises and silent commands, each kiss a note in a song only he could compose. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady even as your breath hitched and your heart hammered a wild tattoo against your ribs.

You moaned for him — such a pretty sound.

“Do you hear that?” he murmured between kisses, voice trembling with a fierce, beautiful madness. “That’s the sound of your surrender. And I will broadcast it — far and wide.”

Your body trembled beneath his worship, every touch a spark setting fire to long-dormant shadows inside you. You were caught in the tempest of his obsession — both captive and willing participant, lost to the primal, reverberating chorus of need and possession.

His tongue was ruthless — deliberate, skilled, cruel in its worship. Every flick, every press of flesh against flesh was a vow, a claim, a promise to unravel you piece by piece. He traced the most sensitive contours of your skin with the precision of a maestro conducting a symphony of ruin. Warm, wet, commanding, he explored you with a hunger that felt ancient, insatiable, as if he were tasting your very soul.

Your back arched involuntarily, spine bowing beneath the weight of his attention. Fingers clenched in his thick, unruly hair, tugging at the strands like lifelines. Every moan that ripped from your throat was a raw, ragged note — each one coaxed out of you by his expert ministrations, each one echoing in the charged silence around you.

The heat pooling deep inside you built faster than you could contain it, swelling until the edges blurred and your breath came in shallow gasps.

But he didn’t let you fall. Not yet.

His mouth pulled away just before the breaking point — leaving you suspended on the edge of madness, trembling, desperate. His grin was sharp and merciless, an artist pleased with his masterpiece unfinished.

“What’s the matter?” he purred, voice thick with amusement and something darker, possessive. “You don’t want to finish before our guest gets to the good part, do you?”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he flipped you onto your stomach, his movements fluid and forceful all at once. Your body hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets sliding beneath you.

One hand pressed firmly to the small of your back, anchoring you. The other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise — pain and pleasure mingling into an intoxicating elixir. His fingers left a trail of fire where they pressed, marking you.

Then he thrust into you — deep, rough, primal.

The sudden fullness shattered your restraint. Your scream tore free, raw and ragged.

“Louder,” he snarled, voice warping with static, distorted and beautiful. “Let him hear how I fuck you.”

He drove into you with brutal rhythm, a relentless percussion of skin against skin that sent shockwaves through every nerve. Your muscles clenched around him, trembling with overstimulation and desperate need.

Alastor bit down on your shoulder — hard enough to draw blood. The sharp sting was quickly replaced by the slick warmth of his tongue, licking the wound clean with savage care. His grin was feral, a beast exulting in its prey.

“You’re mine,” he growled low in your ear, teeth grazing your skin. “Mine to break, mine to praise, mine to ruin.”

He shifted you again, dragging you up and turning you until you straddled his lap. The sudden change in angle sent new waves of fire through your core. His hands gripped your hips like iron handles on a machine, steadying you even as he thrust up to meet your movements, forcing you to ride him with fevered intensity.

Your mind unraveled — thoughts shattered, replaced by raw sensation. Breath came in ragged bursts, your body pushed beyond any limit you’d known before.

“Say my name,” he commanded, voice a velvet whip.

You obeyed. Again. And again.

“Alastor.”

“Louder.”

“Alastor!”

“Again!”

“Alastor!”

He claimed your mouth with a kiss then — deep, wild, a desperate worship that left you gasping for air. Again he shifted until he was atop you, driving into you with a renewed force you’d experienced before — he never lasted much longer like this. His hands tangled in your hair, holding you captive with fierce adoration in his violence.

He drove you to climax after shattering climax, holding you at the precipice of sensation until your sobs spilled freely, tears mingling with sweat and the sting of his teeth.

And then, finally, he came — moaning low and guttural, voice shuddering with release as his fingers bruised your skin in a final, possessive grasp. The room thrummed with his power, shadows twitching and pulsing like living things caught in the wake of his storm.

He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heat radiating in waves.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soft now, almost tender. “Good, good girl.”

You shuddered beneath him, wrapped in his arms, coated in sweat and bite marks and the magic that lingered like a third skin.

In the quiet that followed, his lips brushed against your ear.

“I’ll send him a recording tomorrow.”

You almost laughed. Almost cried.

But instead, you whispered his name again. Just once.

He smiled.

And outside the suite, the faintest crackle of power flickered — like a wire gone hot, humming with dark intent.

Lucifer sat upon his throne — a monolith carved from shadow and regret, towering above the cavernous expanse of his palace. The crimson velvet beneath him was untouched, save for the faintest imprint where the glass of wine had sat, now cold and forgotten. His fingers curled around the armrests with a quiet intensity, knuckles blanching beneath the weight of unseen fury.

The vast hall was deathly silent, yet beneath the surface, something pulsed — a distant, persistent echo woven into the very stones. It was a tapestry of sound: screams strangled into whispers, gasps caught between fear and longing, murmurs heavy with devotion and pain. Among the chorus, one voice threaded through with uncanny clarity — Alastor’s, weaving like a dark melody, and yours, trembling, raw, fragmented.

Lucifer’s eyes closed, lashes brushing against pale skin as he breathed in the reverberations. The echo clawed at something deep within him — a spark of ancient hunger, twisted affection, and burning jealousy.

“Oh, Alastor,” he murmured into the empty hall, voice low, laced with something dangerously close to admiration and warning. “You are afraid.”

There was no smile in his words, no softness in his tone. Only a cold, deliberate edge — like the sharp blade of a blade just drawn.

Yet beneath that stillness, his fingers clenched tighter on the armrests, white and trembling. Behind his closed lids, the flames in his eyes flickered — alive, sentient, and cruel. They danced with shadows older than sin itself, reflecting a darkness that had long ago learned to wait, to watch, and to strike.

“Good.”

The single word hung in the silence like a promise. A threat.

A reckoning waiting to ignite.

MASTERLIST.

[mintwithchoco]

What You Need

tripleS Yooyeon x Male Reader

Word Count: 3260 words

Categories: smut, oral, facial, dom-ish!yooyeon (?) idk, she's just desperate to get that d

Inspired from;

“My go— Yooyeon! We’re still filming, we can't do this!”

“Shut up.”

There's nothing that can stop Kim Yooyeon from getting what she needs. She may seem cold and calm on the outside, but once an interest is sparked within herself, she'll do whatever it takes to reach it, no matter the situation. 

You know that you’re fucked all around when she sends you that look from afar a few minutes ago. Might as well blame it all on her at first for wearing that pink top, showing off her tight figure so well, forcing you to never peel your eyes away from her. She's bold and relentless, and it shows by the way she’s metaphorically fucking you with her eyes while filming, and you can only curse silently behind the camera, catching the secret message. It can only get worse from here on out (or better actually) as once she gets out of the frame, she walks past you quickly while whispering, “Fuck me, now.”

She slams the door shut as soon as she gets you inside the cramped bathroom. Before you can do anything to resist, she forcefully closes the distance between your lips by wrapping her arms around your neck. If you wanted to, you could just break out of her embrace and run out of the door. Instead, you have been poisoned by the emanating warmth of her body, the softness of her skin touching yours, and the sweetness of her lips, making you fall deeper and harder into her.

“Yooyeon—” She doesn't let you speak in the downtime of the makeout, dragging you back in as soon as she gets air in her lungs. “We can’t—”

“Don’t fucking lie. I know you’re craving for me too.”

You recoil at her undeniable statement—that voice is dripping with way too much arousal. “What if someone hears us?”

“I know, but, please,” Yooyeon’s hands rest on your shoulders. “Just for a while. I really need you.”

Fuck, she really knows how to make you submit. Those bright brown orbs, begging for her needs are crumbling your morals apart, inviting you to commit this wicked act that can potentially end everything you have in life. But if it does come to an end, I guess ruining your career with a pretty lady such as her isn't as bad as it seems, right?

“Damn it,” She shrieks when your hands scoot over her butt and squeeze them gently. “Let's make it quick, and quiet.” 

You overlook her cute little smile as your lips crash into hers again. The tides have now turned around with hunger filling you up almost immediately, overpowering the girl’s lust, evident by the way you’re aimlessly caressing every single part of her. Fear runs through your veins due to her moaning resoundingly into your mouth, afraid that the muffled noise would alarm anyone close by. Though, it was quickly diminished by her delicate fingers groping the raging tent on your lower half.

“Mmm, you’re so fucking hard already.” Her tone is now deeper than before, and it arouses you even more.

You try your best to control your ragged breaths as the pressure is building up in your bulge. “You’re the one to blame. God, you look so pretty.” 

Another thing’s for certain is that you are addicted to leaving your marks all over Yooyeon. You generously land kisses on her neck nonstop while slowly sliding the straps off her shoulders. She giggles away, but also does the equivalent to you by slipping her hand down into your pants and continues her massage through the fabric of your boxers. Unfazed by this, you yank down her top to reveal a white bra, and you waste no further time to knead the covered breasts. Her soft gasps are like a muse to your ears, enthralling you more. Yooyeon is obviously weakening under your touch as her attempt to pull down both your pants and boxers fails as it only comes off halfway. 

Yooyeon’s expressions are fucking up your whole self entirely. You eventually finish off what she wanted to do, letting your cock feel the humid air in the bathroom. She feels the warm shaft throbbing in between her thighs, already leaking out with precum. While you reach behind to release her boobs from its fancy confines, her fingers are quick to wrap around your shaft and stroking it to full hardness. The white undergarment then drops to the tile floor, joining in the built up pile of your clothes.

Her husky voice rings in your ear once again. “Sit down. I wanna taste you.” 

The toilet is turned into a makeshift seat as you oblige to her request, sitting down on the cold surface. She quickly kneels down in between your legs, the raging shaft is now right in front of her breathtaking visual. You can never imagine that this innocent goddess would be a vixen in disguise, the one who triggers your hormones into this sexual overdrive. The contrasting thought has been completely erased however, as Yooyeon begins her oral teasing on your tip, drawing small circles while collecting your precum on her tongue.

“Holy shit—” is all you can utter when Yooyeon wraps her lips around the cockhead, finally getting a feel of her warm mouth. She starts slow and small, only taking in your tip momentarily before building herself up to take you in deeper. With her hands stroking your thighs, your sensations are heightened, the extreme pleasure shivering down your spine forces your head to unwillingly fall backwards.

And if that wasn't enough, she draws you in with her words. “Keep your eyes on me.”  

You muster up the will to look down, and you have never been more than grateful to witness Yooyeon doing wonders to your cock. Showing no signs of slowing down at all, this girl is filling up her wet cavern with the entirety of your length, her cheeks puffing up whenever she brings it to the sides of her mouth. You find it rather cute somehow, but it doesn’t falter the groan that leaves your lips every time she sucks you hard, and releases you by the tip. 

Her tongue rests on the underside of your shaft, vigorously licking it up to the head, and down to the base. She takes you in for the second time, and this time she's not holding anything back. Her head bobs furiously at a gradual pace on your shaft, making it fully covered with her saliva. The way her mouth perfectly envelopes with the shape of your cock is agonizingly pleasurable and mysteriously fascinating, as she never seems to gag whenever you hit the back of her throat, only leaving a great amount of spit when she disappointingly leaves your shaft.

“I can suck on this all day. It's so perfect.” The unexpected compliment compels your cheeks to turn slightly red.

Your eyes are blessed with the sight of Yooyeon’s handiwork; fingers delicately running up and down your lubricated shaft and her oral fixation; swirling her tongue around the swollen cockhead. While your whole soul is tearing apart when her dazzling orbs lock upon yours, pairing it with that small smirk and nose scrunch, her visuals clearly contradicting the sinful work she's doing. It goes to show how much she's enjoying herself, the desire that has been building up for the past couple of days finally breaks apart, thanks to her resilience.

You couldn't handle it anymore, plus your time is getting much thinner. Your hand creeps up to her chin, and you lean over to catch her lips amidst her strokes, sharing multiple kisses. As you suck on her lower lip, you slowly guide her into your lap. Your cock brushes against her midriff, which in return emits a low moan from Yooyeon, realizing that her clothed vagina is in the close proximity of the pulsating length. 

“Get this off me please.” 

Easier said than done. You’re too busy leaving kisses all over her neck, taking in all of her floral scent and having a hand full from squeezing her tits and tweaking her nipples. Nonetheless, the free hand manages to remove her shorts by pulling down on different parts of it. You didn't bother taking off her matching panties however, as it is deemed essential in her disheveled look. 

You let out a satisfied breath. “Fuck, I can't get enough of you.” 

With a steady grip on her waist, you dive your face into Yooyeon’s chest and engulf her right nipple into your mouth. Your hardness throbs upon the whine she lets out while your tongue does its best to stimulate the brown nub. The left side deserves some love as well, and a set of fingers playing around it is enough to induce an effect. Her small moans are being played into your ears directly, and it motivates you to worship this goddess to the fullest. You feel her hand pressing your head further in as you switch sides of your gratifying assault, this time attacking her left nipple in a similar way. 

“Mmmh, fuck! More, I nee— ohh yes, you’re so fucking good.” God, everything that she does never fails to make you swoon.

The heat in between her thighs could not be ignored anymore, and you know just the right way to deal with it efficiently. By bringing her body closer to yours, your cock makes contact with her crotch, and it drives the both of you to cloud nine. You soon realize how soaked her panties really is—it wasn't hard to make her grind against your shaft. The slickness from earlier’s blowjob really adds to the mixture of pleasure, as each sway of her hips is met with audible squelches. The dopamine courses quickly throughout both of your bodies, and it intrigues you to fall deeper into her sinning.

Yooyeon shrieks when your fingers pull her panties to the side, exposing her glistening pussy to you at long last. Even through the really tight space in between your bodies, your eyes manage to send the image of her lips fully covered in her juices, and dripping down on your cock to your brain. Continuing her hips rhythm onto yours is her breaking point of being discreet, as the skin-to-skin sensation makes her shamelessly spit out every curse words that she knows. 

“Please, please, please, just— oh!” Yooyeon’s desperation is cut off when you tease the opening to her hole with your tip. 

You really want to break her apart furthermore, but your rational thought comes forward in the heat of the moment, as you automatically place a finger on her lips. “Lower your voice, don’t want anyone to hear us.” 

Yooyeon snarls, “Fuck that, let them hear us if they want to. All I need is you inside me. Now.”

There's not a single resistance, let alone purity nor innocence left. Sinners are what both of you are, drowning into the depths of eroticism, unable to rise back up to the risks of reality. You grab the base of your cock steadily, carefully letting it glide on her lips to slightly spread them apart. Holding onto your shoulders, Yooyeon prepares herself mentally and physically to take in all of you, although her body is trembling just from your teasing. It didn’t take long for you to penetrate her pussy with just the first few inches, and it sent both of you to heaven in an instant.

“Fuuuuck…” Yooyeon cries out as her tightness surrounds you the lower her hips descend. Halfway inside her walls renders you to bury your head in her neck, its wetness and warmth is truly remarkable. The pleasure elevates when you feel her fluids leaking onto your crotch once you’re fully buried deep in her.

“You’re so fucking tight, oh my god.” You moan into her ears, before your hands familiarize itself with her slim waist. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Enchanted by your words, Yooyeon grinds her hips as much as she can, squealing in delight even in the smallest of motions. Her walls continue to constrict you with all its might, yet the pain only drives you into wanting more. And that’s exactly what the goddess did, as she began bouncing onto your lap in a slow rhythm. Gripping on her thighs and planting both feet harder to the floor, your hips began to move in a different wavelength than hers, forcing her to take a considerable amount of your length inside.

“You're— fuck, so big, so fucking big! Harder!” 

If it wasn’t for the loudness, it's possible that someone may have noticed the suspicious amount of time this room has been occupied. That thought wasn’t in any of your heads whatsoever—breaking it off right now would be meaningless. The risk of being caught in this moment is rather thrilling, and it certainly helps the pressure that’s been building inside you to grow.

“Yesyesyesyesyes!” Her screams resonate within the tile walls. Immediately, you muffle them with a passionate kiss before she gets even more vocal.

Yooyeon has truly lost herself. She doesn't even notice the way her hips are driving faster and harder, her filled pussy continuously seeping out her juices. It’s a breathtaking view from any angle that you can catch with your eyes. Looking up from her ethereal yet depraved expressions, down to her divine body jiggling with each thrust, to the point of impact on both of your crotches—it would be a shame for you to not let out your deepest groans to make her truly understand how you feel.

A sense of dominance comes across your mind. You own her as a whole, and no one deserves her more than you. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop. Fucking cum for me.”

You don’t intend to slow down. As your hips begin pushing up into her roughly, Yooyeon tightens the embrace around your shoulders while profusely moaning into your ears. Eventually, your tip hits deep inside a certain area in her pussy, prompting her body to jerk violently. You stay there for a while before fucking into the same spot once again, this time with much more intensity, sending multiple streams of pure dopamine into the angel who has been tainted with lust.

“Fuck, please, please, make me cum! I wanna cum all over you!” 

Your shirt is now soaked in sweat, but that doesn’t deter your adrenaline in the slightest. The force of your thrusts continues to rock Yooyeon’s petite frame, and you gratify her need to reach her climax by latching your lips on her erect nipples anew, the right one being the first. You expertly divide your attention on both tits, and your tongue swirls around them swiftly, letting you taste the saltiness of her sweat. The mix of slick friction on her lower half, the tenacious teasing on her chest and the wordless groans she lets out is enough to lead her into the well-deserved orgasm.

“I’m cumming, oh god, I’m cumming!”

One powerful thrust followed by a high pitched scream, and she explodes on contact. The massive gush of her nectar washes all over your crotch and thighs instantly, while her pussy torturously contracts around your cock, releasing everything that she has. As her body becomes weaker throughout her peak, your thrusts into her haven't died just yet—you’re yearning for the same high that she reached. The wetness escalates, as her squirting prolongs itself to stain your shirt and your seat below. 

Still shaky from her climax, Yooyeon struggles to speak up, but her point was acknowledged. “A-Are you c-close?”

You simply nod, and in some way, she manages to come back to her senses to get off from your lap and sink down on her knees, just like earlier. Without any warning, she shoves your cock into her mouth once more, taking away your breath and compelling you to lean against the toilet tank. Her head bobs with precision, not going too deep nor too shallow, but close enough to keep you on this euphoric flow. The unanticipated head is proven to be the consequent snap to your own release, apparent by the excessive heaving of your chest and the twisting tension in your stomach.

“Oh my god, Yooyeon!” You groan out loud just as Yooyeon stuffs you deep in her orifice, her spit drenching you all over and your tip hitting the back of her throat. She withdraws from you with a gasp, and strings of drool trails itself from her lips to your shaft. Her fingers wrap around you straight away, moving back and forth expertly, assisted by the tormenting slurps on its underside. 

“Fuck, you look so adorable moaning away like that.” She means it well, given by the increased pace at her strokes, licks and sucks on your member. 

There’s nothing that can turn both of you away now. She’s getting what she needs, and you’re on the brink of manifesting it to reality. “Shit, Yooyeon, I’m gonna cum!”

“Cover my face, please? I want it all over me.”

Her gaze full of admiration and wonder is the last thing you see before your vision becomes a blurry mess and your vocal cords let out a shattered grunt, marking it as the last step over the edge to your release. In a split second, long streaks of white cum spurt out of your cock, painting all over the godly facial features of Kim Yooyeon. The hot semen marks its territory on her sharp nose, her flushed cheeks, her closed eyes and most importantly, her slightly ajar mouth.  

As the last few drops land upon her chin, you take in the beautiful mess that you have created. You wish that you could save this deep memory—or rather, engrave it into your brain somehow of Yooyeon’s gorgeous look, completely covered in a coating of your semen, and it eventually drips down to her breasts and shoulders. It is truly a magnificent sight to behold, and you can never ask for anything better.

“Wow…” you weakly mutter while Yooyeon sucks the remains of your cum out of your tip. On top of that, she swipes some of the mess on her face with her fingers and licks it off cleanly to get a proper taste of you.

“Delicious.” Yooyeon responds with a hearty giggle. “Thank you, darling. This is what I really need.”

The cleanup didn’t take very long, as the essentials for it are already arranged in the room. Yooyeon quickly settles herself, so in order to avoid any suspicions, you ask her to join in with her members first. She agrees, and leaves you with a sweet kiss on your cheek before going outside.

Although Yooyeon is able to sneak out the door silently, a tall figure creeps up behind her unnoticed.

“What were you doing in there?” Yooyeon jumps in shock and looks behind towards the well-known voice.

Her nervousness was blatant. “Uhh, I had a really bad stomach ache—”

“I saw everything unnie. You didn’t lock the door.”

Yooyeon sighs and facepalms herself for her recklessness. “Shit. Don’t tell anyone please! I’ll do anything!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” She smirks. “But you need to keep a secret for me too!”

“What are you— Hey!” She runs off into the bathroom before Yooyeon could say anything further. “Aish, this girl…”

While you take your sweet time in cleaning up and recovering yourself, the door suddenly opens up. 

“Excuse me, is this where I get to fuck?”

Your eyes widen upon the unexpected encounter. “X-Xinyu?!”

===========================================

note; now THIS is a fucking BFH. goodness gracious, yooyeon fucked me up in so many ways with these pictures.

i did kept my promise of having a longer story this time, even though this was definitely not in the plans LMAO but yeah, next one will be much more longer, more epic and definitely, more seggs. shoutout to @chunksworld for the quick beta read!

like always, thank you so much for reading, hope you guys enjoyed this one, and have a flawless day! <3

[morgana-ren]

i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

[angelic--kitty]

Imagine Yae looming over you with the muzzle on still trying to bite an nip at your skin despite the impedance.

switch!yae miko x switch!fem reader

warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, muzzle/leash, scissoring, asphyxiation

a/n: just a little something to tide yall over since i haven't posted writing for a bit! also, i think angey might have written something with miko and a muzzle, and it was sooo yummy

"you little minx." she spits through the metal bars, eyes narrowed in anger despite her wicked grin.

you tug her leash tighter, pulling her closer, teasingly. you know she wants to bite into your shoulder, leave pretty little indents from her fangs.

too bad she's muzzled, hm.

"you're being a bad girl." you giggle at her, kissing the muzzle, and she growls.

despite it all, she goes along with your charade, willingly handing the power to you as you tug her closer, pulling her into you. "behave yourself, and maybe i'll let you take it off when we're finished, yeah?"

miko huffs, grinding her cunt against yours like the good little pet you told her to be. soon enough, though, she's grown irritated. her ears are pressed flat to her head, teeth bared.

she's itching to bite you. she needs to sink her fangs into your skin. she hates that smug look on your face, as if you rule the world.

before you could speak again, she ripped the muzzle right off, pushing your thigh up harder to forcefully grind your clits together as you mewl, causing you to drop the leash.

you desperately try to grab the fabric, but she's faster than you. she merely yanks the collar off, tossing it across the room as her eyes practically glow, charged with electricity.

"playtime is over, little one. but i let you have your fun as i promised, didn't i?" she wraps a hand around your throat, gently squeezing to hear your breathy moans.

you grab her wrist, eyes teary as she scoffs. "oh, not so tough anymore, are we? looks like you aren't quite cut out to tame me." she laughs mockingly, leaning down, excitedly sinking her fangs into your skin to hear you cry for her.

[velaris-fic-repository]

What the Tide Brings In (Part 3)

A/N: It has not come up yet, but since it’s sort of relevant in this part, I will say it now. At this point of the story, we are pre-canon. Feyre has not been born yet, Amarantha has not established herself in Prythian and (most relevantly) Nostrus is still High Lord of Summer

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

Velaris is beautiful any time of day, however, especially when experiencing it for the first time, it is at its best at night. This is a fact you became immediately aware of as you stepped outside and saw the city for the glittering jewel that it was. Adriata, your former home before Nostrus’s forces ran you out of it, paled in comparison. The day of the Summer Solstice could not even compare to a normal night here.

“This isn’t anything like the stories you hear about this court” you said, eyes scanning about, having difficulty deciding what to linger on. “Caution starting to make sense.”

“We’ve kept this place safe for thousands of years,” Azriel explained.

You saw why and said as much.

“Forgive me for my original treatment of you, we’ve just never had-“

“Anyone wash up like a dead fish before?” You finished.

“I- That’s not the phrasing I would use,” Azriel said, a little flummoxed.

“Why not?” you said, “it’s an accurate comparison.”

Azriel, who was usually calm, cool and collected, found himself floundering - for lack of a better term - in how to react to you. You’d never told him outwardly, but with help from his shadows and his own deductive skills he could guess at the bloody path that had brought you here. He didn’t want to say or do anything that would trigger you back into that small, withered state he had seen.

He knew you were from Summer. You’d told him. But, even if you hadn’t, he would have been able to tell. The Summer Court was written all over you. He figured a life swashbuckling at sea would do that, but he found himself in silent awe of you.

A little spot of sun in the center of Velaris’s beautiful night.

He did not want to see it dim.

“So,” he said, silently regaining his composure, “what would you like to see first?”

You tapped your finger to your chin, thinking. “You know, I have a tradition that I do every time I visit a new city.”

Azriel cocked his head, “what’s that?”

The wicked grin that split your face was as fast as it was blinding as you said, “this,” and tore off running down the street.

Azriel blinked once in surprise, and that was more than enough time for you to gain plenty of ground. For someone with sea legs, you had some pretty strong land ones too.

Momentary surprise gone, Azriel tore off after you in confused pursuit. Had he made a mistake? Did you trick him? Had he just revealed the greatest secret of his Court to an enemy?

Velaris’s citizens exclaimed and pushed out of both of your ways, confused and intrigued by the chaotic interruption of their evening.

You, still running, turned your head over your shoulder and smiled at Azriel, challenging.

Then you banked into an alley and through a side street.

Azriel set his shadows loose after you, unfurling his massive wings and taking to the skies to scan the ground for you.

You looked behind you, watching a wave of sentient darkness sloshing through the alleyways behind you and you laughed, banking left then right quickly, slamming into and pushing yourself off the walls to keep your momentum going.

The shadows were quick though, and were gaining ground. So you found an opening in the side streets, running out into the road and then into the marketplace palaces.

With the tight quarters, masses of people and fragile stalls of wares, the shadows peeled off, returning to their master in the air.

Playing, they said.

Azriel huffed and picked up the pace.

The Palaces were packed with people and you unfortunately had to slow a little bit. You kept glancing over your shoulder, searching for some trace of Azriel behind you. You thought you saw him by a handmade jewelry stall, but the tall male turned his head and you saw he had a beard. You thought you saw his shoulder, pushing through the crowd, but your frantic eyes refocused and it was just the dark edge of a stall. You felt a hand brush your wrist and looked up, seeing instead a female and her large collection of shopping bags. She apologized and you assuaged her worries with a smile.

Breathing easier, and walking slower, you wandered through what you would eventually learn was the Palace of Bone and Salt and snatched a stick of prepared fish to munch on when no one was looking. You smiled to yourself as you took a bite, exiting the market squares at a leisurely pace.

Jarringly you were grabbed by the wrist and spun around, almost like dancing, coming face to face with the shadowsinger.

“Thief. You have to pay for that,” he said, voice low in a way your traitorous body seemed to like. He did not sound angry, however, far from it. There was a little quirk to his lips.

“It’s a shame,” you said, taking another bite of fish, “that I don’t have any money. Spot me?”

Azriel huffed to disguise a laugh, but you caught it, before he said, “wait right here, troublemaker, I’ll be right back.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” you asked, coyly.

“Stay.”

Unbidden, a shiver ran up your spine. So you did, turning your head so he wouldn’t notice the flush on your cheeks.

You had every intention of staying put as you finished your ill-gotten snack. But as soon as you tossed the stick attached to the thing, you turned your head and saw it.

The port of Velaris was instantly your favorite thing about the city. Boats of all sizes meandered in the bay, smaller vessels winding up and down the river. Every boat had some kind of faelight on it, lighting the marinas and the water below them like stars of their own.

The Summer Court, when discussed, often brought to mind sunshine and blindingly beautiful days on the beach, but that was only a small part of it. You never dwelled inland in Summer, the water called to you too much for that, but there were countrysides and forests in Summer. Things different from the common conception of the Court. Just because the reputation called for bright sunny days, doesn’t mean that was all there was. You’d have been lying if you said you weren’t enamored with the way the stars and moon danced across the water. You were the one your crew always counted on for the night watch. They used to anyway…

You pushed the thought and ache away as best you could, not wanting it to discolor the beautiful sight ahead of you.

You loved Summer, it’s where you grew up. You’d spent three centuries under her sun. But often at night, you’d caught yourself wondering if there was something or somewhere else you were supposed to be.

Staring out at that port, even with a sense of grief and dread pulling at your heart like a rusted anchor, you felt at peace. You felt at home.

“I thought I’d told you to stay,” Azriel teased as he arrived at your side.

His voice shook you out of your mind and you smiled up at him. “And I thought everything about me would have told you that I struggle following orders.”

“Fun little stunt you pulled back there, you had me thinking I’d made a mistake letting you out.”

You held a hand to your chest, gasping, “Mother above! The great shadowsinger, Azriel, making a mistake?! Perish the thought!”

“Funny,” he said, lacking emotion. But there was a small grin on his face as he flicked your nose.

“Assault!” you teased before laughing, leaning your arms on the roped fencing separating the cobblestone street from the steps and docks below. “I knew you’d catch up, I just wanted to make you sweat a little.”

“Got that,” Azriel chuckled, then he followed your eye-line out to the water. “See something you like?” There was a small sense of apprehension that crept into his voice.

It took you a flush inducing second to realize what he’d been talking about, and once you recovered, you leaned your chin on your hand, watching the water wistfully.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Better than Summer’s ports?”

“Much.”

Azriel hummed, watching the water in silence with you.

“You know, if you like, I could put in word for you down here,” he said softly.

“How do you mean?” you asked, turning to him this time.

“However you want. If you want a job, or a ship to sail back with,” he listed, though something in his voice on the second option sounded sad.

You weren’t sure you were ready for sailing yet. Not this soon. Your throat closed a little just thinking about it. Sailing was a part of your soul, you could not imagine, even with your grief, that you could live without it. You’d return to it someday, but… You needed some time.

Summer wasn’t home anymore, you couldn’t go back. Besides, something about being here - something that actually had nothing to do with the male beside you, though he was a plus - felt right. Like something more than a mating bond had brought you here.

“I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” Azriel sounded deflated, or at least, you imagined he was.

“A job I mean. I’d like to stay. That is if the ever so gracious and protective spymaster would allow me to.”

Azriel actually brightened, “that can be arranged.”

This one was so fun to write! Hope you enjoyed!

I’m still figuring out how to logistically do taglists, so I do apologize if I missed you accidentally, I’ll get the hang of this, I swear! Please let me know if I missed you or if you’d like to be added!

Have a wonderful night!

Series Taglist: @rcarbo1 @shylahstarzz @tele86 @bubybubsters @willowpains @breemitch15

[oksana-moods]

All Too Well

Summary: Natasha tried to mend what's left broken. Because no matter what, she's the love of your life and she knows all too well.

A/N: It's been forever. This 5k piece felt like I was writing 300k, it was difficult, funny, hard and I miss doing this more often. I hope you guys like it and please, it be amazing for me to know your thoughts about it.

You can read it as One Too Many part 2 or as a single piece, it is up to you.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, torture, mentions of death, alcohol, angst (you know how I am, I can't simply write people kissing without suffering before).

"Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place"

The gun pointing at your face barely meters away should be intimidating, but at this point no one would blame you for not caring anymore. And you didn’t even mean the last couple of days, no, your whole life had been a fight, a struggle, an act of survival after another, so the last few days were nothing but the same blur.

The gunpower inundated your nostrils and the pungent smell masqueraded the smell of blood that clung to your brain and you were sure you wouldn’t erase it even if you got out of your current establishment.

Your heightened senses were capable of decerning all the different blood samples available in your cell: yours and from other occupants that came before you, or the blood that belonged to some of your kidnappers, who’ve learned in the worst possible way that you were not to be underestimated.

Back to the gun, the man behind it kept enchanting the same questions and you wondered how long it would take for them to get tired of your silence or mock replies. A sharp pain in the back of your head made you look up to meet his eyes, another man behind you was forcefully pulling your hair down to force your head up and you were already tired of him doing this.

“Where are the others?” The man with the gun asked, patience waning thin. Good to know you were on the same page. “Where is Romanoff?”

A blooded grin made its way to your face after you spat on his shoe. “It’s funny you think I’ll tell you now after all you’ve put me through. Do you think I’m afraid of your bullet?” And you didn’t even mean the fact that you probably wouldn’t die if he decided to shoot anywhere else other than your head, but you did mean that you were not afraid of dying.

Actually, you were so tired that perhaps laying down cold wouldn’t be unwelcomed. There wouldn’t be any pain, your body wouldn’t try to heal only to get hurt again. You thought it would be refreshing.

Two steps and the man pressed the gun over your knee, and you already knew, his wicked grin grew wider when your body convulsed with pain even though you concealed your scream in muffled grunts by biting your lips so tide you tasted your own blood, again.

“Why don’t you make it easier for you? You tell me what I’ve asked, and I kill you fast.” He pulled a chair and got comfortable for he knew all too well you wouldn’t budge easy. “I promise you. One silver bullet in your temple. Fast. Easy.”

Your eyes flashed to his. Silver bullets were really affective against your healing skills and very few possessed this knowledge. Someone must’ve tipped him off and the idea stung way much more than the powder burning the flesh inside your knee.

Only two women knew your weakness. Well, your creators knew, of course, but they were not in condition of speaking anymore. Unless someone from this organization was capable of going to hell to have a chat and then return to the living world with this intel.

Your love for Yelena was something so natural and it grew so fast for she was just deranged as you were: uncapable of functioning as what people labeled as normal. You were kindred souls and you felt like you were twins separated somewhere along the road and considering both of your past, who actually knew?

After long nights during long missions, you confided in her this. You were scared of losing control because sometimes the beast inside you took over and your brain couldn’t always sway the instincts. So you handed her one silver bullet in case things went south, she was adamant in returning it to you but you asked her to keep it, for insurance.

And the other person was Natasha. You never knew how she learned this but when she recruited you many, many years ago she already knew. If the pain in your leg wasn’t so overwhelming, you could’ve laughed at the memory engulfing your mind’s eye.

Her tide catsuit adorned with nothing but her black widow symbol, swaying her hips and pretending she wasn’t scared of the woman seated in front of her. You remember how her fear smelled, a stark contrast to her pose. You recall her words, her smile, her flirtatious play all to convince you to use your skills to her so called greater good.

And before leaving, she boldly closed the distance between you and placed a silver bullet in your hand. You understood the message. You weren’t stupid. Later she sworn that she was the only one, at S.H.I.E.L.D. or within Avengers, to know your weakness and you believed her.

And this belief comes back to bite you in the ass.

Because you knew full well that Yelena would die, she would kill herself even, before telling someone your secret. But Natasha? You didn’t trust her anymore. She had done it before, and you knew it all too well. If you were to be honest, after one too many treasons, you didn’t care about another.

Or so you told yourself.

“Good luck.” You rasped out after a long time inside your own head.

The man tilted his head to the side and smiled that smile that told you he already knew what you would say. You would go further and say he was eager for it. “I think in the torture manual says I should tell you that I don’t enjoy this, but I’d be lying. We actually bet how long it will take for you to drop the act and start screaming.”

You bet no one thought it would be that fast. He stumped a knife down your thigh so fast and so hard you saw stars. You could feel the silver poisoning the skin and muscle where it was nested, and it burned like nothing else would.

Unfortunately for them, the apex in you was not used to be a prey and this injury was powerful enough to make your survival instincts kick in. It happened so fast it was a haze, one minute he was laughing, the other he was on the ground - lifeless, and just as the others came, they followed their leader – well, who you thought the leader was, at least.

Funnily, your countdown was wrong, or you were not the only one putting your captors down. As the blood ran free down your leg, your strength and capability of keeping fighting diminished. When a body collided with yours, it was a miracle you were still awake.

Her red hair framed her face perfectly, skin white as snow and her green orbs looked like there was an aurora borealis looking down at you as she nested you in her lap as you felt life slipping through your fingers - veins.

“Hey, hey. Stay with me.” Her voice was strange, as if speaking was a struggle and she reeked fear, but not the same you were used to, as if she was feeling a different type of fear, it was a strange concept, but you hated it, nonetheless. If these were your last moments breathing, you wanted her true smell. The one you knew all too well.

“Please, don’t you dare die. I’ve got you.” Her muffled words found your ear, but it was hard to even comprehend anything at all when her lips felt so cold in your forehead. “Heal. Why are you not healing?”

“Silver.” It was all you could say. It was all you had to say.

She frantically started yelling at someone, perhaps the comms, but before you could close your eyes for good, you saw a red blur and he was complaining about your weight.

Her giggle filled the room as the first sun lights announced the day had just begun, you looked at her alarmed, for it was definitely something new. “Are you mocking me?” Enable to conceal a smile yourself.

“I’m not.” She denied, but her laugh told you differently. Her freckles painted her angelical face and her eyes looked like they held the sun captive. And you. And she knew, all too well. “It’s just I can’t believe you still have this scar.”

Her index finger traced said scar as she looked at you expectantly, waiting for your explanation, even though she already knew.

“I didn’t know Wanda’s necklace was made of silver, okay.” You finally replied, pulling her close to you as if her weight meant nothing, right in that moment this action felt so normal, so homely that it ached. “I thought I could take it from that heated place for her, but it burned me as I did. It was silly.”

She giggled again, though muffled by your shoulder this time, there was something new in her eyes that you couldn’t quite pinpoint. “It was cute. Silly, but cute. That necklace belonged to her mother.”

“I know.” You were locked in her eyes, and she stared at you as if she was trying to reach your soul, then you felt her fingertip leaving the palm of your hand to intertwine your fingers as she let her eyes stray to look at both of your hands.

The feeling was overwhelming. You were aware of how fast your heart was beating, you could only hope she couldn’t feel or hear it, for in that moment, all you wanted was to engrave the sight of you, together, and you wish you could just have this forever. Have her forever.

“I’ve never felt this before.” Her brows were furrowed in a way that made you upset, but you wouldn’t let go of her hand for nothing in this world, even if it was to soothe the crinkles in her forehead. “I’m in love with you.”

For a moment, there was nothing that you could do but wait for your brain to register her words and meaning, for a whole minute you simply stared at her, trying to search for a catch or a joke but you found none. And she looked up at you so innocently that you found yourself believing in her.

“I thought-.” You tried, but she never let you finish your sentence.

“I know what I said.” She stopped you midsentence, but her voice was not stern, it was almost tired. “This is not what I feel anymore.” Again, her eyes found yours and the way they shone made your knees weak, luckily you were laying on her mattress.

Somehow, they conveyed so much of this feeling she had claimed she was not capable of nurturing that your stomach did somersaults. And right in that moment, you realized that perhaps silver could hurt you, but this woman was your true weakness.

Specially if she’s looking at you the way she was.

“You already know how I feel about you.” You whispered, it was terrifying saying again the three words that you were sure would make her fly away from this strange arrangement you found yourself in. Yet she didn’t.

“I know.” She confirmed after a while admiring your eyes as if she could read your mind. After deciding she was content with whatever she found, she leaned in and pecked your lips so tenderly it hurt.

Then, when she looked at you again you saw, from the small smirk growing in her lips, that she had gone back to play her prime character: the Black Widow.

“Let’s have a breakfast before the funeral, shall we?” As she got of the bad, you copied her movements going back to your own suitcase to find something comfortable as her voice broke the silence filling the room. “I never asked how you and Sharon became friends to the point you’d come to a funeral of her relative.”

The cleanliness of the room was the first thing you were aware of. In fact, you didn’t even realize you were awake, therefore alive, before the smell hit your nostrils. And with it, her scent.

The occasional up and down from her feet and bouncing leg was the only sound in the room except for the noise coming from the heart monitor over your head. She was anxious, that much was obvious even if you weren’t an enhanced being.

Mentally searching for your injuries and pain, you understood that whatever had happened with you, was all gone. Excluding the lingering pain in some specific places that you credited to silver induced wounds that would take way much more time to wear off.

However, considering the state you were in, whoever tended these wounds had operated a true miracle.

As you opened your eyes, you half expected bright lights, common to these hospital rooms to hurt your eyes, but you soon identified that the only source of light was a yellow bulb close to the door.

Natasha.

“Thanks for working the lights down.” You rasped out and stifled a giggle as she jumped from her chair by the wall and bolted to your bed side. The book previously nested between her hands now long forgotten on the floor.

The iron grip which she clutched your hand didn’t go amiss to you. “A week.” The sadness in her eyes was palpable. “A whole week blacked out.” She explained further but you didn’t need to know the details of how long you were sleeping or how many times your heart stopped at surgery.

“You scared the shit out of me.” Then it hit you, the same type of fear your nose caught when she found you in that facility, it was fear but not the one someone feels when they’re actively facing danger, but it was fear for someone else. Fear of losing someone.

Something stirred inside your heart, but it was something that you couldn’t dwell much longer, not, at least, in that moment.

“They had me, after you sent me as scout.” Your tone was flat, and her eyes widened a little at the bluntness of your accusation, though you were far from settling for little. “They knew about the silver.”

Her hold faltered, but your hand was still snuggled between hers. “What are you accusing me of?” She narrowed her eyes, but her green orbs were bright even in the poor light.

“Cynicism doesn’t suit you the way you think it does.” Before you could even pull back your hand, she completely let it go and got to her feet. “Look at my eyes and tell me that you actually didn’t let them get me, just to find their hideout.”

She had her back turned to you, acutely avoiding your gaze. “Look at me!” You demanded and she had the gall to look at you through her lashes, as if her seductive skills could help her now. You wouldn’t fall for that, and she knew it all too well.

“It wasn’t my intention for you to be captured and I never thought someone else would know about your weakness. I thought I was the only one alive to know.” She finally turned to you, eyes now darting around the floor as if it could grant her the answers she sought.

“Lena knows too.” You corrected her, but if she was surprised by your update, she never showed.

Shaking her head right to left as if to deny such possibility, she exclaimed. “She’d never do this to you.” It was funny that at least in this matter you agreed. “I think she loves you more than she loves me.” A sly smile escaped her lips and you had to restrain your heart from fluttering at the sight of it.

“I was waiting for your check-in. I went to your assigned coordinates, and I know I underestimated their numbers, but I would never let someone capture you.” Her feet dragged her back close to your bed but maintained some distance between you.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” You shot back without missing a single beat, crossing your arms around your chest.

She sighed tiredly and looked down at the floor. You wouldn’t let her forget that she was the main cause for you to be locked in the Raft, well, her and your support for Steve when Ross tried to shove the Sokovian Accords down your throat, and solely because you shared his point of view.

After being controlled for most of your life by a group with shady intentions, you swore you’d never submit your loyalty and services to a third party again, even if it was a government group – specially a government group, actually, so only over your dead body you’d accept the Accords.

But when you came back to see if Natasha was fine, she had gone without thinking that you were left behind and in the care of Ross to be taken to the Raft with the others, without sparing a single thought to you.

“I’d never ever willingly put you in danger.” She said taking another step closer to you. “I have never mentioned to anyone about your secret, and I purposefully kept it out of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files.”

Her eyes kept darting from her hands to your eyes, never focusing, never staying too long. “Look, I know Yelena would never speak about it, but I wouldn’t either. And I didn’t, you must believe me!”

“I must?” Your eyebrows shot up so high so fast it hurt. “Well, you made it pretty damn hard for me to believe, don’t you think, Nat?” Your tone was hard, but you were not even speaking too loud.

Somehow, Natasha thought this hurt way much more.

“C’mon all I feel for you-” She tried to counter, but you wanted to swallow the lump stuck in your throat trying to choke you, so you cut her midsentence.

“Words, Natasha.” She found herself locked within your burning eyes. “I kept you as an oath, yet you hid me like another dirty secret. And all you’ve felt you kept hidden – buried – just as who you really are.”

After years thinking about how she lured and how she hurt you, you thought that maybe spatting what your relationship really was – a hidden lust, would make you feel better, would free yourself from her hold, but it didn’t.

After all, calling her unfair wouldn’t change how lonely she made you feel, how she took your happiness away whenever she drew herself back to her main character as she left you daydreaming about imaginary scenarios built in “what ifs”.

As your words found her ears, they settled heavily in her stomach. She knew she had massed up, she had hurt you many times, yet all she wanted was go back in time and erase all her wrongs and all the times she promised and never delivered.

She didn’t possess a time stone, though. There was nothing she could do about the past, however, she knew she couldn’t run from her mistakes anymore. If she wanted to start anew, she’d have to show she was different.

She wanted to, no, she needed you to understand that she was a whole new person because you’ve changed her. She didn’t want to hide anymore and for that she’d have to let go of her walls and be vulnerable. Truly vulnerable.

Funnily, she had played with her vulnerability before, being vulnerable just enough for people to lower their shields or masks so she could get what she wanted but this was something else entirely.

This time she wouldn’t act. She’d be vulnerable, at your mercy hoping she’d make it out alive on the other side. It was something new and it scared her, but losing you was scarier.

“I didn’t know you came back to check on Barton…” She tried weakly, knowing that this was a sore subject for the both of you. Each with your own views and reasons.

“I helped Clint, yes, but we went back looking for you. Yet, Ross was all we’ve found.” Your glare was cold, perhaps colder than ever. In the pit of her stomach, she knew she deserved it, she just wish you could move on with it.

“I was wrong, okay. Is that what you want to hear?” She snapped, though her voice was still in a low tone, eyes sad. And you hated it. “I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for not going after you that day at the airport or at the Raft.”

Her eyes fell once more to your hands, she slowly nursed them in hers and this action was so soft, so hesitantly as if she was afraid of you taking it away; afraid of you shutting her down once more.

“I wish I could do things differently, but I can’t, and for that I’m sorry. But I- I wish we could try move on from this. I still have feelings for you.” As words flowed through her tongue, you watched as eyes portrayed a sincerity that you rarely saw within those forest green orbs.

Usually, they hid her true feelings or performed like an actress twisting her truths mixed with pieces of lies and characters she created through life until she herself was unaware of what was true or not.

“I hear you, Natasha.” You rasped out after a long moment lost inside her beautiful eyes. “You speak of things as you did before, yet you never act on it.”

Her hands were warm, a muted invitation to go back to your dreams of having a life with her. The only person who never showed any sign of fear about your nature, that never once treated you like an animal.

She never treated you like a woman either.

“I want you to show me.” Your stone-cold eyes punctuated your feelings in the matter at hand. If she wanted to have you back, she’d have to show you she’s changed for words could only take her so far.

“I will.” She vowed and smiled softly, though her heart was shattering inside her chest. She made a career making people believe in whatever she wanted, she supposed she’d be able to make you believe in her heart.

How hard would that be?

Laugh filled the room after another not-so-funny Tony’s jokes and your head throbbed as the sound echoed inside your skull. Parties like these were always a torture for you, after all, your enhanced abilities of hearing and catching smells better than a normal person proved to be really awful in a place full of people with different perfumes, scents, chattering and loud music.

However, Tony himself forbid you from leaving tonight for this was his engagement party and it would be rude to Pepper if you left too early. Deciding that indulging him was easier than arguing with him, you found a safe corner and pretended to enjoy whatever was going on.

Though, your sharp eyes, even though you tried hard, always wandered after a certain redhead and you could all but clench your jaw every time you judged someone got too closer for your comfort.

Jealousy clawed its way through your throat and even the best bourbon from the bar couldn’t help it. You knew you had no right, no claim, especially after your last conversation. Still, your heart acted on its own and made sure you’d regret your words and resolve.

Considering that you were one drink from scooping lower than ever for her, you abandoned your glass on a random table and vanished to the balcony in hopes the fresh air could help your head and brain.

The cars down the streets ran from side to side completely unaware of your inner turmoil as you pathetically looked down searching for answers you wouldn’t find there.

In fact, as your answers arrived at the balcony, you realized that her hills clicking the marble floor announced her before her perfume invaded your nostrils in waves as she moved closer and closer towards you.

“Tired of mingling?” She asked as she lined her body at the railing. Her red hair bobbed around her ears in meticulously designed waves and her dark maroon dress hugged her curves in all the nice places.

She was flawless.

As always.

“I think I might’ve break Sam with incredible five words.” You gave her a sly smile that she retributed with a smirk and a fake gasp.

“This is basically a whole speech.” She clicked her tongue playfully. “I think you’ve been around Tony just too much.”

You snorted a laugh and she let a broad smile paint her lips, content with herself for making you ease the pained expression adorning your face the whole evening.

Uncertenty hugged you like a cold blanket as you pondered your next words. As if rolling the dices in a game you were sure you’d end up losing, you turned to her and spoke. “You’re really beautiful tonight, Nat.”

Your heart fluttered as she fought back a smile trying to win her lips and looked down as if she wasn’t expecting your praise. She genuinely looked flustered by your words.

“Thank you. You’re quite handsome yourself. Well, I already praised your choice of suit, earlier.” She turned her body so now she was fully looking at you and you tried to remember how to properly breath. However, it was as if the air was composed of her scent.

You were intoxicated.

“What do you mean?” You asked confused. “This is the first time we speak tonight.” You clarify. Truth be told you’ve been keeping a fair distance from her and funnily enough she didn’t make the effort to push you and your comfort space.

She did make it obvious that she was trying, though. She invited you out in front of people, she brought you coffee whenever you were reading in the garden in the morning or brought you a blanket when you were on the couch watching movies with Wanda.

Whenever you were called to a meeting, she worked the lights so it wouldn’t hurt your eyes that much. And, one day, she brought you the files they recovered from Hydra from the mission you were taken, and you both learned that one of your creators left behind a journal and there were a lot of dirty secrets down there. Including yours.

To be honest, she was really trying to show her true intentions, but you were still afraid that this was just for show, just a ploy for you to lower your guard and be disappointed after she return to her normal pattern of misleading.

However, the way she stood basking in the moon light looking at you like she was slowly sipped through the cracks of your determination of not giving in that easy.

Her soft smile was a sight to see, and you even forgot that you were waiting for her to reply. “Directly, yes. I sent a drink to you earlier.”

Then it clicked in your head. Your laugh was loud and very uncharacteristic of you, though Natasha simply stood there admiring your carefree stance, a rare occurrence.

Your mind traveled to a moment earlier that night when the waiter approached you with a drink in hand, stating that the lady had sent it to you complimenting your fine tailored suit. At the time, the way he vaguely waved in the direction of Agatha and other ladies, you thought that one of them had been the person.

Though if you thought harder about it, Natasha was at the bar in that moment, right behind said ladies.

“Now it made sense.” You grinned back at her and nodded your head softly. “Thank you for the compliment and the drink.”

“Of course.” She flashed on last smile and turned her body to admire the city bellow and you did the same. Though you found it hard to ignore her presence by your side. You could feel the heat emanating from her skin, her sweet scent still impregnating the air around you and you could hear her fast heartbeat. It was uncommon.

In a haste, you both turned towards each other and started to speak at the same time. A nervous laugh scaped your lips as you signaled for her to go on first. And she did.

She closed her eyes as one does when bracing for the impact, as if second-guessing her next step, but when she opened her eyes again, there was no doubt and no deceit. “I love you and it’s ruining my life not having you, knowing that I am the one who pushed you away.”

You were speechless by her blunt confession, specially because she never, ever, used the word love in such a direct sentence. She expressed her feelings before, yes, but always with an adore, in love with you once or twice, never this straight.

She took your silence as hesitancy and reached for your hand, she yearned for your touch and the closeness of the last weeks made her heart clench with longing. “I am asking for a chance to show you who I really am, and I, please, I know I’ve made mistakes, but I wish to make it up to you.”

Her eyes were pools of emotion and you had trouble in breathing with her so close now. “Please, let me love you the way you deserve, the way I should’ve since the very first time I kissed your lips.” Her free hand caressed your cheek in such a tender way that you felt your knees weak.

She was definitely your true weakness.

You brain was haywire, short-circuiting with the lack of air and the sudden increase in your heartbeats. There she was. The woman you felt like you could love forever, offering you what you always wanted: her heart. For real this time. Not the hide and seek games you’ve been playing in the past.

She promised and have been showing changes, however, if you were to be honest, all she’d have to do was to come at you and say hi. If you were to be honest, she would always have your heart at her mercy.

Unable to form words and knowing that your silence was unnerving for her, as you saw her brows furrowing, you decided to answer her differently as you brought your hand to her own cheek and guided her lips to meet yours.

Her lips were soft as they used to be, and you could feel her body melting into the kiss. Her eyes fluttered open when you broke the kiss and smiled softly at her. “I love you too, Nat.”

Smiling back at you, Natasha circled her arms behind your neck to pull you down for another kiss, and another. And another.

And you knew, all too well, that she wouldn’t stop soon.

taglist: @username23345; @afuckingshituniverse; @strangegardentaco; @waltermis (I know you didn't specifically asked to be tagged, but I am doing it, nonetheless, because if your rb - and because you sparked a fire in this. Thank you.)

[thenervousmedic]

Got inspired to write again, mostly from @boredth's Vampire-Wick art (sorry for the tag <3) Seriously, go check out their work, their art style is immaculate and there's lots of fun AU stuff there too!

It’s just a short nearly 2k ramble for our beloved supernatural assassin. It was supposed to be a Halloween fic but i'ma little late aaaa happy late Halloween!

Summary: With a blood shortage hitting the Vampiric underbelly of the city, John finds himself no longer paying attention to the movie you'd come over to watch. [Fic below the cut] _____________

There are things you've learned since meeting John… little things. You weren't ignorant to the world sitting under your feet, not at all, the nightlife of the city had always been on your radar even if you personally didn't go digging into it.

Smartest decision of your life, really, to not go poking where others would readily risk themselves with delusions of grandeur; assume they won't be torn up and spat back out like any other powerless shmuck.

Still. What little you did learn was never not interesting, you'll give it that.

A lot of werewolves are more like weredogs than anything, there is still very much a way to summon demons (though not many are of the right bloodlines to do so), and vampires are very rarely accurately portrayed in the media.

He was staring again. You'd picked up on the subtle things, the minute expressions and inflexions in tone with his speech, so it didn't take long to realise this was the wrong type of staring. “... John.”

“Mm?” The way his eyes snapped to yours, narrowing as though they'd been a million miles away before his name had hit his ears.

He's usually so careful. So organised. The vampire population is substantial enough in the city that hunting is a thing of the past, with places like the Continental having under-the-table dealings with blood banks and hospitals, taking what they can spare. But lately… 

Shortages always hit hard, if he were a lesser man he likely would have already chosen an innocent bystander to tide over his hunger until the next stable arrangement could be made. But he wasn't. He couldn't be the lesser man, the world couldn't afford it.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” You ask with almost trace amounts of caution. You were afraid of him, which was… good in a way. Smart. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt a little to hear the mild concern flickering in your voice.

“Running low on rations is all,” He huffs, putting on a tired-looking smile that slips away as quickly as it had come, a courtesy really, trying to turn his attention back to the TV.

“Running low?” Oh, the concern in your voice was so painfully sweet. Like you'd been told someone was off their medication, the way you sat up a little for a more serious conversation, the movie was now a backburner to the topic at hand.

“Decrease in donations, increase in demand…” He has to take a steady breath, leaning his head into his hand to pinch and knead at the bridge of his nose. He's been listening to the steady cadence of your heartbeat over the dialogue in the film and the way it picked up ever so slightly was far more effective of an appetiser than he’d expected. “I'm sorry, I should've called off tonight.”

“No, it… it's fine-” You start, almost immediately backtracking with a quiet “Well it's not ‘fine’, obviously, but-”

So you were right, he was having some thoughts. Involuntary ones, albeit, and clearly not something he wished to subject you to. It made you ache in a way you didn't quite understand, not quite pity or sympathy, but something.

“I can help.”

The words slip your lips before you can really think them over, and you can almost see the way he bristles at whatever images that sentence puts into his head.

“No.”

“John-”

“No. I am not taking from you.”

“You're not taking, I'm offering.”

He has to look at you again to confirm you're really saying the words that he's hearing, and not just making up a narrative in his thirst-addled brain to justify his runaway thoughts. The thudding of your heart had picked up considerably, and though he knows you can't hear it, probably can't even feel it, the sound to him was a thunderous drumbeat like tinnitus. But the look on your face. The look on your face.

Determination in the twitch of your brow, worry in the backs of your eyes. Stubborn. Kind. But not stupid.

He didn't need to tell you that it’d hurt or that there was a risk of taking too much, he knew you’d gone through that conversation in your head already and weighed the pros and cons.

“You don't have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

John is no fool. There are implications he hasn't the mind to dig into right now but the truth of the matter is food is scarce and if he turns down a willing participant then there's no guarantee he'll find another before getting to the inevitable breaking point even his nigh-impregnable discipline has.

The look of resignation on his face must hurt you so, with how your shoulders gently slope before you pull off your jumper and work on rolling up your sleeve.

“Let me.”  His hands came to you with a sort of gentle reverie you hadn't seen from him before. He’d never treated you as delicate or fragile, but the way the roughened pads of his fingers took your wrist with nary a squeeze was almost feather light, pulling your sleeve back down to re-roll it much tighter, sitting like a makeshift tourniquet around your upper arm.

The pad of his thumb pressed to your wrist, feeling the consistent pulse inside before it pressed a little higher, and again a little higher, working up the inside of your forearm with measured precision. Searching for something.

The right spot to bite. Just below the inside of your elbow, that ever-so-soft zone between your sliding muscles that would repair fairly quickly and have the least risk of harsh damage. Somewhere the bruise that’ll likely last almost a week won't be a hindrance on your day-to-day.

John was one for eye contact, it could be both sweet and unnerving depending on his expression, but the way he looked now- Eyes affixed to your skin, still clearly restraining himself, and not once glancing up at your face as he moved to sit closer and angle you more comfortably…

“Sharp scratch.” His soft rumbling tone brought you back to your senses, tensing with a hiss through gritted teeth but making sure not to flinch when his teeth sank in.

You’d pricked yourself with pins and had many-a blood tests and injections, but those were small, thin, metal barbs. These were fangs. It felt like getting stuck with two shards of frosted glass, even with how gentle he was being, the spark of pain and flare of heat from angry flesh brought a little water to your eyes.

It took everything in him not to draw. To just allow the pressure to do the work as the thick liquid welled and spilt into his mouth.

He was so fucking thirsty, and this… gods above this outclassed bagged blood by a million miles. It was warm and full, untainted by excess adrenaline, with a flavour he knew likely existed in other willing prey but could only in this moment associate with you. 

His eyes rolled shut with a long languid breath, that hard line of his furrowed brow turning up and dissolving. The hand still holding your wrist up softly squeezing and relaxing, kneading as if on reflex, while the other he'd placed on your thigh to lean over only relaxed some weight onto you.

The worst of the pain was over, and though it still hurt the only thing you could focus on was how his frigid lips had made a seal over your skin and, though there was no sucking, his tongue had started to lave back and forth over the punctures between an occasional swallow. The anticoagulants in his saliva thin your blood, keeping the stream steady while a relaxed hum rose involuntarily from the back of his throat.

Your eyes had fallen closed too, you couldn't recall the point when they did but you could still hear the television playing. Your own heartbeat. Both the quiet gulps and sighs coming from him and, less pronounced but no less present, the near-silent breaths leaving his nostrils to ghost over your arm.

Was it minutes? Was it hours? It was hard to tell with your head getting light.

At some point, the warmth spreading from your shoulder and chest, pooling deep in the pit of your stomach, had been replaced with a strange coldness, like an ice pack. Your limbs were a touch shaky and your skin had gone pale, a pallor John seemed to take note of when he pulled his mouth away to check on you, pupils blown wide, jaw slack and hung open.

It's as though he’d stolen your heat, the fresh feeding having put some colour into his skin and warmed the usually corpse-like coldness of his hands, you could almost swear you saw huffs of vapour from his parted lips. “Dizzy?” He grunted, looking you over as he lowered your arm and moved your free hand to the bite to keep some pressure on it so he could go fetch a cotton ball or two to stem the flow and let it seal. “Lay down.”

With a quick trip to the kitchen and the foyer, a pair of towels were spread on the couch cushions under your arm, the wound was dressed with the gauze pads and secured with tape, and he'd set a bottle of high-fructose fruit juice into your hand. “You'll be tired. More so than after a blood draw, our bites contain a mild sedative. Makes prey… docile,” He murmurs, seemingly hitching on the word ‘prey’ as though it wasn't intended to be said aloud.

This was not what you were expecting when you come over for movie night.

When did the film end, anyways? Did the disc skip and start buffering, or had you just spaced out the whole time?

Everything is a bit hazy and not quite piecing together.

Sipping at the bottle, you make no attempts to get up and move, just watch him carefully as he walks back across the room to flick a button on the player. “... Can we watch The Thing?”

There was a pause, the slight reflectiveness of his red eyes catching the dim lights of the room in sharp contrast to the loose and almost content way he looked as he glanced back at you. “... Yeah.”

_____________

Hope y'all like that. here's the AO3 link if anyone wants it <3

[luveline]

jade!! i have a rooster request (ty if you do it, love u if u dont! ur my queen). i feel like rooster doesn't uh, relax a lot? so maybe making him chill out with a face mask or something? love u!

tysm for requesting, love u ♡ fem!reader

Bradley sits back against the headboard of his bed, listening to your quiet movements in the bathroom with that 'I'm so lucky' feeling coursing rampant through his veins. 

The bed is made —though the corners aren't as neat as Bradley would tuck them— the windows open, a box fan breezing the smell of a triple wick candle his way. Vanilla, coconut, and almond. 

He's trying to think of ways to pay you back for it while you're gone. You don't like accepting repayment for anything, not dinner, not stamps for your copious letters, nothing. He might tuck a twenty into your purse. Better yet, he might ask you to get married, have a portion of his wages wired to your account whenever he fancies. 

That way, you might miss him less. And he'd be much less stressed, if tonight is anything to go by; not because of your cleaning, which he is grateful for, but because your presence feels like a balm for bad nerves. You turn the corner into the bedroom with a muted blue pot in hand and his pulse genuinely slows. 

"Bradley," you say, opening your mouth to propose something. 

"Y/N," he says, putting his hands out to receive you, pulling you over his extended leg to sit across from him. You fold your legs underneath you, taller than him for once.

"Did you wash up when you got home?" 

"Clean as a whistle," he says, eyeing the pot with curiosity, and your dainty vest top with something else. "Want me to prove it?" 

"Do you want to do this with me?" you ask, placing the pot in your palm to show him the dark writing spanning the side.

"Clay Mask." He raises his eyebrows. "For my face?" 

"Yeah. It has chamomile and lavender, so the smell might be a bit cloying for you, but it's…" You tap the lid and shimmy closer, the sheets crinkling under your knees. This close, he can see the triangles of your lashes. The urge to brush them up rises. "Don't entertain me, okay? If you don't want to do it and this will actually make you more stressed, don't say yes. But if you're okay with it I think we could really chill." 

"I'm not half as stressed out as you think I am." 

"Well, half of your stress is triple a normal person's." 

Bradley puts his arms behind his head and tries to give his muscles a subtle flex. You know him too well, rolling your eyes fondly as his biceps dance. 

"It'll definitely relax me if you put it on me," he flirts. 

Your smile is impossible to hide. "You can close your eyes, yeah?" You shuffle closer still as he complies, the gentle hum of sound complimented by the quiet in and out of your breath and the shushing of of your plaid pants rubbing against his as you lean into his space. "It'll be cold," you warn. 

Bradley smiles. "Just lay it on me, sweetness." 

You unscrew your pot. After a moment, he senses your hand, and then cold spreads against his cheek in a soft lump. You smooth it down flat over the planes of his face, melting his heart with the care you show his scars. They were healed years before you met and still you worry you'll hurt him as your fingertip glides over his chin. The smell is heady but with a little hint of sweetness to tide it over.  

It could smell of chicken shit and he'd stick it out just to feel you touching him like this. 

"Do you ever wonder what your top lip looks like?" you ask as you paint the skin either side of it. 

"Nope. You like the stache, babe, you know you do." 

You sit back on your heels. Bradley opens his eyes, his skin cold and sticky. 

"How do you feel?" you ask. 

"Better already." And it has nothing to do with the face mask. He couldn't care less about how corny it is, but you've really made him feel better with your touch alone. 

"Will you do mine?" you ask. 

"You kidding? C'mere." 

He's halfway through painting your face when he starts to feel stiff around his mouth. "What's happening?" he asks, batting down his alarm. 

"It dries solid," you murmur, trying not to move too much under his touch. "Gotta wash it off." 

The mess of clay and water that runs down his arms as he does is enough to put his stress levels back where they were, but your soft laughter from beside him makes up for it. "Looking fresh, Bradshaw." 

He gets clay on his lips trying to kiss you. 

[evolutionsvoid]

I can already hear Eucella readying to blow like an angry puffball, because once again I am writing about areas I have no expertise. She'll see this entry and lay into me with a storm of scathing edits and sharp quills, but yet I soldier forth! I can't help it when something catches my interest, and when it does I can't stop myself from reaching for my pen. Indeed it is a magical creature of impossible origin that has no ties to the natural world, but at the end of the day it is still a creature! And with that, I must write!

For the average person, this is a creature they would have no reason to encounter or even hear about. It is already a rare beast, and it would be even rarer for regular people who typically don't have what this species wants. If you were to ask someone if they ever saw a Book Shredder, they would assume you were talking about some cutting contraption or perhaps a person with a hatred for libraries. But nope, this is an actual creature we are talking about! A large beast that appears to be an insect, but whose relatives we cannot properly identify due to magical shenanigans. The best guess is silverfish, but once again, when magic is in play, all obvious answers are put into question.

The Book Shredder seemingly has a pretty regular setup when it comes to insect anatomy. Hefty exoskeleton, six legs, antenna and what not. What really draws the eye are the massive winged blades that jut out from its head, as if their front end was transformed into an axe. They not only look wicked sharp, they actually are! If one of these things charged you, you could get some nasty lacerations from it! Maybe even lose a leg! What an intimidating weapon, no doubt it uses it to bring down prey and fight dangerous foes! Well, not really. Check the name again, it is called "Book Shredder." Why is that? Because its diet is made entirely of books. But not just any romance novel or pulp will do, they want magic books.

Book Shredders feed exclusively on magical tomes and enchanted scrolls, draining the energy away while gleefully tearing into the paper like an excited puppy. What kind of magic contained within doesn't seem to matter, though some have appeared to get a taste for specific subjects. Regardless, they scurry about the land in search of these enchanted objects to eat, though obviously magical books aren't in ample supply. So it seems that they tide themselves over by draining any magic-infused items they come across, using their long feathery antenna to do the job. If you were to watch a Book Shredder, you would notice that these appendages are incredibly dexterous, almost like tentacles with hands at the end! Their purpose is to sniff out magical energy, pointing the rest of the body in the right direction. When they hunt it down, they are quick to snare it in their grasp. This grip immediately starts to drain away the energy, while these tendrils stuff the physical book into their toothy jaws. Many teeth rip and tear, turning precious artifacts into confetti within seconds. After gorging upon a heavy magic meal, they will retreat to burrows and nests to rest and digest. But once that is over, they are back to scurrying about like madmen.

As you could guess, Book Shredders are the bane of any tome collector or magic user. Anyone who owns an enchanted piece of paper must be on constant vigil, as the Book Shredders may catch a whiff of this prize and come running. Wizards and mages hate them, and are always ready to blow them away once they spot the slightest evidence of them. However, this is easier said than done, as Book Shredders are well equipped for dealing with angry mages. These insects are insanely fast, moving like a blur when they have the scent of food. They combine this with incredible agility, allowing them to run on any surface and jump between walls without losing momentum. Fireballs and magic missiles will seem sluggish in comparison to their target, as they weave past spells as they hurtle towards their prize. Even if you do hit one, their exoskeletons seems to have a resistance to magic, dampening the effects. It isn't full immunity, but it is sturdy enough against spells that the few you do land on them will seem pitiful.

The real issue comes when the Book Shredder closes in, as that speeding bug has a pair of knives attached to its face. If it rushes you, you may be more shredded than your precious book! But for mages, the real danger comes from their antennae. The mere touch of them drains away magic, and that can apply to any infused thing. And that includes the magic user themself! Mana and memories of spells may be sapped away when you are struck by their antennae, causing you to fumble and fail when it comes to casting. Thankfully, their draining touch is temporary, and enough time will see these things return. However, when you are relying on magic to ward off a hungry Book Shredder, these moments of dumbness and magical lethargy may spell doom. And this is what the Book Shredder relies on. Disable the wielder and snatch the magic trinkets while they struggle to form a simple fireball. Once the prize has been seized, they are gone in a flash. Leaving you empty handed and absent minded.

Now the question is: where do these things come from? Are they some sort of anti-magic creation, built to ruin the day of any sorcerer or mage? We all thought that at first, as it seemed pretty straightforward. But remember what I said when it comes to magic nonsense! It is never so easy! As it turns out, no one made Book Shredders, they appeared on their own. How can this be? Doesn't make much sense, what with them suddenly appearing and becoming a menace out of nowhere. If they existed like any other natural animal, we would have seen them before! True, but not if they come from somewhere else! Because as it turns out, Book Shredders are an invasive species, one that has accidentally been introduced to our lands and is now running rampant! "But an invasive species from where?!" you may be yelling. Well, you see.....ho boy this is going to get complicated. Eucella, please don't get mad.

I want to say this up front: I am not a magic dryad or a magic anything. To me, it is all gibberish and invisible forces. I got no clue how this stuff works, to me it just looks pretty and blows things up from time to time. So when it comes to this subject, I am woefully ignorant. But since I can't get anyone else to write this stuff, you are just going to have to suffer my attempts at explaining it. SO! The answer to where Book Shredders come from is: Forgotten Libraries. Wow, that was easy....until you ask me what those are. Here comes the hard part. Forgotten Libraries are not places that exist on our plane of existence, they are more like weird dimensional tumors upon our reality. How this happens ties to libraries of magical sorts. As you can imagine, there are many magical artifacts and tomes out there, and thus many people and places who collect them. Over the centuries, people have amassed vast libraries and archives just packed with enchanted scrolls and whatnot. Archives and vaults that have enough magical energy and knowledge in them to level a kingdom. And so people hide them, seal them, concentrate them into a special archive or library so that they are safe and secure. But what happens when that owner dies? Or when they get neglected? What happens when hundreds, if not thousands, of magic infused books sit in one place and slowly degrade over the course of decades? What happens is that the magic leaks out, and it begins to do crazy stuff. The best way I can describe it is that when enough magic books degrade and the seeping aura of mana permeates a long forgotten place, it just eats a hole through our reality.

If you find my description painfully vague or confusing, join the club. But I am trying my best here! So when this happens, the abandoned library essentially makes a hole that all the magic and books sink into. But it is not like a house being eaten by a sinkhole, it is more that the bookshelves and corridors start to stretch and deform as they are pulled into this magic abyss. Enter this strange portal and you will find yourself in a library without end or coherence. Bookshelves that go on forever both outward and upward. Hallways and corridors that make no sense, all lined with millions of books that appear random in appearance and subject. Imagine the biggest most confusing library you ever visited, then turn it into an endless labyrinth that has no end or meaning. Forgotten Libraries are this, dimensions of bookshelves, paper and ink, maintained by leaking mana that has corrupted the very concept of space and time. So it is just an impossible library filled with books that have no meaning? A little, yes, but it turns out that life actually found a way in there!

The hows or whys, I can't say, but it appears that Forgotten Libraries are ecosystems themselves. They host a strange variety of life that has been born from the books, ink and magic, and it would seem that the Book Shredders are one of them! Their speed and scurrying abilities are perfect for scaling the endless walls, while their antennae find ripe books that have magic inside. They can easily survive off this diet because the Forgotten Libraries are rife with these strange tomes, it is just a matter of sniffing out the ones that contain the goods amongst the rest of the nonsensical pulp. They are creatures designed for these impossible places, but have somehow found their way into our world! There is a question of if these specimens can make it back to their real home, but I feel the question is: do they want to? Because there is little competition here and they are doing quite well despite the hate they receive. So why go back to a place where there are obviously many others who would fight them for food? I honestly think these little buggers are here to stay, we just have to focus on making sure more things don't come out into our reality. If they can get out or survive our world. I imagine their magic origins may make them dependent on habitats steeped in mana residue.

As you can see, I know nothing about this magical stuff or how it works, but I can't help but be endlessly curious about what lies in these Forgotten Libraries! Imagine! An entire ecosystem born from magic and books, thriving as if it were just any forest or tundra! What life is in there? How does it all work? I would love to know, but the issue is that I cannot risk entering such a place. Forgotten Libraries are rare and dangerous, these portals secret or heavily guarded. If I did enter, there is a high chance I could never come back. The labyrinth would be impossible for me to navigate, and if I got lost then there would be no hope of return. As much as it excites me, it does scare me. I wouldn't want to be trapped for eternity in an endless library with animals and forces I couldn't understand. My survival knowledge would be useless, and I would be doomed to live with fear and regret for the rest of my days. It...is just something I cannot risk. Which is a real shame, as I wish I could see something so strange with my very eyes. But that only matters if I can make it back to tell the tale!

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

"We see your interest and your worries, which is why we write to you now. We may have a solution to your problem, Writer of Worlds, if your Divine Editor sees it fit for addition. Perhaps our land may not be so impossible for you if we were to be at your side." - Whispers of the Enchanted Heart, Speaker of the 851st

"This was not here when you gave me these notes, Chlora. Who wrote this? Is this supposed to be a joke? I swear if you are breaking into my office to prank me..." Eucella Raviida, (Divine) Editor

--------------------------------------------

Now you see, this one eats magic books while the other one eats metal stuff! They are distinct! Legally distinct you see!

[belit0]

A King’s Frustration

Indra had commanded legions, conquered realms, bent the most formidable of creatures to his will with a whisper. Mortals? They were nothing—fleeting, fragile, forgettable. Yet here he stood, watching her, watching (Y/N), and she was none of those things.

She was resistant.

She was defiant.

She was unmoved.

The grandiosity of his realm, the intoxicating allure of power, the promise of pleasures beyond human comprehension—she had rejected it all. His patience, endless as it was, coiled tight within him, restrained but dangerous, its fraying edges betraying the rarest of emotions: frustration.

So be it. If the shadows and wonders of his dominion would not sway her, if the whispers in her dreams failed to seep into her soul, then he would descend. He would adapt.

And so he did.

The evening was warm, the air thick with the scent of summer rain, distant thunder rumbling in the heavens. (Y/N) walked the dimly lit streets, seeking solitude, an escape from the weight pressing against her chest. The contract. The demons. The constant, suffocating sensation of being watched.

She turned a corner, and there he was.

Indra.

Not the spectral vision that haunted her dreams. Not the omnipotent ruler of the underworld cloaked in fire and shadow. No—tonight, he was simply a man.

Dressed in black, the silk of his shirt catching the low glow of the streetlights, the collar undone just enough to hint at the sharp lines of his collarbones. His long, brown hair, usually flowing with the weight of some unseen ethereal force, was now tousled, carelessly perfect. He looked—human. Deceptively so.

(Y/N) stopped. Her fingers curled into her palms. This was different.

-Indra.- She spoke his name carefully, testing, searching.

His lips curved—not into his usual knowing smirk, but something subtler, smoother. He stepped closer, the space between them thinning with agonizing ease.

-(Y/N).- His voice was a velvet murmur, deep and unwavering.

Her heartbeat stuttered.

He did not need to try. That was the cruelest part of it all—Indra did not need to lower himself to something so mundane. But he had, and he was good at it. Too good.

-You’ve been avoiding me,- he said.

-I wonder why- she shot back.

His grin widened, slow and deliberate, like a predator indulging in the thrill of the hunt.

-You wound me- he said, placing a hand over his heart in mock despair, though his red eyes gleamed with something far more wicked.

(Y/N) exhaled sharply, turning away. She didn’t have the patience for his games.

But she barely managed a step before his fingers grazed her wrist—soft, fleeting, a ghost of a touch.

She froze.

Not because of the contact itself—no, it was the restraint.

Indra, the King of the Underworld, whose very presence commanded submission, whose power could crumble mountains and shatter minds, had just touched her like a lover would. Not a king. Not a god. Not a force beyond comprehension.

Just a man.

A calculated move. A different approach. A tactic.

She turned, pulling her wrist from his grip, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes.

-This won’t work,- she said.

-Won’t it?- His voice was silk, confident, utterly unshaken.

And damn it—he had a point. Because she had not walked away.

Indra took another step closer, his presence seeping into her space like the creeping tide, inescapable, inevitable.

-I tire of theatrics, (Y/N),- he murmured, his tone carrying the weight of something ancient, something dangerous. -If you will not be swayed by power, nor gifts, nor the wonders of eternity… then tell me—

His hand lifted, knuckles barely grazing her cheek.

-What will move you?-

His touch was not rough, nor cold. It was precise. Every motion, every word, meticulously crafted, tailored to her reactions. This was a game of patience, of strategy. He had conquered empires—he could conquer her.

And yet—she saw it.

The faintest flicker in his gaze. The almost imperceptible tension in his jaw. The realization that, despite his boundless power, despite all his knowledge, he did not know the answer.

She had done something no one else had.

She had left him wanting.

And that—that was power.

(Y/N)’s lips parted, a breath escaping, but she refused to be the one to break the silence.

Indra exhaled through his nose, a quiet, knowing sound. A silent acknowledgment.

Then, as effortlessly as he had appeared, he stepped back.

The air between them felt heavier, charged with something neither of them spoke of, something simmering, unresolved.

-I will find it,- he finally said. -The answer.-

His voice, still smooth, still measured, carried something beneath its silk exterior—determination.

He turned, walking away into the night, vanishing into the shadows.

[theespressooqueen]

Little restraint

The gym was alive with the murmurs of first-year cadets, excitement buzzing in the air as Emetterio, their professor, addressed the group. Standing before them were two of the most formidable captains in Tyrrendor: Captain Mira Sorrengail, known for her razor-sharp precision and fiery resolve, and Captain Drake Cordella, a towering force with unmatched strength and strategy.

“These are two of our finest captains,” Emetterio began, his voice commanding the attention of the room. “Captain Mira Sorrengail and Captain Drake Cordella. Both have won battles that turned the tide of war and have received distinct honors for their service. Today, they’ll be demonstrating hand-to-hand combat techniques. Watch closely.”

Mira stepped forward, her arms resting on her hips and a smug smirk curling her lips. Her golden-brown hair caught the light as her eyes scanned the eager cadets, already sizing up the challenge ahead.

Drake followed, arms crossed over his broad chest, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. His whiskey-colored eyes flicked to Mira, holding a playful spark that hinted at the storm about to unfold.

Mira rolled her shoulders, stepping into position. “Ready, Cordella?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence.

Drake chuckled, his grin widening. “Always, Sorrengail.”

The two circled each other, their movements fluid, calculated. It was like watching a deadly dance—Mira’s lithe grace countered by Drake’s raw power. The cadets watched in awe, leaning forward as the two captains exchanged blows with precision and speed.

Mira ducked under one of Drake’s strikes, sweeping her leg in an attempt to trip him, but he sidestepped, grabbing her wrist. She twisted out of his grip and landed a sharp jab to his side, making him grunt.

“That all you’ve got?” he teased, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

“Not even close,” she shot back, smirking.

They continued their sparring, the room filled with the sounds of grunts, thuds, and the cadets’ gasps of amazement. Finally, Mira saw her opening.

With a quick, calculated movement, she tripped Drake, using his own momentum to send him crashing onto the mat. Before he could recover, she straddled him, pinning him down with her thighs and placing a hand at his throat.

The cadets erupted in cheers and excited chatter, clearly impressed.

“Yield,” Mira ordered, her voice firm.

Drake’s grin didn’t falter. He shook his head, his whiskey eyes locked on hers.

Mira tightened her hold on his throat and squeezed her thighs against his sides. “Yield,” she demanded again.

Drake’s smirk turned wicked. He bucked his hips beneath her, and Mira froze, her eyes widening as she felt his unmistakable arousal.

“You’re turned on?” she hissed in Korovish, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

Drake’s grin widened, his gaze darkening. “Of course, I’m turned on,” he whispered back in the same language. “This is what you do to me, love. And it doesn’t help when you talk in my language.”

Mira’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Drake’s eyes flashed with surprise and satisfaction at the sound, but Mira used his brief distraction to her advantage.

With a swift move, she shifted their positions, locking her legs around him and twisting him onto his back. She climbed onto his shoulders, catching him in a chokehold, her arms strong around his neck.

The cadets burst into cheers as Drake tapped the mat, laughing heartily. “I yield!” he called out.

Mira released him and stood, offering her hand to pull him up. Drake took it, his grip lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“Impressive work, captains,” Emetterio said, stepping onto the mat. “Thank you for the demonstration.”

Drake and Mira nodded, shaking hands as though nothing had happened. But as they left the mat, Drake leaned closer to Mira, his voice a low murmur in her ear.

“Don't think I missed that whimper, love.”

Mira rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the warming of her cheeks and small smile tugging at her lips.

-- --

The hallway buzzed with the excited chatter of cadets recounting the demonstration, but Mira walked briskly, hoping to avoid further attention. She had barely reached the quieter section of the corridor when a strong hand grabbed her arm and pulled her into a shadowed alcove.

Her back hit the wall gently, and before she could react, Drake was there, caging her in with one arm braced against the wall and the other resting lightly on her lower back.

“Cordella,” she hissed, her hand instinctively pressing against his chest in an attempt to create some space.

Drake’s whiskey-colored eyes softened, an uncharacteristic pleading in them. “Drake,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “It's Drake. Call me by my name.”

Mira narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his body. “We are not—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently, his gaze locking with hers. “We’ve known each other long enough. We’ve shared a bed, Mira, and kissed.”

She scoffed, her lips curling into a defiant smirk. “You kissed me. I didn’t kiss you.”

“Fine,” Drake replied, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers, and nuzzled her neck.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice losing its usual sharpness as his breath warmed her skin.

“Just let me have this,” he murmured against her neck, his tone raw and vulnerable. “I was holding myself back out there. I just need this, love. Just for a moment.”

Mira’s breath hitched as his lips brushed over the pulse at her throat. She wanted to push him away—knew she should—but instead, she found herself tilting her head, giving him more access.

Her heartbeat raced as his lips trailed lightly over her skin, his touch impossibly tender for someone as intense as Drake Cordella. Her hand moved almost on its own, sliding up to rest on the nape of his neck. She closed her eyes, her resolve crumbling as she whispered his name.

“Drake.”

He froze for a moment, pulling back just enough to search her face. His eyes, dark and full of unspoken emotion, bore into hers. “Say it again,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“Drake,” she whispered again, her voice soft but sure.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, one that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers in a featherlight kiss before nipping at them, leaving her stunned and breathless.

“You just made my day, love,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers for a moment. Then he stepped back, his hands dropping away, though his gaze lingered on her. “Now go, before I lose what little restraint I have left.”

Mira stared at him, her heart pounding, before finally pushing past him, her fingers brushing her lips as she walked away. She didn’t dare look back, but she could feel his eyes on her, a weight she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape.

[mostie01]

Smacks season 2 ending of Ninjago with a whumping stick

Unironically Ninjago having a No One Mourns The Wicked moment after the Final Battle specifically about Garmadon.

(I mean obviously Garmadon survived still but the vast majority of Ninjago doesn’t know that. Plus since he’s been purified of the venom he actually looks normal again and not the menacing Oni who looks like a sentient Shadow.)

“Lady Irondragon exactly how dead is he?”

“Because there has been so much rumor and speculation. Let me tell you the whole story. According to the Celestial Clock the disintegration occurred at the thirteenth hour. The direct result of a blast of pure elemental energy aimed by a male child. Yes the Dark Lord Garmadon is Dead!”

Misako just has to go around announcing her husband’s supposed death while he’s off recovering secretly as the gang forges his new fake identity. So it’s just Misako visiting Ignacia and every other village being praised when she really doesn’t deserve it.

A veritable bouquet of Flowers pinned and woven through her hair because this is a time of peace and celebration now. Which many Fashion and Political columns will debate what she means by them? (It's the Kadōka of Ninjago who figure it out rather early on and those who knew Garmadon and Misako personally can be comfortable in their knowledge of such matters.)

Irises to symbolize Good News, Glad Tidings, and Loyalty (That Loyalty being to her Family not Ninjago itself as so many news publications and fashion magazines will argue)

Red Camellia to symbolize Perishing with Grace as a Warrior of such strength deserves and Being in Love (He didn't perish with Grace though did he? And no one knows how in love they were? Except a scant long lost few.)

White Poppy to Rejoice for the Dark Lord is dead and gone ( Rejoice for the Prophecy is finally over and no one died except for Him and what a fortunate event after all)

Gardenia to represent a Secret Love that she'll carry to the grave (No one can know of such matters now and who's to say the secret love is romantic? But one of Familial love.)

She has to bear the news and she will because Lloyd is too busy recovering himself while at the same time refusing to leave his father's bedside.

It’s also when she finally gets to hear the full hatred and dislike of her husband as the villagers of Ignacia cheer that the menace who kidnapped their favored daughter Nya is dead and caused such grief to their beloved blacksmith Kai.

The citizens of Ignacia are just a parallel to Munchkin Land just flat out belting their shared hatred and grief about this man and what he did to their village and them. The Skulkin raids as well and those Gods Awful Serpentine.

Orange Lilies are being shaken and thrown at the announcement of his death by seemingly the entirety of Ignacia. (They symbolize their hatred for what he did to Kai and Nya alongside their revenge finally being fulfilled.)

Of course there are some Red Spider Lilies in those shaking hands Veterans of the serpentine war long lost their prime mourning an old friend and ally long turned monstrous. (Never to meet again amidst their lost memories.)

That's not getting into those Black Rice Lilies or Fritillaria camschatcensis being tended to by the Skulkin and the other villainous factions (With a certain Banished Dark Sorcerer Cursing the loss of his ex. He was Clouse's first Love.)

Their Giant Garmadon effigy is very scarily detailed and even accounted for his newly gained pair of arms. No doubt a result of one of Kai’s furious letters at the time about his sister’s abductions and his angered sketches.

I like to imagine Ninjago City's reaction is more on par with this animatic

Some Character reactions that could be their own one shots

Chen doesn't lose much sleep once his former student's death has been confirmed. It just means the tournament can proceed even earlier.

Krux or rather Dr.Sanders-Saunders feels some amount of pity it didn't take him long to figure out the Youth or rather the Male Child was Garmadon's own flesh and blood.

Maya and Ray even bound to that hidden workshop listening to the radio and TV that serves as their one link to the outside world. Can only hold each other in comfort for the passing of one of their beloved friend's passing and can only imagine Misako's anguish.

The live broadcast of Ignacia's celebration and singing of his passing is even more painful for Ray because that was his best friend.

Harumi is fuming internally despite her outward Cheerfulness because HOW DARE THEY CELEBRATE HER SAVIOR'S PASSING?!?!!?!? IT'S NOT FAIR AT ALL! (She had to be dragged away from the Emperor and Empress's side during the televised speech of celebration.)

[luckycharms1701]

Maybe a request, you can ignore if you don't like the idea tho!

What about f!reader pegging one of the turtles headcanons? i'd ask specifically for Donnie in this one.

😬 gonna be real here anon-chan. i’m so glad you’re here but i’m not sure i’m the one to fill this request. see, the problem with sending this to me is that i am a bottom. i am like super bottom. pegging isn’t really my thing. but! the people i would send you to have requests closed right now, so i will do my best to tide you over until you can ask someone else. i am sorry in advance.

edit: uhhhhhhhhhh spicy. so spicy. i uh cannot emphasize enough, 🌶️🌶️🌶️

It definitely starts as an experiment, something he’s heard about and wants to try. When you do, he finds that he loves it. He loves it a Lot.

He creates a strap specifically designed to maximize pleasure for both of you. It takes him a couple of attempts to get it right. The less said about that the better. It’s worth it though, for what he ends up with. A double-sided strap-on, thick and heavy on one side for him and a rabbit on the other side for you. It vibrates. Everywhere.

He always makes sure to get you off before asking you to peg him. The more he wants it, the more orgasms he gives you first. One of his favorite things to do is fuck you with his fingers until you’re practically insensate and then ride you.

Even better when you suggest it. He gets this look on his face and practically tackles you onto the bed. He’s so happy that you enjoy this too that he gets overeager. The clothes practically fly off. Still, he’s the king of prep. Neither of you is doing anything with the strap-on until you’re both ready.

He loves that you can share this experience, getting to fuck someone you love. When he can, he’ll pay attention to how you fuck him and use that knowledge to absolutely devastate you when it’s his turn. You didn’t think he could get better at fucking you, but he proves you wrong.

His favorite thing. Is when you first bottom in him. He’ll whine and beg for more, even knowing you can’t go any further.

~~~~~~~

i. i’m sorry that’s all i’ve got headcanon-wise. however, a little blurb DID pop into my head that’s uh more my speed and therefore might be a little better? maybe? anyway it won’t leave me alone so here you go, a little extra for you. featuring donnie topping from the bottom.

edit: uh. well! that wasn't supposed to happen. what. enjoy?

~~~~~~~

Donnie whines as you bottom in him, and you shudder before forcing yourself to still. You are desperate to rub against the smooth silicone pressing into your clit, but you know what will happen if you do. You try to think about anything else as he continues to whine and pant and writhe, getting used to the strap-on inside of him. He sounds so beautiful, and you answer his whine with a moan of your own. His eyes pop open, and his lips twitch upward.

“Are you ready, baby?” He laughs lowly at how quickly and violently you nod your head, then stretches to reach the bed stand. You can see the way his movement causes him more pleasure, your cock deep inside of him rubbing against his walls. He picks up the remote that haunts your dreams.

The lowest setting immediately sets you to shaking, but you don’t move yet. “Good girl!” Donnie’s praise goes straight to your core, and you can only whine in response. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see you.” You raise your head from where it had fallen to your chest. The desire in his eyes sends an electric thrill through you that causes you to practically gush around the dildo deep inside of you. You start shaking harder for a different reason.

Donnie takes a deep breath and squirms as the vibration courses through him as well. He gets a wicked look in his eye, and an alarm goes off in the part of your brain that isn’t mush. Before you can say a word, he ups the vibration and thrusts upward, pushing the strap-on deeper into you.

You feel the sheets stretch underneath your fingers as your whole body stiffens, desperately holding back the urge to match the way he’s grinding into you. You cannot hold back the scream or the tears though. It takes everything in you to keep your eyes on Donnie. The satisfaction on his face as he drags you to the edge once again does not help with your struggle, and he knows it.

His eyes go half-lidded with his own pleasure as he continues to grind into you. His hand that’s not holding the remote comes up and presses into your lips. You obediently open your mouth and his thumb snakes in and holds your tongue down. “You’re doing so good for me, darling. So, so good.” You hold his gaze, trying to convey your desperation. You’re not sure you could speak even if his fingers weren’t in your mouth.

Donnie leans up and his tongue joins his fingers. He leisurely maps out your mouth, as if he has all the time in the world. Your moan is garbled with all of him in your mouth. He pulls back, hand leaving your mouth and stretching around your neck instead. He stares at you, still grinding hard, and waits. You swallow and open your mouth.

“D-Donnie… please… please!”

His smile is wicked as he clicks the vibration higher, causing both of you to gasp. “A-alright love. You can move.” You barely catch yourself from dropping your head in relief, then you pull back and start to thrust.

~~~~~~~

head bonks: @yorshie @avery73 @justalotoffanfiction @thejudiciousneurotic @writinandcrying

[scoutofmymind]

Lasan on their family vacation in Italy . After everyone has gone to bed they have a late night swim. Imagine Hasan holding Lu in the water, Lu’s legs wrapped around Hasan’s waist and his arms wrapped around his shoulders. They start making out inevitably. And of course much fun to be had in the pool. They have to be quiet though so no one hears them.

I love this teehee

Btw I imagine this vacay to be dreamy and NO political talk from cousin Nino to overshadow it!!!! Just two boys loving each other in the Italian countryside!!

"How many girls did you bring up here," Hasan murmurs into the dark, their bodies stretched out on Luigi's childhood bed, the ancient mattress still holding the shape of a teenage boy's restless dreams, "before you figured out you weren't the one who wanted to do the fucking?"

Luigi glances up from his phone, its blue light catching the mischief in his eyes. His chin stays propped on the pillow he's hugging, voice pitched low to match the darkness. "This particular bed?" He makes a show of considering it, enjoying the way Hasan's fingers have started tracing idle patterns on his bare shoulder. "Not nearly as many as the one Mamma replaced when I left for college." He grins, wicked and sweet. "That one had... structural issues."

Hasan shifts closer, propping himself up on his elbows until his forehead meets Luigi's in the dark. "Can't sleep," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion but mind still racing. The Italian countryside might be paradise, but his body's clock is stuck somewhere over the Atlantic, sunrises feeling like sunsets and midnight feeling like noon. Years of travel streams haven't made it any easier — his circadian rhythm is as stubborn as he is.

Luigi clicks his phone dark and tosses it toward the foot of the bed, not caring where it lands among the tangled sheets. "What should we do, then?" he murmurs, but there's no real question in it. They both know he never sleeps before Hasan does, has trained himself over their years together to stay awake until Hasan's insomnia loosens its grip.

His hand finds Hasan's hip in the dark, thumb stroking along the ripple of muscle there.

"Swim?" Hasan suggests, his eyebrows lifting in that way that always makes Luigi's stomach flip.

It takes no convincing — they're both sliding out of bed, padding barefoot through the sleepy villa and into the garden where the pool gleams like liquid silver, the water holding the day's heat, warm against their skin as distant stars wink between the strung garden lights swaying in the midnight breeze.

They drift in lazy orbits around each other, touching and retreating like tide-pulled moons.

Luigi eventually peels his swim shorts off with practiced grace, letting them float away to the edge before swimming closer, his fingers finding the waistband of Hasan's trunks. "Off.” he commands softly, hooking his thumb under the elastic, his expression caught between playful and pleading.

The night air carries the scent of jasmine and chlorine, and somewhere in the distance, a nightingale starts to sing.

"What if someone-"

"Italians sleep like the dead," Luigi interrupts, his laugh a warm puff against Hasan's wet shoulder. "Trust me, they could recreate the Fall of Rome out here and no one would know until espresso time." His fingers are insistent at Hasan's waistband, brooking no further debate. “C’mon.”

There's something deliciously reckless in his smile, a flash of the teenage boy who used to sneak out to this same pool, and Hasan surrenders with a quiet groan, letting Luigi strip the shorts from him and toss them to join their abandoned twins on the pool's edge.

The water feels different now, silkier somehow against bare skin, and the garden lights catch the droplets on Luigi's shoulders like scattered stars within reach.

Luigi lounges against the pool's edge, water rippling across his chest as he watches Hasan with undisguised appreciation. "Much better form without shorts.” he muses, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as Hasan submerges himself completely, and when he surfaces, water cascading down his shoulders, Luigi's breath catches audibly in his throat.

"Oh yeah?" Hasan pushes his glasses back into place, droplets clinging to the lenses like tiny prisms. His voice has that edge to it, the one that means he's about to demand receipts for Luigi's claims. "What's the scientific evidence for that take?" Even in the dim light, Luigi can see the challenge dancing in his eyes, can read the familiar tilt of his head that means he's settling in for a debate, as if they're both not naked in his family's pool at midnight in the Italian countryside.

Luigi gnaws at his fingertips, failing spectacularly at hiding his grin. "Pretty sure that's just basic physics," he teases, pushing off from the wall with a practiced grace that sends water sliding down his chest.

He glides through the water until he can hook his arm around Hasan's shoulders, drawing him deeper into the pool where the underwater lights cast shifting patterns across their skin.

"Lu," Hasan warns, but there's heat under the caution in his voice. Even in the deep end, he's tall enough to plant his feet firmly, while Luigi lets himself float against him.

Hasan's eyes scan their surroundings — the ancient rose bushes standing sentinel, decades of untamed greenery creating a private world around the pool, the villa's windows barely visible through the leaves and too distant to betray them. Still, his hands settle at Luigi's waist under the water, steadying rather than pushing away. "You're going to get us caught, and then your nonna will never feed me again."

"I won't," Luigi murmurs, each close call having only sharpened his instincts rather than dampened his daring. "Ti prometto." His hand finds Hasan’s cock under the water, grip feather-light but purposeful as he strokes him with languid patience. "Just wanna play with you."

And how could Hasan resist?

Not with Luigi pressed against him like this, familiar and yet somehow new in this setting. Not with the Italian countryside orchestrating their moment — crickets conducting their symphony in the distant hills, bullfrogs adding their bass notes from the stream, and above them a tapestry of stars so bright and numerous they seem close enough to touch.

The garden lights catch the water droplets in Luigi's eyelashes, making them sparkle as he blinks up at Hasan with that particular mix of innocence and intent that always undoes him completely.

Here, in this same pool where teenage Luigi had first learned to name the ache in his chest when he watched the neighbor boy dive, and where he'd spent countless summer nights floating on his back with the village girls and wondering why his dreams felt different from the stories his friends told — now he knows.

Now he can take that adolescent wondering and transform it into this; the sure press of his body against Hasan's, the confident slide of his hands, the perfect clarity of knowing exactly what he wants and who he wants it with.

Hasan draws Luigi to him with practiced ease, helping him wrap those long legs around his waist, one arm braced beneath him while the other hand spreads wide and warm against his spine. "Absolute menace," he breathes, voice catching as Luigi's clever fingers continue their work underwater.

Luigi's lips scatter half-formed kisses across his face like benedictions, tasting chlorine and night air on his skin. "Guilty," he confesses against Hasan's jaw, drawing in a sharp breath when he feels Hasan's hips stutter beneath the water.

The way Hasan's expression transforms — pleasure cracking through his usual composure like lightning — makes Luigi's own breath hitch.

He's lost count of how many times he's come just from watching Hasan's face in moments like this, from seeing that careful control dissolve into raw want. "But you're not exactly complaining, are you, askim?" The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, sweeter for being stolen from Hasan's own vocabulary.

"You know exactly what you're doing," Hasan accuses, but there's nothing but fond devastation in his voice. He rolls his hips up into Luigi's grip, making them both shudder. "Trying to kill me."

Luigi pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Hmmm," he purrs, just to watch Hasan's pupils dilate further. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already."

Hasan surges forward, capturing Luigi's mouth in a kiss that's equal parts punishment and praise. The water sloshes around them as he spins them, pressing Luigi against the pool wall. "That smart mouth of yours," he growls against Luigi's lips, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, protecting it from the tile. "Always running it.”

Luigi's laugh dissolves into a moan as Hasan's hips pin him in place. His hand is trapped between them now, but he doesn't stop his movements, just changes the angle to work them both together. "Your mouth," he whispers, delighting in how Hasan's breath hitches. "My baby, so worried about getting caught but can't help himself, can he?"

"You're one to talk," Hasan retorts, but his voice has gone thick and heavy. He drops his forehead against Luigi's shoulder. "Fuck, Lu-“ he hisses again, looking down between them to glimpse beneath the rippling water at Luigi’s fist working carefully over his length, and then again at their surroundings.

"Should we-“ Hasan's question breaks on a shaky exhale as Luigi's mouth traces his collarbone, his thoughts scattering. "Inside?" He manages, nodding vaguely toward the villa, though his hands betray him by pulling Luigi closer.

"No," Luigi murmurs against his skin, pressing one last kiss before drawing back. He tilts his head toward the smooth stone edging the pool. "Up."

Hasan complies with a soft groan, easily lifting himself to sit at the pool's edge while Luigi stays in the water between his knees, hands sliding up Hasan's thighs as he grins. "Come throws the chemicals all out of whack." The words contrast with the heat in his eyes as he takes in the sight before him — Hasan propped back on his elbows, skin gleaming in the low light.

“Look at you,” Hasan whispers, his lip caught between his teeth for a moment. “Learning from your mistakes.”

Luigi shoots a wink up at him, like they’re flirting rather than fooling around completely naked in Luigi’s familiy pool, the sky having gone a certain shade of purple, one that whispers of the first sign of sunrise.

While he hardly ever stops running it, Luigi knows exactly how to use his mouth when it comes to Hasan — warm tongue, soft cheeks, those dark, soggy eyelashes fluttering up at him as he works Hasan’s cock past his lips, his fist taking care of what he can’t fit down his throat.

Hasan’s gone pink-cheeked and huffy, watching Luigi intently as to burn the image of him like this behind his eyelids for the rest of their lives, though if he’s as lucky as he feels, he’ll have plenty more of this in the years to come.

And the thought of Luigi being his forever is what truly puts him right over the edge — that pretty face, that warm heart.

All his.

Luigi pulls back, catching his breath as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. A soft sound escapes him, somewhere between pleasure and embarrassment, and his gaze flickers toward the water.

Hasan's eyes widen in understanding, brain catching up to what’s in front of him. "Did you just—?"

Luigi presses himself up out of the pool to capture Hasan's lips in three lingering kisses, his cheeks flushed pink. "What can I say?" he murmurs against Hasan's mouth. "Blessing and a curse." It's happened often enough that he's lost count — how the sight of Hasan's pleasure, every subtle shift of expression and tensing muscle, can push him over the edge without being touched.

Equal parts embarrassing and arousing, but he can't bring himself to mind when Hasan looks at him like that.