#[idle] muttering to myself...

[touyatiredforthis]

"... It's almost February and I haven't even figured out what I wanna do this year."

[toukotiredforthis]

".........."

"...Sorry, what were you saying? I just had a micronightmare that Ghetsis was elected and some tech billionaire from Galar was running the region."

[idl3dr3ams]

I want to make a little comic based off that "sorry pancreatic cancer, I don't think you qualify as an emotion" meme, bc I have a thing that goes beyond the scope of that meme. (based on a true story basically, I'll explain in tags)

however I don't feel like drawing it, so maybe I get to it at some point, maybe I don't. the concept is:

Joy: Sorry Faulkner, I don't think you qualify as an emotion

Faulkner: But you let Carpenter in!

Joy: who? oh no... that's just exhaustion.

Carpenter, looking up from her cappuccino upon hearing her name: hm? Oh, hey Faulkner.

Faulkner:

Faulkner: see!

[julymusings]

AND A KISS FOR GOOD LUCK !

i only have you. take care of yourself for me. i take care of myself for you.

cw: descriptions of scars/bleeding/wounds

Leaning closer to the mirror, Jason picks at the skin of his cheek until he feels that familiar dry sting on his face and the thin stickiness of blood under his nails. It elicits barely a wince, he’s so used to the feeling. He watches blood flood inside the abrasion, the flushing, half-healed pink turning to a watery red. 

He hears your footsteps approaching softly, but doesn’t look away from his reflection. He moves his attention to a fresh mark on his chin where the raised, jagged edges of the new scar have just started to scab— an undercover job; one where he had nothing but a thin layer of armor underneath his clothes, his helmet stashed away somewhere in the rafters. The skin is peeling at the corners, and he tugs at the bits of flesh. 

“Jay.”

He finally tears his eyes away from the mirror; you’re standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with crossed arms. Your lips droop into a frown, teeth biting on your bottom lip. 

“Hey,” he says. He focuses somewhere between your forehead and eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” Your voice is neutral, gentle.

“These fuckin’ cuts,” he mutters. “They’re itching like crazy.”

It’s a half-truth; yes, they do itch like crazy, and it does make him want to claw his skin off sometimes. But that’s not why he’s doing it.

It has become second nature for him, scratching and tearing and aggravating the wounds on his face. Something he does when he’s antsy, or idle, or deep in thought. Just as every other time you find him like this, you shuffle forward and place your hand over his.

Reflexively, he interlaces his fingers with yours, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Can I help?” You ask, softly, while leaning against his side. You place a kiss on his shoulder, over the fabric of his sleeve; the shine of your lip balm leaves a mark.

“It’s nothin’ to worry about, baby. It’s almost midnight. I have to head out soon.” The back of his hand haphazardly wipes a single swipe across his cheek, but all it does is smear the blood over his face. His jaw tightens momentarily, and you can tell it burns. 

“Come here,” you say, sliding yourself between him and the wash basin. You cup his face between your hands, dragging your thumb along his chapped bottom lip.

“You chew on your lips too much, Jay.”

He exhales slowly, sagging into your hold. On another day, he’d chuckle or playfully roll his eyes with a kiss to the pad of your thumb. Tonight, he can’t even meet your eyes.

You hop up unto the bathroom counter and pull him close to stand between your legs. There’s a clean washcloth hanging from the towel hook, and you run it under warm water, then wring it out. Jason flinches slightly when you reach out to his face, but settles back into your touch without argument. With soft strokes, you wipe away the thin line of blood, then drag the cloth across the rest of his face, careful not to aggravate the fresh mark on his chin. He remains still the whole time, gaze fixed on the mirror behind you.

“Does it sting?” You ask. He shakes his head.

“Can you look at me?”

Reluctantly, he raises his eyes to yours.

He doesn’t say it, but his eyes say enough, say the harsh assault on himself that sits on his tongue, fighting to break through his teeth.

“You’re so beautiful, Jason.” You trace your fingers along the lines of his features.

“You don’t have to do that.” He turns his face to the wall, trying to hide the frustrated tears that threaten to spill over. It cracks your heart in two, seeing the loveliest person you know blind to his own beauty.

“Jason,” you whisper, voice filled with desperation for him to hear all the words he won’t let you say. “Baby.” It’s a wish; a plea.

He’s never been good with words like these, starving for kindness with a mangled stomach. You learned this the hard way, after trying to force-feed him the intensity of your affection, thinking it would help him when it only made him sick. Now you dole it out in silent, digestible amounts; a squeeze of his hand here, a kiss to the forehead there.

He says nothing, but turns his head back to you. For now, it’s enough.

“What’s that for?” He nods to the bottle of opaque white water you plucked from your side of the sink.

“Rice water. It’s good for your skin, especially if you’re marinating under a sweaty helmet for hours,” you tease.

He grumbles out something along the lines of it’s well-ventilated, but nonetheless, he places his hands on either side of you to lean down towards your eye-level. You rub the solution between your hands and massage it into his face. He always seems to relax when your hands are on him; his eyes flutter shut and his lips part with a relieved breath.

You can’t help yourself—he really is so beautiful—and you steal a kiss to his nose.

“What’s that for?” He opens his eyes at the sound of you unscrewing yet another bottle.

“Oil. For the scars,” you say, tentatively.

His fingers twitch against the counter, but after a moment, he nods. You dab some of the pink oil onto your fingers, and carefully rub it into the jagged marks that decorate his chin, his cheeks, his jaw. He stiffens when you make contact with them, and you’re not sure you hear him exhale until after you pull away.

The bottle is replaced by a small tube of lip balm, and Jason tilts his head. “More?” One of his hands rests on your thigh and strokes up and down.

You tsk at him. “Can you just trust me?” You don’t give him a chance to argue before squeezing the tube and spreading the balm across his lips. His protests are muffled behind his mouth, which he keeps shut so you can work.

“Now I’m done.” You hop down from the sink, and he trails after you into the hall; you know he needs to stop at a safe house before starting his patrol, so you don’t let him linger in the bathroom with his hands on you— similar situations have made him very late in the past, and you’re not interested in getting another earful from his team.

His duffel bag of weapons and gear is already on the living room floor, ready for him to grab and go. A familiar thread of nerves and lonely pining run through your body.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a few hours.” Jason lifts the bag with one hand, and pushes a stand of hair behind your ear with the other.

“You better.”

He leans in to peck your lips, but you throw yourself at him for a fiery, desperate kiss straight out of a Hollywood movie. It surprises him enough to make the bag hit the ground as he wraps his arms around your waist to kiss you back with matching fervor.

He’s panting when you release him, face burning red and chest rising rapidly. Try as he might, he can’t hide the shy, flustered grin stretching across his face. “And what was that for?”

You shrug. “For good luck. Obviously.”

He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Obviously.”

You run your hand up his arm and squeeze on his bicep. “Stay safe. Please.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“I will.”

heyyyyy guys. so lots has happened. we hit 1k😱😱I feel like a real life influencer now. Hey what’s up you guys welcome back to my YouTube channel, today’s video we are going to be fantasizing about emotionally unavailable men!!! U should totally check my recent post and participate in the celebration

This is based on this ask , read it for some more background, and the quote is from gabriela mistral’s letters to Doris Dana 👍🙏also this was not proofread don’t judge me🙏🙏

Thee divider is by cafekitsune I don’t feel like finding the post to link it I’m SORRYYYYY

[mariasont]

unwinding (with conditions)

you struggle to relax during a bau beach day, so hotch decides to personally enforce it.

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: fem!reader, age gap, power dynamics, reader loves following hotch's orders, implied that reader might be getting burnt on her shoulders, fluffy fluff prompt: here wc: 0.8k

You’re halfway through asking Rossi — for maybe the sixth time — if he’s absolutely sure he doesn’t need another iced tea, because honestly, the sun is brutal, and no one appreciates dehydration-induced grumpiness, when you hear Hotch’s voice behind you.

“Sit down.” It’s gentle enough that it shouldn’t feel like an order, but somehow you’re instantly frozen, fully Pavlovian, which you’d be embarrassed about if it wasn’t so annoyingly effective. 

Your mouth pops open on instinct, already prepared to launch into a nervous, overly detailed explanation, but he holds up a finger, immediately silencing the runaway train of thoughts.

“You’re making me dizzy,” he murmurs, and there’s the slightest curl at the corner of his mouth.

He nods firmly to the empty chair beside him, and your body immediately obeys without waiting for explicit permission from your brain.

“You’re not at work right now,” Hotch reminds you, raising one perfectly judgmental eyebrow. “It’s vacation. I expect you to relax.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because it’s borderline hilarious — no, totally hilarious — that Aaron Freaking Hotchner, Mr. Serious, Mr. Always-in-Control, is lecturing you about relaxing. Pot, kettle, meet black.

Yet, as funny as the advice sounds coming from him, you’re decently sure you’d dive headfirst into the ocean fully clothed if he even mildly suggested it.

You sink deeper into your chair, fingers gripping so hard you might dent the plastic. It’s marginally excruciating to sit idle, especially when you overhear Emily muttering anxiously about missing towels, and Morgan casually admitting the cooler isn’t properly stocked.

Fix it, fix it, fix it! your brain chants frantically — fingers twitching, body instinctively inching forward — but each subtle movement is immediately intercepted by Hotch’s silent reprimand. It feels exactly like a leash, yanking you firmly back whenever you start to stray.

His eyes send a very simple, very clear shorthand — Don’t even think about it.

You’re seconds from genuinely relaxing (maybe, sort of) when JJ casually wonders if there’s enough sunscreen to go around. Your hand flies into action, practically throwing a tube at Spencer, who catches it with wide, startled eyes.

You feel Hotch’s gaze.

“He’d complain directly to you, you know. Loudly. At length.” You gesture in Spencer’s direction. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favor. This is me, relaxing by saving you from Reid’s inevitable whining about burns.”

Hotch’s eyes flick toward you, sunglasses slipping down his nose just enough for him to deliver a mocking stare. “I’m not suggesting you abandon your humanitarian efforts entirely,” he drawls. “But maybe, just this week, try prioritizing your own comfort.”

“I prioritize myself plenty,” you shoot back, voice pitched just a little too high, okay, fine, maybe a blatant lie, but admitting defeat isn’t in the cards.

Hotch stares blankly, his face slipping into that perfectly neutral mask he wears when he’s silently calling your bluff. He pointedly looks at your shoulders — your very exposed, possibly burning shoulders — and sighs softly.

“Fascinating,” he says, with exactly zero sincerity. “Did prioritizing yourself happen to include remembering sunscreen today, or did you skip straight to worrying about everyone else?”

You pause, mentally rewinding through your morning. You clearly remember picking up the sunscreen, fully intending to put it on — right until Rossi had innocently asked if anyone had brought orange juice, and then your brain switched gears.

“Um… no.”

Hotch sighs and motions to Spencer.

“Reid,” he says dryly, holding out his hand, “the sunscreen, please.”

Spencer quickly passes it over, expression suspiciously pleased as Hotch steps behind your chair, his shadow falling over you.

“Lean forward,” he says evenly, and you follow his instruction without a single conscious thought.

You bite down sharply on your tongue as soon as Hotch’s hands touch your shoulders, because, wow, this was a terrible, horrible, fantastic idea. His palms feel impossibly large against your skin, but surprisingly gentle as he carefully smooths the sunscreen into your skin.

It’s practically, completely platonic — but your heart stubbornly refuses to accept that logic, pounding wildly, racing far faster than it has any right to.

You’re desperately thankful he can’t see your face, because right now your crush is so obvious it might as well be flashing in neon lights. Do not moan, your brain scolds, though you’re seriously not convinced you’ll manage.

You’re holding your breath, lungs frozen mid-inhale as Hotch’s fingertips brush beneath your bikini strings, slipping gently along skin you’re certain has never been this sensitive before. Just when you think you’re sure your heart has stopped entirely — his hands trail up your shoulders to the back of your neck, gently squeezing — it restarts at double speed.

“There,” he says. “Maybe now you’ll finally sit still for more than thirty seconds.”

You’re proud to say you lasted a whole twenty-seven minutes before discreetly rearranging the snacks and fetching Hotch another bottle of water. He rewards you with a pointed look and an exasperated shake of his head, but it softens into something fond.

So maybe true relaxation isn’t quite within reach yet, but judging by the amusement in Hotch’s eyes, you figure you’re doing something right anyway.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 4 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[hivemuthur]

Request: something with sex pollen or accidental aphrodisiacs (science experiments?). And not like dubcon. More like Viktor/Reader have unconfessed feelings and apparently one or both of them needs to be drugged and desperate for sex to get them out. Idk if it’s your thing but I’d be interested to see your take on it.

I remember the evening I got this ask. I was like yesss and my friends gave me the look, you know?

Unknown Variable

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! sex pollen, but I've managed to plot it up a bit. From warnings: unsafe sex, rough sex, lots of fluids, brief mentions of experimenting on animals. The substance here is based on how fentanyl works, sort of :') I had to make myself a loop hole for something I wanted to write for the longest time :v

word count: 4,5K

author’s note: Freaktor Nation, how we feeling? Thank you for granting me another porn-writing fiddler milestone Anon :') beautiful artist behind the cover is @petitesieste 🖤

—

Your idle hand plays with the pendant of your necklace while the other scribbles down notes from the last test. Another miss. And life goes on in pain.

Finding a medication that alleviates pain without an endless list of side effects has been Sisyphean work, to say the least. Every time you think you’re close, something immune to compromise pokes its insistent head through the crack you’ve made in the never-fully-open door to the human pain receptor map.

To be honest, your ambitions to cure pain have long been tempered. Now, it’s merely about making it less relentless—offering people who struggle with it a brief reprieve, something to make it manageable. Not that Viktor was your inspiration, but he is a constant reminder of why you should keep going when every trial eventually turns to dust.

"Why do you insist on keeping such thorough documentation of the rejected ones?" The said reminder peeks over your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

You huff, masking how startled you are, and mutter, "Of all people, you shouldn’t be asking stupid questions."

"There is no such thing. Only stupid answers," he counters, eyes still glued to your notes. "It’s a very noble goal, you know, but you might have to come to terms with the fact that a complete erasure of pain may simply be impossible."

"Again. Of all people, you should not speak of the impossible, Viktor," you smile under your nose and turn your head just enough to see that he’s smiling, too. A jest.

"I'm only teasing you," he hums, reaching out to point at something on the page. "This… is not bad. Persevere, you will get there."

His fingertip lands right next to where your hand has frozen mid-writing, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. For a brief moment, you allow yourself the illusion that Viktor is doing it intentionally. But the thought vanishes as soon as he straightens and clears his throat.

"I'm not sure I will continue with this one," you admit, tapping your pen against the page. "It gets rid of skeletal pain but gave my rats a headache to die for."

"Oh, no, no." Viktor shakes his head, eyes still scanning your notes. "This one, you shouldn’t abandon. Perhaps just tweak it."

"Tweak it?" You scoff, slumping back in your chair. "Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tweaked it?"

"I can only imagine," he replies with a wry smile. Then, after a beat, he leans in again, tapping a precise point on the intricate web of chemical formulas—lines and hexagons scrawled across the page. "I am no chemist, but this… just tickles the wrong part of the brain. Make it tickle the right one, and it might actually work."

It’s hard for him to mask the undertone of hope lingering in his voice. Hope that you will find the answer. Hope that your relentless pursuit of relief for those who suffer will finally bear fruit. And, if he allows himself a moment of selfishness, hope that his own pain, the dull ache that never leaves him, might one day be eased.

But there is something else, something unspoken and far less rational. Viktor has always found himself drawn to you, not just in admiration for your intellect, but in the way you work—how you lean too close to your notes, muttering under your breath, the way your fingers absently play with whatever they can find when you are deep in thought.

Since the early years at the academy, he has enjoyed working by your side more than he would ever admit. When your paths eventually diverged—yours to chemistry, his to engineering—he felt the loss more acutely than he had expected. There was pride, of course, in seeing you forge your own path, and such a noble one at that. But the empty spaces where you used to be, the missing sound of your voice arguing a point over some formula or blueprint, left a quiet ache that he did not know how to soothe.

Sometimes, when the solitude stretches long enough, he allows himself the indulgence of believing he was your inspiration. That some part of your devotion to this research, to this particular pursuit, was born from those long nights spent together over textbooks and dimly lit workbenches. But the thought is always fleeting, because minutes later, you will wave a dismissive hand at him, shooing him away to his own lab with a teasing remark, and he will remind himself that he is a fool for entertaining such notions.

It is not as though there have been no opportunities. There have been moments—unguarded, lingering occasions where it might have been easy to reach, to say something, to step beyond the line of friendship. But somehow, the time was never right. And so, this one thing, he never felt like he could touch.

You blink a few times, scrunch your eyebrows, and hum. The pen gets trapped between your teeth as you pick up the sheet and bring it close to your face, as if looking at it from a smaller distance would somehow make it clearer.

“You know, you might be right,” you finally say in a tone that suggests Viktor is never right.

A chuckle rumbles out of him. “Unthinkable,” he snorts, leaning on his cane and offering you a smug, satisfied grin.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” you chide, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smirk. “Thank you. I must ask you to leave me to be a genius now.”

“Ah, there it is,” he sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Served my purpose, and now I’m being unceremoniously chased away.”

“Don’t sulk,” you tease, waving him off as you set the paper back down. “I’ll even put your name in teeny-tiny little scribble on the leaflet.”

“You spoil me,” he deadpans, shaking his head as he turns to leave. He pauses by the door, glancing back at you with an affectionate smirk. “Fine. Let me know how it goes.”

Before you can say, “You’ll be the first one to know,” Viktor is already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You give yourself a moment to rub the stupid feeling of light-headedness away from your temples before setting back to work.

What was meant to be a small tweak stretches into hours. Then days. Then, after two weeks, as you stand in front of the blackboard, the realisation you hadn't anticipated settles over you. Whatever you’ve created will inevitably end the already miserable lives of your test rats. Other than that, the medication looks as ready as it will ever be.

You could wait, of course—gather a group of willing human test subjects and conduct the trial properly. But let’s face it—you’ve waited long enough. And it’s right there.

Your jaw aches from hours of clenching, your sleep has been erratic at best, and now, to top it all off, a dull pain throbs in your tooth. You could just check. Worst case? You die. And if that happens—well, you won’t care anyway, will you?

As for the side effects? Manageable. Irrelevant in the grand scheme of the doctor-patient relationship. So yes—it seems you’ve very much done it.

The sun sets at some point while you debate with yourself—to drink or not to drink. When you finally do, all your hesitation, all your pain, the aches and nagging little pokes you hadn���t even realised were there—vanish. They melt into a feeling of softness and lightness, enveloping you in a warmth that feels almost like a gentle embrace.

Your fingers flex as if testing for any lingering pain, but there is none. Even the dull pressure behind your eyes from lack of sleep has dissolved. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden, and you press your palm over your mouth, giddy with disbelief. It worked. It actually worked.

Then, just as quickly, your thoughts snap to Viktor.

You scramble for your notes, knocking over an empty vial in your haste. Ink smears as you flip through your pages, but you hardly care. Grabbing one more vial—just in case—you cork it tight and shove it into your pocket. You need him to see this. Now.

Your heartbeat pounds as you rush out, barely remembering to lock the door behind you before taking off down the corridor. The lamps lining the halls have already been lit, casting flickering pools of gold onto the stone floor. You don’t stop to enjoy it.

Viktor’s dorm is far from your lab, but somehow the jog doesn’t get you tired. On the contrary, it feel great. You reach his door and rap your knuckles against the wood, shifting on the balls of your feet with barely contained excitement.

“Viktor! Open up—I’ve done it!”

The door swings open faster than you expect, and Viktor is already halfway through a hasty, "Shh!" before you shove the stack of notes into his chest. He stumbles back a step, catching them with one hand while bracing against the doorframe with the other. His hair is tousled, his vest unbuttoned—he must have been in the middle of something, though whatever it was is immediately forgotten as he frowns down at the crumpled pages.

"What—?" he starts, but you barely hear him.

With a triumphant little flourish, you hold up the test tube between you, the liquid inside gleaming under the candlelight. “I did it,” you whisper, grinning. “It works.”

Viktor’s gaze flickers from the vial to your face, eyes narrowing. "It? You mean—?"

“If this isn’t enough evidence—” you gesture to the notes he’s still sorting through, his confusion growing by the second—“I might have secretly tried it.”

His fingers still against the parchment. His head snaps up. “…You what?” Voice pitches embarrassingly, sharp with alarm. He glares at you as if he might physically shake the confession back into your mouth, but it’s too late.

You shift your weight between your feet, the initial rush of excitement dimming just a little under his scrutiny. “I tried it,” you admit again, slower this time, watching as his grip tightens around your notes. “And it works, Viktor. No pain, not even a little. I feel…” You hesitate, trying to find the right words, then settle on, “Light. Like I’m floating.”

“That is not reassuring,” he snaps, finally stepping back to let you inside. As soon as you cross the threshold, he shuts the door with a soft but urgent click and turns on you. “You—” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face, visibly forcing himself into something calmer. “You did not even hesitate?”

“I hesitated a lot,” you counter, but that does nothing to ease the storm in his eyes. He looks down at your notes again, scanning them, flipping through pages. His brow furrows deeper with every line.

The rustling of paper sounds unbearably loud in the silence, the only noise countering it the pounding of your own heart in your ears. He says nothing, eyes scanning the pages with intense focus. He’s not just skimming—he’s memorising, cataloguing every formula, every line of documentation. His lips part once, his expression shifting from concern to consideration.

Finally, he lifts his gaze, hopeful and searching. “And the side effects?”

“Very unlikely to make an appearance. Oh, hey!” Your sentence stutters to a halt as you catch Viktor tilting the vial at his lips—and swallowing. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You said it’s safe. I trust you.” He shrugs with a grin, then his eyes flutter shut. After a moment, a quiet, breathy laugh escapes him. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “It does work.” As if testing a theory, he exhales deeply, then sits on the sofa and stretches his legs out experimentally. “Please, continue.”

You blink, thrown off balance, but quickly shake it off. “Uh… very unlikely,” you repeat, resuming your pacing in front of him. “Whoever prescribes the medication would have to be attracted to their patient, and vice versa, for any additional effects to take place. And they would both have to ingest it. So, you see—”

Through your excited rambling, you don’t immediately notice Viktor clearing his throat uncomfortably. You frown briefly, a strange warmth blooming in your chest, but your mouth refuses to stop moving.

Viktor speaks your name softly, trying to halt your trot. Then, again. Then, once more—his voice lifting just a notch in urgency.

You finally pause, eyes locking onto his. “Chances are… very slim,” you finish the sentence, but your voice falters into something dangerously close to a whine.

Viktor stretches his legs out stiffly, his hips jerking once as his fingers clench into the fabric of his trousers. A flush creeps up his neck, blooming across the cheeks and he exhales sharply through his nose, shifting as if trying to find relief. His chest rises and falls fast, and when he swipes a hand over his face, his lips part, damp from where he must have licked them. Another small jolt runs through him, thighs pressing together, and his knuckles go white where they grip his knees.

But above all of this, he just looks… incredibly hot. And as if the sight alone isn’t enough to nearly undo you, he speaks.

“Aphrodisiac.” Comes a low mutter of disbelief. “Brilliant, really,” he chuckles weakly, though there’s little amusement in it—only breathlessness. Brilliant, how you connected the dots. So incredibly brilliant to tickle, as he advised you, the parts of the brain that entwine both—pain and pleasure.

“But, oh… f-fuck,” Viktor stutters, a sharp inhale cutting through his words as his body betrays him. His hand twitches towards his lap before he catches himself, fingers gripping his wrist in a desperate attempt to resist. A painful cramp of lust wrenches his stomach into a knot, his entire frame tensing. “You’ve missed a variable, I’m afraid—”

You stand frozen, staring at him, torn between bolting out the door and throwing yourself at his feet. But then the realisation crashes over you, scorching hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your pulse slams against your ribs, your skin suddenly feverish—damp forehead, shirt clinging to your back like a parasite.

“You…” your voice wavers as you step forward, heat curling low in your stomach. “It means—” Viktor swallows hard, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, pupils blown wide. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. “You like me,” the truth spills from your lips, the weight of it sending another sharp pang of want through you.

“Immensely,” he admits, voice strained, thighs pressing together as another tremor runs through him. His face is painted in apology, but his hands reach out for you.

You take another step, closing the space between you, and his breath stutters. “Since when?”

“Always, ah—” he gasps, struggling to keep control. His fingers tighten into fists against his knees again. “You?”

Your throat is dry. “Oh… s-same,” you choke out deciding the time for embarrassment is long gone.  

His head tips back, jaw clenched, a strangled sound slipping out as he exhales. “Gods.”

And it just fucking hurts not to touch him. The pain you had so recklessly rid yourself of is back with unnatural force—aching, unrelenting—and gods help you, if you don’t rut into his lap any minute now, you’re going to die miserably.

When you get close enough, his fingers brush yours pleadingly, and the touch feels like a punch to the gut. The mere ghost of his skin against yours bends you in half, has you leaning over him, gripping the backrest of the sofa for support.

“Can I?” he asks, his hand hovering under your skirt. The sweetness of it—this man, asking permission to touch you when you’re so clearly drenched, when you’re convinced he can see the slick dripping down your thigh—makes you want to weep.

You nod desperately, breathing out a tearful, “Please.”

Viktor immediately comes to your aid, his palm swiping up the dampness on your leg before pressing flat against your cunt. The sound it makes—slick and obscene—has him gasping. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers, bewildered.

His neglected cock aches, trapped painfully in his trousers. With the hand not already between your thighs, he fumbles with his belt, freeing himself—but to no avail. His left palm is even clumsier than the right, which now falters, frozen between your legs, his drunk mind unable to do more than one thing at a time.

Desperate for friction, you grab his wrist and rut against his palm, spreading slick all over his fingers. Viktor whines, overwhelmed by both having you and not having you where he needs you most. Then, with a sudden motion that makes you gasp, he moves your knickers aside, hooks two fingers into your cunt, and pulls you down onto his lap.

The moment you're there, you begin to slide your pussy up and down his cock, and Viktor moans—a filthy, slutty sound that has you threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head to face you.

He looks so gorgeous you could eat him and clean your teeth with his bones. Possessed by greed, you sink your tongue into his mouth and nearly stop grinding from the sheer feeling of it. His hands—gentle, reverent—cup your cheeks, soft lips nipping at yours, his eyelashes tickle your skin when his eyes flutter shut in relief.

It had never crossed your mind to just kiss him. And oh, you’ve missed out on so much.

Because Viktor kisses like he’s been wanting you for the longest time—slow and deep, breathing in through his nose as he presses his face into yours. Close, so close you could melt into him, dissolve into liquid and flow down his throat, straight to his heart. His scent floods you, sweet on your senses and unmistakably him, nothing in particular yet everything at once.

Your hips move once more, but he doesn’t let you go. He groans into your mouth, biting down a moan when your pussy lips hug the underside of his cock, teasing the spot just beneath the head. You stay there, rubbing your clit in short, frantic movements, the sinful sounds falling between you, making you ache for more.

Desperation floods your veins, your slick coating every inch of him as you grind into the ridges of his groin, each drag of your clit sending ecstatic warmth down each of your limbs. Viktor is no better—his breath comes in ragged pants. He grips your hips unsteadily, trying and failing to guide you into something slower that he could endure.

“F-fuck… you are—” His voice trembles, his forehead falling against yours as if the weight of his pleasure is crushing. “So wet. You feel so—so good.”

You can barely reply, too lost in the heat of him, the feeling of his length dragging through your folds, the head catching just right where you swell, the sensation buzzing, building up. Still, you manage a breathy, “Your cock feels amazing,” and the whimper Viktor lets out is nothing short of wrecked.

His hands slip up your back, holding you close, his lips brushing yours as he mutters sweet, broken things—bits of words and phrases in his native tongue. You don’t understand them all, but the way he speaks them, ardent and needy, has your stomach tightening, your whole body scorched.

“Viktor, I’m—”

“I know. Please, cum. For me,” he pleads, his hands gripping you tighter as you begin to lose your rhythm. It’s there, you can already feel it creeping up your spine, twisting and prickling your skin where Viktor touches you, coaxing it out.

The heat in your belly snaps, and you cry out, trembling in his arms as your release gushes over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wetness, the sheer warmth of you, sends him over the edge in turn.

Viktor shudders beneath you, his voice breaking on a guttural groan as his cock twitches and spills, ropes of hot cum streaking over his stomach, mixing with your slick into a sticky, messy heat between you.

Your mouth falls back to his, kissing away the sweat from his lips, your pelvis still rocking gently through the aftershocks—the slide so easy now that you feel like a whore doing it. Viktor hums when you pull his damp hair away from his forehead, his breath slowing down when he exhales a breathless chuckle. "You will kill me," he murmurs, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

"No," you whisper, nuzzling into his cheek, your body still moving against him, slow and unhurried. Like a cat rubbing against its keeper, needy and content all at once. "No, I would never. I need you."

Viktor groans softly at that, his hands tracing your sweat-slicked back before settling at your waist. "What do you need from me, sweet girl?" His voice is low, the tone suggesting that anything you ask for, he will give you.

"Please, fuck me," you breathe, pressing closer, your lips brushing against his jaw. "I feel so empty." Only now you begin to undo the buttons of your shirt and Viktor does the same, pressing your damp stomachs together. He inhales your scent from the crook of your shoulder and hums, eyes rolling back in his skull as if the words physically unravel him. His grip on you tightens briefly before he smacks your hips with both hands and says, “Get up. Please.”

Your legs nearly betray you, thighs shaking and knees weak as you try to rise from his lap, only to almost collapse back at the sight of the webs of your shared release stretching between you. It makes a sticky sound, gross and hot, and to your relief, Viktor must find it hot too—because he’s nearly fully hard again.

You don’t know if it’s the medicine or something else. You feel different now, though it definitely still holds, since Viktor gets up with ease, turns you to face the couch, and presses his fingers to the back of your neck, squeezing gently before bending you over. “Ass up, head down,” he says, a renewed lewdness in his tone.

You turn your head, catching him in the corner of your eye, and at the flicker of concern on your face, he smooths a hand along your spine and murmurs, “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” He peels the sweat-dampened shirt from your back, and you smile at your shared state of half-undress—the way no time is wasted getting fully bare, the discomfort of parting greater than the inconvenience of underwear pushed aside clumsily and trousers still pooled around his knees.

Only you know how many times you’ve pictured this exact scene. But your mind never drifted far enough to conjure exactly how wet and scorching everything would be, how your thighs would quiver in anticipation. The cushioned seat dips next to your knee as Viktor sinks down beside you, close enough that your legs touch. His cock hovers below your pussy, his hands undo your bra, then settle where your hips crease.

He rocks back and forth and tsks when you shift needily. “So impatient,” he hums, sickly sweet in your ear. “But I suppose I have your lack of restraint to thank for being here in the first place.”

A clever retort sits at the tip of your tongue, only to be punched back down when Viktor slides inside you with one smooth thrust, hitting deep. He groans, wide and loud, fingers digging into your flesh—but you don’t see his face. You barely see anything through the tears pricking your eyes, forcing you to squeeze your lids shut. Your nails bite into the couch, and your back arches to meet him, presenting your ass just as he asked.

Still tight from your last climax, you hug all of him snugly, yelping when his balls slap against your soaked lips. It’s slow, almost teasing—the way he stretches you out. He’s too busy gaping at his cock, appearing and disappearing inside you, to hear your little mewls of incoherent begging, the word please tumbling from your lips over and over with no meaning beyond desperation.

Finally, you’ve entered the realm of things he can touch. And it’s dishonourable, the way it happened—but he doesn’t care. The ability to touch you, to fuck you, quickly erases all shame as he slams into you, hard and measured, knocking moans and ragged pants from your throat. It feels better than anything he’s ever felt.

He fucks you hard and rough. Each thrust is forceful, precise, driving deep until the sound of bodies slapping against each other is all you can hear. When enough pressure builds, and he feels your walls tightening, clenching closer and closer around his cock, he fists a hand in your hair and yanks you up. A sharp cry spills from your lips, your belly presses out, and you have to brace a hand against the couch's backrest. His arm comes around your shoulders, holding your back flush against his chest. The other hand—the death of you—slides between your legs, fingers pressing ruthlessly against your clit.

No restraint, no kindness—no nice boy left in him. His teeth graze your ear before sinking into the straining flesh of your neck, his voice a ragged whisper against your skin. “Take it. Where do you want it?”

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open as you breathe out a tired, “Inside. Please.” He bottoms out and wrenches it from you—an orgasm so violent it has you screaming silently into the ceiling of his dorm room. It’s devastating, ripping away all muscle control as your cunt seizes tight around him, milking him without mercy. Your hands tremble, knuckles whiten as you struggle to hold yourself up, trying not to slump face-first into a pillow.

It’s all too much for Viktor. He falters, his hand slipping from between your thighs. He whispers your name distantly, voice raw, and ruts upward—once, twice—before spilling inside you. Hot cum floods every crevice, thick and unrelenting, leaking out even before he pulls free.

Everything melts into one—your shared breaths, the wet warmth between you, the sluggish rhythm of your heartbeats syncing. Viktor sits back on his heels and wraps his arms around you, nosing into your neck. Leaves soft, loving pecks there, trailing from your collarbone to your temple.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks quietly, his thumb stroking your lip.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat and chuckle. “Oh, gods, no. I’d like to think I have more decency than to drug you into this.” Your face tucks into his throat as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have never been more pleased about someone missing a variable,” he mutters, and he’s back—himself again. His hands are gentle as they cup your cheek, swiping away your worry. His lips are sweet on yours, licking the salt from your skin. What this little mistake has just opened up for you—you have no idea. But you can’t wait to find out.

[callikari]

90210 — park jongseong

SYNOPSIS — being young, rich, and in love is a full-time job. between shopping sprees on rodeo, overpriced smoothies at erewhon, and last-minute lunch plans in malibu, you and jay have perfected the art of luxury. in a city where money moves faster than traffic, the two of you reign as la’s golden couple—effortlessly stylish, endlessly unbothered, and always, always together.

PAIRING — park jongseong (jay) x fem!reader

GENRE(S) — fluff, romance, rich kids of beverly hills, luxury lifestyle, established relationship

WARNING(S) — ridiculous amounts of wealth, absurd spending, jay being a boyfriend you can only dream of, no real responsibilities

WORDCOUNT — 1.7k

AUTHORS NOTE — idk how to feel about this .... ALSO can u guys tell how much i NEED summa

jay has a hand on your thigh, thumb grazing the soft fabric of your vintage chanel mini dress as he drives down sunset boulevard in his black porsche. the windows are down, the la breeze tangling through your hair, and you’re sipping on an overpriced smoothie from erewhon—because what else would you be doing on a thursday afternoon?

“do you even like that?” he asks, glancing at the vibrant pink drink in your hands.

you shrug, taking another sip. “it’s pretty.”

he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he switches lanes effortlessly. “you just paid twenty dollars for aesthetics.”

“and?”

he smirks, squeezing your thigh before returning his hand to the wheel. “nothing, babe. just reminding myself why you’re perfect for la.”

—

by the time you reach rodeo drive, your phones are already buzzing. jake’s texting the group chat (where are you guys? rei just dropped an embarrassing amount at bottega), and sunghoon’s snap map location is hovering suspiciously close to cartier.

“bet he’s buying another watch,” jay muses, parking the car with the kind of ease only someone who’s been driving luxury vehicles since sixteen could manage.

you grin, adjusting your sunglasses as you step out onto the pristine sidewalk. “how many does he even have now?”

“too many,” jay mutters, wrapping an arm around your waist as you both stroll toward the boutiques.

inside chanel, rei is already modeling a matching tweed set in front of the mirror while sunoo gives her the harsh truth. “you already own, like, five of those.”

“yeah, but not in this shade,” she counters.

you pluck a classic black bag off the display, turning toward jay. “should i?”

he barely looks at it before nodding. “get it.”

“that was fast.”

“because you look good with anything.”

sunghoon appears then, holding a cartier bag, confirming jay’s earlier bet. “okay, who wants to do lunch? i’m thinking nobu.”

rei wrinkles her nose. “boring. let’s do georgio baldi.”

you exchange a look with jay, and without a word, he’s already pulling out his amex black card.

“get changed,” he tells you with a knowing smirk. “we’re going.”

—

you’re perched on jay’s lap in a malibu restaurant, your newly purchased chanel bag resting beside a half-empty glass of expensive wine. the ocean stretches endlessly before you, waves crashing against the shore, and the golden glow of the late afternoon sun makes everything feel even more unreal.

jay’s fingers trace idle patterns on your thigh, his other hand holding his wine glass. “thinking about something?”

you tilt your head, meeting his gaze. “just that we’re really them.”

he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “we always have been, baby.”

because at the end of the day, it’s not just about the money or the luxury—it’s about you and him. the golden couple. young, rich, and forever unbothered.

© callikari — all rights reserved

[aventurineswife]

Hellooo!! Could you possibly do Pirate!Reader x Mermaid/siren!Aventurine?

Here’s an idea: They’ve known each other long enough to the point Reader genuinely starts questioning if Aventurine is constantly stalking their ship or not, since he seems to pop up nearby whenever their ship stops somewhere.

The Tide Pulls Us Closer

Summary: Every time you dock your ship, Aventurine is already there—waiting, watching, smirking like he knows something you don’t. It’s happened too often to be coincidence. When you finally confront the siren about his apparent stalking, he only offers cryptic smiles and half-truths. But you know Aventurine well enough to recognize when he’s playing a game… and this time, you’re making sure the stakes are even.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Pirate!Reader, Siren!Aventurine, Slow Burn/Mutual Pining, Flirty Banter, Power Play & Mind Games, Cat-and-Mouse Dynamics, Underlying Tension.

Warnings: Mild language, Subtle manipulation & mind games, Mentions of piracy & smuggling, Light tension & suggestive implications, Aventurine being a charming yet dangerous menace.

A/N: tried a new style? Let me know if you guys like it, I'm not so sure about myself 🧍‍♀️

The sea had its own laws, its own rhythms. You had learned to read them like a gambler reads his cards, knowing when to fold and when to play. But no amount of seamanship could explain why every time you made port, he was there.

Aventurine.

The first time you saw him, you thought he was just another wandering soul of the sea—a siren with a voice like velvet and a smile like a dagger wrapped in silk. The second time, you thought it was coincidence. By the fifth, you were convinced he was stalking your ship.

And now, here he was again, lounging on the warm rocks of this nameless cove, half-submerged in the shallows, watching your crew unload cargo as if he had all the time in the world. The water lapped at his skin, iridescent scales catching the afternoon light. His eyes gleamed, pupils slitted like a predator’s, and that infuriating smirk never wavered.

You crossed your arms, standing at the edge of the dock. “Starting to think you’re following me, fish boy.”

Aventurine chuckled, low and smooth, the sound carried by the wind. “Oh? And here I thought it was you who kept stumbling into my waters.”

“You’re in every damn port I visit,” you shot back. “Unless I’m mistaken, you don’t exactly have legs to walk around, so either you’ve got a terrible sense of direction, or you are following me.”

He tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “Mm. Or perhaps the sea itself wants us to meet. A little wager between fate and the tides.” He lifted a dripping hand, gesturing lazily. “Besides, can you blame me? Your ship leaves the most delightful chaos in its wake. Plundering, smuggling, outwitting the Navy… I do love a good gamble.”

“You are stalking me,” you muttered, running a hand down your face.

He only grinned wider.

With a sigh, you stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Alright, Siren. What do you want?”

“Want?” He dragged a webbed finger through the water, tracing idle patterns. “Now, that’s an interesting question.” His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. “Would you believe me if I said I simply enjoy your company?”

“No.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, Captain, you wound me.”

“Try harder,” you said flatly. “You don’t just ‘enjoy company.’ You like winning. What’s the game here?”

Aventurine’s gaze flickered, the easy amusement in his expression giving way to something more calculated, more dangerous. For all his theatrics, there was always something unreadable beneath the surface.

“Perhaps I’m simply keeping an eye on my investment,” he mused.

You raised a brow. “Investment?”

“You.”

The word settled between you like an unspoken challenge.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant cry of seagulls and the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.

Then you laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Aventurine merely shrugged. “I do try.”

Despite yourself, you smirked. “Fine. You want a game? Let’s make it interesting.” You crouched at the edge of the dock, fingers trailing over the water’s surface. “If I can outmaneuver you, get my ship out of here before you find me again, you stop lurking.”

His slitted pupils narrowed, intrigued. “And if I win?”

“You tell me why you’re really so interested in me.”

For the first time, Aventurine’s smirk faded just a fraction. Something in his expression shifted—too quick to catch, but unmistakable.

Then, just as fast, the mask slipped back into place. He grinned, sharp and bright.

“Oh, Captain,” he purred, “you do love to gamble.”

You leaned forward, mirroring his smirk. “And you do love to lose.”

The game was on.

[hanespiritu]

WHAT LITTLE WOLVES CAN DO

(Antinous x Telemachus) (R18)

written by: Han Espiritu

Disclaimer: got the first idea from @thhouseofblack you my liege is amazing, your brain is immaculate for thinking such ideas. (I happen to get ahead of myself so...yeahhh so many things in the story I guess.)

---

The hall of Ithaca was alive with the sound of laughter, wine sloshing in golden goblets as the suitors indulged themselves at Telemachus’ expense.

“Look at him,” Antinous sneered, swirling his cup of wine lazily. “Not a scar on him, not a callus. What sort of prince is this, who has never known war, never wielded a blade?”

A ripple of chuckles spread through the gathered men. Eurymachus leaned in, his lips curled. “He looks more suited to weaving than ruling. Tell me, Telemachus, do you spend your days combing your hair while waiting for your mother to choose a real king?”

Telemachus did not rise to their taunts. Instead, he leaned back against the polished wood of his chair, the golden clasps on his chiton catching the firelight. His dark curls, heavy with oil and adorned with delicate pearls, spilled over his shoulder as he tilted his head, studying them with a slow, indulgent smile.

“Ah, Antinous,” he sighed, voice lilting, almost musical. “You wound me so. What shall I do now that you have exposed my scandalous lack of battle scars? Shall I weep? Shall I rend my robes?”

The men laughed, but there was an edge of unease in the room. He was not flustered. He was not angry. He was...amused.

Telemachus stretched out his arm, inspecting his own hand as if seeing it for the first time. His fingers were long, elegant, unblemished—hands that had never known hard labor. He trailed them idly over the rim of his cup before lifting it to his lips, drinking deep before continuing in that same languid tone.

“It is true,” he murmured, eyes dark and glimmering beneath his thick lashes. “My hands have never held a plow, nor have they been chafed by the hilt of a sword for long. But tell me, Antinous—have yours?”

Silence.

Antinous’ jaw tensed, his fingers curling slightly. Telemachus’ lips quirked in something too soft to be a smirk, too sharp to be a smile.

“Ah,” Telemachus exhaled, feigning realization. “You are much like me, then. A prince, used to the comforts of silk and gold, your weapons handed to you by others. And yet, here you sit, mocking me.” He leaned forward, voice dropping just enough that the firelight flickered in his golden eyes. “Are you embarrassed, Antinous? That we are not so different?”

The air in the hall tightened. Eurymachus cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, but Telemachus was not done. He set down his goblet and rested his chin lightly on the back of his hand, eyes hooded, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.

“You see,” he continued, sweet and slow, “I find it terribly amusing when men mistake softness for weakness. When they think that just because my hands are unmarked, I must not know how to wield a bow. That just because I have never bloodied a spear, I must not know where to strike.”

He let the words hang in the air like a knife’s edge, tracing idle circles against the rim of his goblet. Antinous was watching him now, eyes narrowed, but saying nothing. A first.

Telemachus let his gaze wander over the other suitors, over their flushed faces and stiff postures. He had them now. He always did.

He sighed, standing fluidly, stretching like a great cat before tilting his head toward Antinous once more.

“Enjoy the feast,” he murmured, turning with an easy grace. “You’ll find that soft hands make for a rather...unpredictable touch.”

With that, he walked away, slow and deliberate, the long train of his chiton trailing behind him. The suitors muttered among themselves, but Antinous merely clicked his tongue in irritation. His jaw was tight, his grip on his goblet so firm that the metal threatened to bend beneath his fingers.

And yet, his eyes lingered on Telemachus’ retreating figure longer than they should have.

A muscle in his cheek twitched as he exhaled sharply. Damn him. Damn that smug, slippery little prince with his golden adornments and his silver tongue. Antinous slammed his goblet onto the table and stood, ignoring the questioning glances from the others.

His feet carried him forward before his mind had even settled on his decision. He followed, his steps quick, calculated, but never desperate. The corridors of the palace were dimly lit by flickering torches, shadows dancing along the walls as the night air cooled the stone beneath his sandals.

Telemachus did not turn, but Antinous knew he was aware. He could feel it. The deliberate slowness of his steps, the almost lazy way his fingers trailed along the carved columns as he moved deeper into the halls.

“You walk like a man who wants to be followed,” Antinous finally spoke, voice low, nearly a growl.

Telemachus chuckled, soft and knowing. “And yet, it seems you followed all the same.”

Antinous clenched his jaw. “Where are you going?”

Telemachus turned his head slightly, just enough for the dim light to catch the curve of his smirk. “Away from prying eyes. Or do you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself?”

Antinous scoffed, but the heat curling in his gut made his fingers twitch. He didn’t like being toyed with. He didn’t like the way Telemachus made him feel like he was walking into a trap, even as he willingly stepped forward.

Telemachus disappeared around a corner, and Antinous, despite himself, followed.

But when he turned the corner, Telemachus was already there, waiting. A step closer than he should have been. Antinous stilled as the prince reached out, fingers ghosting over his wrist, soft but firm enough to make him aware of the touch. A whisper of perfume—amber and sandalwood, rich and heady—curled into his lungs.

“You seem tense,” Telemachus murmured, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Are you afraid?”

Antinous scoffed, but his throat felt dry. “You think you can corner me?”

Telemachus leaned in, their bodies nearly flush. “I already have.”

His fingers dragged up, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of Antinous’ pulse. His voice was a purr, his eyes lidded, dark with something unreadable. A challenge. A promise.

“Tell me, Antinous,” Telemachus whispered, lips barely a breath away from his ear, “if I were to ask something of you... would you deny me?”

Antinous swallowed. Hard.

The prince’s smile was victory incarnate.

The space between them was suffocating, charged with something thick and unspoken. Telemachus remained where he was, golden adornments catching the flickering light as he tilted his head up, his lips curling into something too knowing, too practiced.

Antinous stood stiffly, his hands twitching at his sides. The playfulness in Telemachus’ gaze sent a slow, heated curl of something dangerous through his spine.

“You followed me,” Telemachus murmured, voice smooth, seductive.

Antinous scoffed. “You wanted me to.”

Telemachus hummed as he took a step closer, his fingers dragging lightly over the fabric of Antinous’ tunic, teasing but never truly touching. His eyes, deep and honey-warm, flickered with something that set Antinous' nerves alight.

“Do you want me to stop?”

It was a trap, and Antinous had walked straight into it. His breath came quicker, harsher, but he didn’t step away. He couldn’t.

Telemachus smiled at the silence, at the tension thrumming between them, before he sank to his knees in one slow, deliberate motion. His hands, deceptively soft and unscarred, pressed to Antinous’ thighs, kneading, spreading warmth through the fabric. His movements were languid, indulgent, like a man who had all the time in the world to unravel his prey.

Antinous sucked in a breath, his fingers flexing at his sides, trying—failing—to maintain control. Telemachus looked up at him through dark lashes, his expression full of wicked amusement, like a cat toying with its meal.

“You’re quiet,” Telemachus whispered, fingers grazing higher, teasing. “I expected more fight from you.”

Antinous gritted his teeth, jaw tight. “And I expected you to be less... shameless.”

Telemachus chuckled, his lips ghosting against Antinous’ skin, a featherlight promise of something devastating. “A lesson, then,” he whispered, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just above where the fabric of Antinous’ tunic gathered. “Not all battles are fought with swords.”

Antinous' breath hitched, his fingers twitching before they finally found purchase in Telemachus' thick curls. His grip was tight, possessive, but Telemachus merely hummed in approval, his hands smoothing over firm thighs as his head dipped lower.

He moved with precision, with patience, with the kind of knowledge that came not from innocence but from understanding exactly how to wield power. His mouth was warm, wet, leaving a path of slow destruction as he worked his way down.

Antinous cursed under his breath, his hips pressing forward despite himself. Telemachus let him, let him tremble beneath his touch, let him feel the way his own restraint crumbled. And then, with a teasing flick of his tongue, a slow, torturous drag of his lips, Telemachus took him in.

A sharp inhale. A strangled curse. Fingers tightening in his hair.

Telemachus smiled against him, victorious, before sinking deeper, his head moving with a rhythm designed to ruin. The torchlight flickered wildly against the walls, but neither of them noticed.

Not when the only fire that mattered burned between them.

•┏────────────────────━

•┗─►⚠️ Warning: Plagiarism is a Serious Offense ⚠️

Plagiarism—the act of using someone else’s work, ideas, or words without proper acknowledgment—is unethical and can have severe consequences. Whether intentional or accidental, plagiarism can lead to academic penalties, legal repercussions, and damage to one’s reputation.

To avoid plagiarism:

✔ Always credit the original source.

✔ Use quotation marks for direct quotes.

✔ Paraphrase properly while maintaining the original meaning.

✔ Cite all sources accurately following the required citation style.

Respect intellectual property and uphold integrity in all your work!

[suitelif3]

Under the mistletoe…gone wrong

rated t | 1.4k | ao3

For @steddiemas, prompt: mistletoe

**

“Why don’t you want to be with Nancy again?” Dustin asked.

“God Henderson, we’ve been over this. She’s with Jonathan now, and they’re a good couple. I’m not that interested in her right now anyway.” More like he’s interested in the boy with brown doe eyes, curly hair and stubborn personality. God, he really has a type.

“How are you this blind, Steve? Just because she’s in a relationship doesn’t mean feelings aren’t there.”

“Dustin, there’s no feelings anymore. Get that through your thick skull. It’s never going to happen again.”

“We’ll see.” He muttered.

“Oh my god.” Steve said disbelievingly. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“What’re we talking about?” Robin jumped on the counter, swinging her legs, so they were banging on the cabinets behind them.

“Just about Steve’s tragedy of a love life.”

“Dude! I’m perfectly fine being single, I like focusing on myself for once in my life.”

“Fine. You said fine Steve. Not great, not fantastic. Admit it, you miss being in a relationship!”

“Dustin, not everything is about being in a relationship! Do I miss being taken care of, sure. Do I miss having someone to be affectionate with, yes. But I also don’t need to be in one to be happy. I have Robin, I have you guys. That’s enough for me.” Steve sighed, looking around the kitchen. Robin smiled encouragingly at him, but Dustin seemed closed off. He didn’t want to ruin the Christmas party with everyone at the Byers, he was just tired of constantly being asked about his relationships from Dustin.

Even if he was secretly missing being in a relationship, he wasn’t missing one with Nancy, and he didn’t need to tell Dustin who he was missing one with.

“Yeah, Dustin, it’s okay to want Steve to be with someone but he’s okay. We’re all okay because we have each other. As friends, and sometimes friends is all you need.” Robin slung an arm over Dustin’s shoulders.

After a beat, Eddie peeked his head into the doorway of the kitchen. “What’s all the commotion about?”

“Nothing.” Dustin grumbled. Eddie smiled at Dustin, and ruffled his hair.

“Alright, well Wayne and I brought mac and cheese. Where should I put it?”

Robin gestured to all the other dishes on the counters the party has brought in so far.

“Thanks Buckley.”

Steve’s heart raced at the sight of him. Eddie looked good. He had his curls pulled up into a messy bun, with some out to frame his face. He had on non-ripped dark jeans and a dark, nice dress shirt. It was the most done up Steve had ever seen him, and all he wanted to do was kiss those perfect, plush lips. He wanted to absolutely ravish him.

Dustin asked Eddie a question about his upcoming campaign, which shot them off into a whole nerd conversation Steve could barely keep up with. He didn’t mind watching Eddie though. His eyes lighting up when talking about his passion, him gesturing his hands out to emphasize his points, his loud boisterous voice filling up the space. Steve loved how he took up space, that he was as confident as ever. He thought he covered up his staring by talking with Robin, her going on and on as usual.

Minutes ticked by until Nancy appeared in the doorway, letting them know everyone was here.

Steve nodded to her, and everyone started to filter out. He lingered behind, hoping to catch a moment with Eddie, but he had already slipped out with Dustin.

Walking out of the kitchen, Steve joined Nancy making idle small talk. They stopped in the threshold of the living room, Nancy going on about her new journalist job. He really was proud of her, they had been through so much together, and she was finally building something of her own. He didn’t love her anymore, but he would always want her to be happy doing something she loved.

“Look!” Dustin pointed to something above them. Steve looked up to see mistletoe hung innocently right above their heads. “That means you have to kiss.” Dustin announced smugly. Steve had never felt this much contempt for him before. He really didn’t want to be under the mistletoe with Nancy.

He took in everyone in the room. Everyone was staring at them, wondering what they would do. Jonathon was glaring at Steve, and he tried not to feel uncomfortable, but that was proved impossible since he was already feeling uneasy being in this situation.

Everyone else gave him varying looks of pity until he got to Eddie. Eddie looked crushed, the gleam that’s usually in his eye was dimmed, his shoulders hunched forward. His face the picture of heartbreak and Steve felt his own heart sink. He broke eye contact with Steve, his eyes darting around the room, planning his escape. He squeezed past different people, bursting through the back door.

Steve turned to Nancy, a look of remorse on his face. He didn’t know what to do, everything itching in him to chase after Eddie, but he couldn’t leave Nancy.

Nancy, able to read him as always, brought her hand up to his cheek, bringing his head down and kissing his other cheek.

He breathed a sigh of relief, looking at her gratefully. She gave him a small smile before leaving to stand with Jonathon.

He briefly saw Dustin’s look of disappointment, and Robin patting him on the shoulder, when taking off to the back door. Everyone chattering away again.

He stood outside, scanning the area for Eddie. The chill of the air made him shiver, the dim light making him squint his eyes, trying to see any figure from here to the shed.

He turned his head to the right, about to go down the stairs when he finally caught sight of Eddie.

Eddie was slumped against the back of the house, looking down at his feet, where they scuffed the ground.

He looked tormented, and Steve took a deep breath, not wanting to ruin this all over again.

“Hey, thought I saw you come out here.” Steve started gently.

Eddie swiped the back of his hand across his face quickly before looking at Steve.

“Uh-yeah. Inside was getting a little stuffy, y’know?”

Steve nodded, descending the stairs to get closer to him.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with Nancy anyway?” Eddie sniffed, eyes flickering around the yard.

He felt a tug in his chest. “Why would I be with Nancy?”

“Just seemed like the perfect situation. You guys under the mistletoe together.” Eddie shrugged with an aloofness about him. To make out that the sight of Steve under the mistletoe with Nancy didn’t bother him at all.

Steve took a chance and asked, “Can I tell you something?”

Eddie nodded.

“I didn’t want to be under the mistletoe with her. I never did.” He confessed.

“I thought you were in love with her?” Eddie looked confused, but Steve was tired of him always pushing him to Nancy. It was never going to happen. He only wanted the man in front of him. If he could have him again.

“I haven’t been in a long time. I don’t know why no one believes me. It’s not going to happen again.” Steve said exasperated.

“Maybe because you guys have a lot of history, Steve. It’s hard to let go of someone like that in your life.” Eddie tried not to sound too bitter.

“She’s not the only one I have history with Eddie.”

Steve still remembered the way Eddie curled into him, how he sounded when mapping out his body, drawing out those sweet sounds. He thought about those kisses, languid and soft. He recalled how he felt, full of warmth and love. He didn’t understand how Eddie thought he was still in love with her, when he’s been in love with him the whole time.

Eddie was looking up at him with those big doe eyes he loved so much. They were glossy, and red around the edges, his lips jutted out in a pout. Steve could only stare and said in a soft voice. “I wanted it to be you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Something seemed to break in Eddie as he reached out to grab Steve’s collar, pulling him down until their lips collided. This kiss was nothing like their previous ones. This one was fast, a flurry of movement, of passion being pushed and pulled between them. Steve’s arms wrapped around Eddie, scouring his back, holding him as close as he could. Their lips nipping at each other, Eddie’s tongue fighting his, like he was desperate to be felt by Steve.

And Steve couldn’t feel anything but Eddie.

[touyatiredforthis]

"Eesh. Y'know, I hear a lotta 'bout how folks bottle things up, but I don't know if I could do dat kinda thing foah too long. Ain't it easier just ta just shout it out, punch it out, or move it out when you're feelin' somethin'?"

Says the guy who disappeared for while.

[toukotiredforthis]

She's humming and mouthing this song...

[vertical-tacos]

"One should think twice before taking a father's only son."

This au, otherwise known as the Hunters -> Hunted AU (name subject to change). killers become the survivors, and vice versa... and you already know who switched places with C00LKIDD.

killer concept under cut along with extra stuff

007N7 - KILLER CONCEPT

INFO

After losing his son C00LKIDD by unknown reasons, 007n7 flew into a rage, becoming so delusional that he began to believe every survivor he encountered was the reason behind his kid’s disappearance. When or if he ever finds his son, he's so overjoyed that he forgets how strong his rage has made him and-

ABILITIES

PASSIVE:“A FATHER’S LOVE”. If C00LKIDD is present in the survivor roster, 007n7 will get the Frantic I buff for the round, increasing run-speed and stamina drain/regen by 5, but decreasing attack by 5.

ABILITY ONE: “LEADERBOARD”. 007n7 will stand still for 5 seconds, before revealing all survivor locations and applying Afraid II to the nearest survivor for 20s.

ABILITY TWO: “DESPERATION”. 007n7 will immediately receive the Frantic III buff for 10s, increasing run-speed and stamina drain/regen by 15, but decreasing attack by 10. After the 10s is up, 007n7 will receive Slowness I for 5s.

ABILITY THREE: “LOCK-ON CLONES”. Much like C00LKIDD in the original game, 007n7 summons 2 clones from the ground that will immediately hunt the closest survivor. If the survivor comes into contact with one of the clones, they receive 10 dmg and are applied Weakness III for 5s.

STATS

DIFFICULTY:★★★☆☆

DAMAGE: 30

HEALTH: 2000

REGULAR SPEED: 4

SPRINT SPEED: 12

STAMINA: 100

STAMINA-LOSS: 10

STAMINA-GAIN: 12

- -

CLONE STATS:

SPEED: 5

I imagine that with how frequently 007n7 uses the coolGUI, it causes glitches in his hands and legs (hands bc of damage and clone summoning, and legs bc of new lunge ability). it also has slowly begun to alter his body, making him more built for chasing (.. and killing).

Intro animation:

zooms out of a missing poster for c00lkidd, before 007n7's hand comes into view and tears it off where it was pinned, crumpling it in his fist. cuts to the following text against a black background:

"If they can't find my son,"

"I'll do it myself."

Lines:

Idle

incomprehensible muttering

When "A father's love" is activated:

"I KNOW I HEARD MY SON."

"DON'T YOU DARE TAKE HIM AWAY AGAIN!"

"Son... this game isn't fun anymore.."

Ability 1

"You cowards can't hide forever."

"Hiding is pointless, thieves."

"Do you think I can't see you?"

Ability 2

"YOU!"

"COME BACK HERE!"

(If c00lkidd is nearest player during lunge) "SON..! COME BACK..!"

Ability 3

"You'll run out of stamina eventually."

"Make them pay."

"Track them down."

Kill quotes

If killing Jason

"I thought you'd know better."

"Go find your OWN family."

If killing John Doe

"This is only a fraction of what you DESERVE."

"Who’s the judge now?"

"GUILTY."

If killing 1x1x1x1

"You're lucky it was ME and not HIM* that found you."

"Now you're just a footnote in history."

If killing C00LKIDD

"I'm so happy I found you..."

"Don't worry, kid. Papa's got you."

"Let's go home."

"You're safe now."

"Last One Standing" lines

Normal

"Your crew is finished, and so are YOU."

"You've got a ticket right to your JUDGEMENT DAY."

If C00LKIDD is the last survivor

"You can stop hiding, kid! it's safe now..!"

"Don't worry, son... I took care of the bad guys..!"

Bonus lines:

Killing Azure

"Serves you right."

"Look at what actions came back to BITE YOU."

Killing Guest 666

"Consider this the best fate for YOU."

"HE** would've LOVED to see this."

*Shedletsky

**Guest 1337

[moonselune]

Hi! I love your writing, it brings allot of comfort and I find myself re-reading it all! 😍

Could I please request a human Tav with Gale and Halsin (either together or separately) that catches a cold while travelling and just cuteness, a little angst and fluff? Just a Tav being taken care of by them 😍

Your blog is a delight and I love coming back to it, it really does bring joy 💖 hope you have a wonderful week!

Thank you so much !! I hope you have a wonderful week too and messages like this really help keep the motivation levels up !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

The road to Baldur’s Gate had been long and rough, and while you tried to push through the fatigue gnawing at your bones, there was no denying the creeping cold that had settled in. At first, it was little more than an irritating scratch at the back of your throat, then a mild headache you brushed off as nothing, but by the time you reached the outskirts of the next village, a full-blown cold had taken over, making you feel sluggish, your head stuffed with cotton.

You sneezed violently for what felt like the hundredth time, your whole body jolting with the force of it. Your lover, Gale, was nearby, and immediately his eyes darted towards you with concern. He’d noticed your symptoms earlier, of course—he always did. Gale was observant to the point of being overly cautious, especially when it came to your well-being.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he took a few steps closer. His tone was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of worry that he wasn’t even trying to hide.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, trying to wave him off with a smile. But even as the words left your mouth, your voice cracked, followed by another sudden sneeze. Gale sighed deeply, his hand coming to rest on your arm.

“You’re not fine, my dear. You’re sick, and you know it.” His gaze softened as he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. “You need to rest. I don’t want you pushing yourself any further.”

“I’m not that bad,” you muttered, feeling defensive. “It’s just a cold.”

But Gale wasn’t buying it. “Even ‘just a cold’ can turn serious if you don’t take care of yourself. You should stay at camp, let me handle things.”

You crossed your arms, frowning up at him. “I can still fight, Gale. I’m not some helpless—” You were cut off by another sneeze, this one even more violent than the last, and you couldn’t help but wince as it sent a sharp pang through your chest.

Gale’s face softened even more, but there was a firm resolve behind his eyes now. “I won’t let you endanger yourself. You’re staying here today. That’s final.”

Despite your best efforts to argue, Gale’s tone left little room for debate. His worry for you was palpable, and it made your heart ache a little. Still, you weren’t the type to sit idle while your companions faced danger, and the thought of staying behind, even while feeling miserable, didn’t sit well with you.

But you let it go, for now, returning to camp as Gale suggested.

By the time the next skirmish rolled around, you had grown restless. Despite Gale’s insistence that you stay back and recover, you couldn’t stand the idea of missing out on the adventure. So, despite your scratchy throat and persistent sneezing, you grabbed your gear and followed the party at a distance, trying to stay unnoticed.

Of course, Gale noticed immediately. He always did.

“Love, what are you doing?” he asked when you caught up to them just outside the edge of the forest.

You tried to play it off, shrugging casually. “I told you, I’m fine. I don’t want to sit around doing nothing.”

But Gale’s eyes narrowed, frustration mingling with the concern etched across his face.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, voice a touch sharper now. “You’re sick, and you need to stay back.”

Before you could protest further, Gale’s hands began to glow softly, arcane energy weaving between his fingers as he muttered a few words under his breath. Before you could react, you were suddenly engulfed in a swirl of magic, the world around you shifting as you were teleported back to camp.

You landed softly on your bedroll, blinking in surprise as you realized what he had done. Gale had just sent you back, and without even waiting for you to argue about it. A wave of indignation surged through you, followed quickly by a deep sulk as you pulled your blanket up around your shoulders. How dare he teleport you like that! You weren’t a child who needed to be coddled.

Besides you were just waiting for the lecture from Lae'zel on allowing 'your wizard' to use powerful magic on you and not on the battlefield.

And yet, as you sat there, pouting, your body betrayed you with another sneeze. You groaned, rubbing at your nose, frustration mounting.

It wasn’t long before Gale returned to camp, the skirmish evidently over. His shoulders were tense as he approached, but the moment his eyes fell on you, his expression softened—though there was a flicker of amusement behind the concern.

“Sulking, are we?” Gale asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he knelt down beside you.

You crossed your arms, looking away stubbornly. “I’m not sulking.”

“You’re pouting,” Gale said gently, reaching out to brush his hand across your cheek. “And sneezing, and coughing. And if I recall correctly, you promised you weren’t sick.”

“I’m not,” you muttered, even as your nose twitched with another sneeze. “I can handle it.”

Gale’s smile widened just a bit, but it was laced with tenderness. He reached out, taking your hand in his, his thumb gently stroking the back of it. “You don’t always have to handle everything, you know. It’s okay to let someone take care of you.”

His words broke through your defenses, and you finally let out a sigh, the tension melting away. You knew he was right. You had been stubborn, pushing yourself when you really should have rested.

“I just… I don’t want to feel useless,” you admitted softly, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Gale’s expression softened even more, and he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“You could never be a burden,” he said quietly, his eyes full of warmth and love. “You are the strongest person I know, but even the strongest need time to heal. And I’m here to make sure you do.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in his voice making your heart swell. His fingers moved to brush a lock of hair away from your face, and he smiled that gentle, reassuring smile that always made you feel safe.

“Let me take care of you,” Gale said softly, his voice full of affection. “Please.”

With a final, resigned sigh, you nodded, leaning into his touch. “Alright… but only because you’re so insistent.”

Gale chuckled softly, pulling you into his arms as he wrapped the blanket more snugly around you. “Good. Now, no more sneaking off to join the battles, alright? Just rest here with me.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I suppose I can do that.”

And for the first time in days, you felt the tension ease from your body as Gale held you close, his warmth and love surrounding you, making you feel truly cared for.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The road to Baldur’s Gate stretched ahead, its path winding through dense forests and rocky terrain. The air had grown cooler as autumn settled in, its crisp bite seeping through your clothes, but you brushed off the chill as nothing more than an inconvenience. You'd felt the beginnings of a cold coming on a few days ago—scratchy throat, slight sniffles—but nothing you thought worth mentioning. After all, you were on an important journey, and the idea of staying behind to rest felt like a waste of time.

Unfortunately, your lover, Halsin, didn’t see it that way. As an elf, he was more attuned to subtle shifts in health, and your symptoms hadn’t gone unnoticed. He’d been doting on you since the first sign of a cough, worry etched into his brow every time he looked at you. It seemed that no matter how much you assured him you were fine, Halsin couldn’t shake his concern.

“Humans do not have the same resilience as elves,” he had reminded you, gently but firmly. “Your body needs rest and care, and I will see to it.”

At first, you found his attentiveness endearing. He always kept an extra blanket for you at night, made sure you had the warmest spot by the fire, and even brewed some herbal tea to ease your throat. But over the past few days, his doting had turned into something more… smothering. He hovered around you, always checking on you, insisting you rest when you wanted to help out with camp duties or join the others on patrol. It was sweet, but you were starting to feel like you were suffocating under his care.

Today, the group had been caught off guard by an ambush—nothing unusual on the dangerous road to Baldur’s Gate, but the sudden attack led to chaos, forcing everyone into battle positions. Despite your cold, you fought alongside your companions, determined not to be seen as fragile or incapable. Halsin had given you a worried look before the fight began, but he didn’t have time to protest as the enemy closed in.

In the thick of the battle, you found yourself backing toward the edge of a river, fighting off an attacker with all your strength. The cold air stung your lungs with every breath, and your body felt heavier than usual, but you pressed on, swinging your weapon to parry a blow. Just as you thought you had the upper hand, your foot slipped on the damp grass, and you tumbled backward—straight into the freezing river.

The shock of the cold water hit you like a hammer. It soaked through your clothes in an instant, chilling you to the bone as the current tried to sweep you downstream. For a moment, you gasped, disoriented, your body slow to react as you struggled to swim back to the shore.

Before you could even find your bearings, a pair of strong hands yanked you out of the water, hauling you onto the bank with ease. It was Halsin, his face a mixture of panic and determination as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you close to his chest.

“Halsin, I—” you tried to speak, but your teeth were chattering too hard.

“You’re freezing,” he growled, his deep voice rough with worry. Without another word, he lifted you as though you weighed nothing, carrying you away from the battlefield.

“Lae’zel! Take command!” Halsin called over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving you. Lae’zel, in the middle of fending off a foe, snapped her head in his direction.

“The battle isn’t over!” she barked, her eyes narrowing in frustration.

But Halsin didn’t falter.

“She is my priority,” he said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. “I will not risk her health.”

You wanted to protest, to tell him that you were fine, but the truth was the cold water had sapped your strength more than you cared to admit. Your body felt sluggish, and you could feel the deep chill settling into your bones. As much as you wanted to argue, Halsin’s warmth and the steady beat of his heart were oddly comforting, and you found yourself leaning into his embrace as he carried you back to camp.

When you arrived, Halsin wasted no time. He set you down gently by the fire, his brow furrowed as he grabbed blankets, piling them over you with an almost frantic determination. The fire crackled, its heat seeping into your chilled skin, but Halsin wasn’t satisfied with that alone. He knelt beside you, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of distress.

“I should have made you stay at camp,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with guilt. “I knew this journey was taking a toll on you, and yet I let you fight.”

“Halsin, really, I’m fine,” you croaked out, though your voice betrayed you with a shiver. But Halsin wasn’t convinced.

“You’re cold and drenched, and humans—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. You need to rest now.”

With that, he moved away from you, but only briefly. You watched as he took a deep breath, and with a shimmer of magic, he shifted into his bear form. The enormous creature padded over to you, its massive body radiating warmth. Gently, he nudged you, urging you to lean against him, and though you felt a bit ridiculous at first, you couldn’t deny how comforting his warmth was.

You settled against his side, your head resting on his thick fur, and immediately felt the tension in your body begin to melt away. His bear form was like a living furnace, enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth that made the fire seem like nothing more than a flicker.

As you relaxed against him, you heard the soft rumble of his breathing, steady and soothing. You knew Halsin had been fretting over you, and though you didn’t want to admit it, his smothering care wasn’t entirely unwelcome. It was comforting to know how deeply he cared for you, how fiercely he wanted to protect you, even when you insisted you didn’t need it.

“Maybe you’re right,” you mumbled sleepily, your head growing heavy against his warm fur. “I do need to rest.”

A soft rumble of approval came from Halsin’s bear form, and as you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in blankets and his protective embrace, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe being smothered by him wasn’t so bad after all.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Omfg this was so cute I absolutely adored writing this and there will definintely be a continuation with the other characters !! Hope you guys enjoyed this ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[nglgfics]

One track

(Based on an anonymous request for drunk and handsy Noel)

(18+)

Masterlist

Noel had long since tipped past “charming” into that sweet, slippery state where the alcohol stripped away any remaining filter — where his grin stretched wider, his touches lasted longer, and everything he said came out in a low, slurred rasp like it was meant for you alone. He wasn’t stumbling yet, but he leaned heavier when he laughed, moved slower when he shifted, like his body had decided it couldn’t be bothered with precision. He wasn’t thinking with his head anymore — not really. He was thinking with his cock, and every glance, every word, every shameless touch was pointed straight at you.

He was stretched out beside you in the booth like the seat belonged to him, like you belonged to him. One arm slung lazily behind your shoulders, the other resting on your thigh, his fingers curling and uncurling like they were bored of waiting. His leg pressed against yours, solid and hot, and it hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, mouth far too close to your ear. He leaned in as he spoke, just enough that his breath ghosted across your skin. “That’s suspicious. Either you’re thinking about kissing me… or you’re thinkin’ about killin’ me.”

You didn’t look at him. Just took another sip of your drink, slow and steady. “I’m counting how many people in here would cover for me if I strangled you with your shoelaces.”

Noel chuckled under his breath, slumping in closer like your threat had only made him hungrier. “Mmm. That’s what I like about you. Always flirting with intent.”

His hand — previously idle around your shoulders — dropped lower, brushing your upper arm, then dragging lazily down your side until it hovered just above your waist. His touch was warm, slow, and not nearly as subtle as he thought it was. There was no finesse left in him. Just want. And it radiated off him like heat.

“You’ve been pressed against me all night,” he said, voice thick with drink and certainty. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I’m trying not to fall off the bench.”

“You’re trying not to climb into my lap.”

You turned just slightly to face him, deadpan. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m focused,” he corrected, letting his fingers skate just under the hem of your shirt. “And I’m thinking about all the things I’m gonna do to you once we’re alone.”

Your hand caught his wrist as he tried to slip it higher under your shirt. “You’ve got no self-control.”

“I’ve got so much self-control,” he argued, slurring the word slightly as his hand settled low on your thigh. “That’s why I haven’t fucked you here, which believe me, has taken tremendous restraint.”

You shoved his face away, lightly. He let it happen, but kept laughing, head tipping back, exposing the curve of his throat — warm, flushed.

Then he leaned back in, nosed at your jaw with bold, tipsy affection, and said, “You’re gonna let me ruin you tonight. Aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer.

He took that silence as confirmation.

He stood up, a little too fast, catching himself on the table with a soft curse. “Alright. Time to go. I’m either getting you into bed or getting myself banned from this pub. Possibly both.”

Outside, the chill in the air bit at your skin, but Noel clung to you like you were the only warmth in the city. He leaned heavy into your side, arm tight around your waist, other hand wandering again — dragging across your lower back, brushing just under your coat, like he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you.

“You’re cold,” he muttered.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m ready.”

“For what?” you asked, dry.

“For you.” He grinned. “Under me. Over me. On your knees. Whatever’s easiest.”

“You’ve got a one-track mind.”

He leaned in, lips just behind your ear. “And you’re the track.”

Before you could respond — or punch him — a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, windows dark, engine quiet. His usual driver. No questions asked. No judgement.

Noel climbed in like he wasn’t totally sure where the seat ended and the door began, nearly knocking his knee, then reached back and pulled you in after him like he couldn’t bear the space between you. The second the door shut, it was warm, dim, private — and his hands were already on you again.

One on your thigh, firm and unrepentant. The other slipped behind your back, dragging you in against his chest as he pressed his mouth to the side of your neck, lips moving against skin.

“I want you the second we get through the door,” he whispered. “Jeans off. Tongue in you. Hands all over. I want you soaked before I even lay you down.”

“You try anything in this car,” you muttered, already breathless, “and I will push you out while it’s moving.”

He laughed, teeth flashing as he bit gently at your neck. “Kinky.”

You glared. “Not a compliment.”

“Not a complaint, either.”

You didn’t stop his hand.

And Noel — tipsy, tuned into nothing but you, and entirely too smug — knew it.

—-

You’d barely closed the front door before Noel had you pinned to it — not smooth, not graceful, just pure tipsy momentum, hands everywhere and mouth already open against your throat.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he slurred, voice rough with lust. “Jesus Christ, get your jeans off.”

His hands were already on your waistband — fumbling with the button like it was a riddle. He got it open after two tries, crowed with triumph, then gave up entirely and shoved your jeans and underwear down in one desperate, clumsy motion. You decided to help him and did the rest.

He dropped to his knees.

Not smoothly — he nearly went sideways with it, caught himself on your thigh, and laughed against your skin.

“Fuck, hang on — don’t move, I’ve got it, I’ve got—“

He was mumbling, breathing hard, already dragging your leg over his shoulder, face flushed, fingers squeezing your ass as he repositioned both of you like he was trying to solve a particularly filthy puzzle.

“Alright. Yes. That’s it. There you are.”

And then he buried his face in your cunt like he’d been waiting his entire life for the taste.

Sloppy. No finesse. Just tongue and desperation and hunger.

You gasped — hand flying to his hair, knees already trembling from the pressure. He groaned into you like your taste had knocked something loose in him, like he needed to drink you in or drop dead on the spot.

He didn’t lick in patterns. He didn’t tease. He just ate — tongue pressed flat and wide, then pointed, then open-mouthed again, licking like a man trying to win a bet with his ego.

And then came his nose.

You were grinding down onto his face now, slow and desperate, chasing it — chasing that maddening pressure — and he let you. Let you ride his mouth, his tongue licking deep and messy, while his nose pressed hard and perfect against your clit. The angle was brutal. Every movement sent it dragging right across that spot, again and again, sharper than fingers, more constant than lips.

Your thighs trembled, clamped around his head. His hands dug into your hips, pulling you down harder like he wanted to drown there, like the sounds coming out of you were better than oxygen.

The friction was devastating. That nose — sharp, steady, relentless — grinding into your clit while his tongue filled you, hot and wet and wild. You couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop the whimpers spilling from your mouth as he held you there and took it, groaning into your cunt like he was starving.

“Oh my—Noel—fuck—”

He groaned again, voice muffled by your cunt. “God, I love how loud you get when I do that.”

Then his fingers were inside you — two of them, thick and deep — and he was fucking them into you fast, sloppy, no rhythm, just pure messy intent.

“You’re gonna come,” he gasped against your clit, voice wrecked. “Come on, darling, give it to me. Let me fuckin’ feel it.”

You didn’t even get a warning out before you shattered — full-body, soaked, loud. You came with a gasp, hips jerking, thighs twitching, cunt clenching around his fingers and grinding hard against his mouth.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

Just groaned into you, licking through it, licking up everything you gave him like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fucking hell,” he murmured as he finally pulled back, face slick, blinking up at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “You taste like you wanna kill me.”

“You keep talking,” you panted, “and I might.”

He staggered a little as he stood — wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then kissed your jaw, your cheek, your lips, still breathing hard.

“Could die right here,” he muttered, voice ragged. “Your cunt’s the last fuckin’ thing I ever wanna taste.”

You managed to haul him into the kitchen with your hands on his hips and his mouth on your neck, laughing and muttering filth the whole way. He tripped over the threshold, grabbed your ass to catch himself, and kissed your shoulder.

“You need water,” you said, flipping on the light, grabbing a glass, trying to do the responsible thing. “You’re already halfway gone.”

“I’m not gone,” he said, half a moan, half a slur. “I’m hard.”

“You’re a walking liability.”

“I’m your liability,” he muttered, catching your wrist and pulling you toward him. “And you’ve been giving me fuck-me eyes since pint number three.”

You shoved the glass into his hand. “One drink. Then bed. Then maybe—”

He downed one sip, made a face, and immediately poured the rest into the sink.

“I’d rather choke on your cunt than water.”

You opened your mouth to call him a dickhead, but he was already on you — mouth crashing into yours, hands greedy and impatient, dragging down your sides like he couldn’t figure out where to touch first. His cock was pressed hot and heavy against your stomach, twitching with every breath.

“Noel—”

“No more stalling.”

He spun you, pushed you forward, and bent you over the kitchen table in one messy, gorgeous motion. The wood was cold against your bare skin, your chest flat against it, and he kicked your legs apart without ceremony, like he’d been dreaming of this all night and his body had just given in.

“You’re not serious—”

“I’m so serious.”

You heard him stroke himself once — the hiss through his teeth — and then he dragged the head of his cock through your folds, slow and deliberate.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered. “Still. Fuck. Can’t believe this is mine.”

He pushed in — thick, blunt pressure stretching you wide, no teasing, no warm-up, just a deep, hungry thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs.

You gasped. “Jesus—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “Take it. Fuck, love, take all of me.”

He grabbed your hips and started to move, each thrust sharp and loud, the table jerking slightly with every snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed through the kitchen, obscene and wet and perfect.

His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you back onto him as he fucked into you like it was the only thing keeping him upright. You felt every inch — the drag, the stretch, the maddening, relentless friction.

“You feel that?” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight I can barely move. You’re squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let me go.”

You moaned, high and broken, and he reached around you, hand sliding between your thighs to rub your clit in tight, messy circles.

“Yeah,” he muttered, breath ragged. “You’re gonna come. Gonna come just like this. Bent over your fuckin’ table, dripping on me. You love it, don’t you?”

You tried to speak — couldn’t.

Your orgasm hit fast, brutal, pulling a cry from your throat as your walls clenched down on him, your whole body shaking under the force of it.

Noel groaned, hips stuttering. “Fucking hell, that’s it, yeah, fuck, I’m gonna—shit—”

He pulled out last second, hand already working himself, and came with a grunt — thick, hot ropes of it landing across your lower back, your ass, your thighs.

He bent forward, forehead to your spine, both of you panting. His hands were still on your hips. Still claiming you.

After a long, breathless pause, he muttered into your skin:

“Fuck your water. That was better.”

You laughed — exhausted, sticky, and completely undone.

“Idiot.”

“Yours,” he said.

Then he kissed your spine, your shoulder, your cheek. Still wrecked. Still hard.

Still not done.

He stayed there for a beat, forehead resting against your back, his chest still rising fast against your spine. Then he pulled back, blinking like he’d just remembered you were human — not just heat and slick and sex.

“Shit,” he mumbled, breath still ragged. “I—fuck. Hang on.”

You barely had time to straighten up before he was reaching for a tea towel from the counter — the cleanest one he could find, which was saying very little. He dropped to one knee behind you, still pantless, still flushed, and started wiping gently at the come he’d left dripping down your thighs.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but his voice was soft. “Let me.”

He swiped carefully between your legs — too gentle for how drunk he was — and groaned quietly when his fingers grazed your folds again.

“Still fuckin’ wet,” he whispered. “Soaked. I should clean you up and leave you alone, but Christ, I don’t want to.”

You said nothing — just leaned into the table, breathing steady now, letting him touch without taking.

After a moment, he stood, tossed the towel somewhere vaguely in the direction of the sink, and kissed your shoulder.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Wanna crawl into bed with you and pretend I didn’t almost die from that.”

You got him into bed because he let you. He was pliant from the kitchen — heavy with satisfaction, unsteady on his feet, and too blissed-out to argue. But the moment his back hit the mattress, his hand reached for you again like it was instinct. Like he needed you skin-to-skin to keep breathing.

You settled beside him, legs still sticky, breath still uneven, and thought for a second he might pass out.

He didn’t.

Instead, his fingers slipped between your thighs again, slow and sure, like he was checking whether the mess he’d made of you earlier had really stuck. His breath caught.

“Still wet,” he muttered, voice thick and low. “Still so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You whimpered, barely a sound, hips shifting as he brushed your clit — just once, just enough.

His mouth was at your ear before you could find your voice.

“Fuck, I love this cunt,” he whispered, lazy and honest, every syllable heavy with the weight of truth. “Love how you open up for me. Like your body’s just waiting—drippin’ for it.”

You trembled, back arching slightly into his hand. He smiled, slow and drunk, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Always so fuckin’ ready. Doesn’t matter where we are. My fingers, my cock, my mouth — doesn’t matter. This sweet little thing just takes it.”

You gasped as he slipped one finger inside — slow, smooth, like a promise.

“Still tight,” he groaned. “Still clutchin’ me. Like you didn’t get enough of me earlier. Like you never fuckin’ will.”

He pressed his thumb to your clit again, lazy circles now, slow enough to make you ache. You shuddered under him, no words, just your breath stuttering between your teeth.

He kissed your neck — softer now — while his voice kept pouring out of him, thick and slurred but sharp as ever.

“Love makin’ you come. Love how greedy you get for it. The way your thighs shake… the way you soak me when you can’t help it. You need it, don’t you?”

You nodded, barely, hips rocking into his hand.

He groaned like the sound of your breath had cracked something open in his chest.

“I’d spend all fuckin’ day between your legs if you let me,” he slurred, fingers working slow and deep. “Mouth full of you, hands full of you… fuck, you taste like sin. I swear I’d live in your cunt if you let me set up a mattress.”

You gasped — part laugh, part moan — and he groaned at the sound like it was his undoing.

Your whole body twitched. He felt it — adjusted the curl of his fingers, pressed harder.

“You gonna give it to me again?” he rasped. “Yeah? Just like that? Let me feel it, darling.”

You came with a choked breath, no warning — just heat, pressure, release — your body locking down around him, thighs tight, cunt fluttering, legs shaking under his arm.

He held you through it, whispering filth into your skin like it was holy.

“Yeah. That’s it. That’s my fuckin’ girl. All mine.”

When your hips finally stilled, he sucked his fingers into his mouth — slow, eyes on yours — and let out a sound so filthy it made you shiver all over again.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Then he pulled you in, chest to your back, arm heavy around your waist, breath still ragged. His cock twitched once against your thigh, but he was spent, finally — drunk, full, quiet.

Still, his mouth didn’t stop completely. He pressed one last kiss to your neck and murmured, almost asleep:

“Don’t need to be sober to know your body like this.”

And then he was gone.

—-

He woke up groaning.

Not quietly, either — full-bodied, tragic, face buried in the pillow as his hand flailed blindly toward the nightstand like he was reaching for something that could save him.

You watched from where you were already sitting up, blanket around your waist, hair wild, coffee in hand. Smiling. Too smug for this early in the morning.

“You alive?”

Another groan. Longer. More pitiful.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you said sweetly.

He rolled onto his back like it hurt, squinting at the ceiling. His voice was barely a rasp. “Fuck. My tongue’s glued to the roof of my mouth.”

“Water’s in the kitchen.”

He let out a wounded sound, then pressed both hands to his face. “I feel like I got hit by a car. A sexy one. Driven by someone with very strong thighs.”

You bit back a laugh. “You remember anything?”

He peeked at you between his fingers. “…Some things.”

You sipped your coffee. “So you don’t remember telling me you’d rather choke on my cunt than water?”

Noel groaned again, dragging the blanket over his head. “Nooope. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, you did.” You set your mug down and leaned closer, tone innocent. “Also, you called my orgasm ‘sacred.’ And said your face belongs between my thighs ‘until I die.’”

He made a muffled noise under the blanket that might’ve been a whimper.

“Wait, there’s more,” you added brightly. “You called my pussy sweetness made flesh.”

“Okay, that sounds like me,” he muttered.

“And,” you continued, stretching it out now, “you said — and I quote — ‘I’d live in your cunt if you let me set up a mattress.’”

There was a long pause. Then the blanket slowly peeled down past his eyes.

“…Was I good, at least?” he mumbled, face half-buried in the pillow.

You sipped your coffee, slow and deliberate. “You tried to eat me out with one leg over your shoulder and nearly knocked us both over.”

He groaned. “Still sexy.”

“You bent me over the kitchen table without so much as a warning, came all over my back, then nearly passed out on top of me.”

He made a muffled noise that might’ve been pride.

You leaned in slightly, voice light. “Then you fingered me while whispering about how holy my orgasms are. Real poetic, by the way.”

He cracked one eye open, grinning, wrecked. “…Still sounds like a win.”

You smiled back, just as smug. “Oh, it was. For me.”

He grinned. “So you came?”

You looked at him. “Twice.”

“Then I regret nothing.”

You laughed as he finally sat up — wincing, groaning — and pulled you into his lap, still naked, still warm, still smug.

He pressed a kiss to your temple and muttered into your hair, “Even hungover, I’d ruin you again if I thought I could stay upright.”

“Oh, you can’t.”

“I know.”

He groaned again. You kissed his jaw.

And somewhere between his groaning and the headache and the vague, crooked grin he gave you, you smiled.

Because he was still here. Still wrecked. Still yours.

And you were absolutely going to remind him of that mattress line for the rest of his life.

[ma1dita]

window shopping

'between certainties and doubts' installment & part of the mean!remus agenda, aka a moment from a terrifyingly convoluted teenage situationship between remus lupin and an unidentified Hogwarts student (x fem!reader) wc: 1.3k  a/n: a day trip with remus takes a bit of a turn. slight-mdni, talk about sex toys and him imagining you) anyways spencer's existed back then, but wasn't in the uk....but i don't care, fuck accuracy enjoy! feel free to send requests for them!

—

The car horn blares out front, making you drop your mascara tube and sending it rolling across the floor of your grandmother’s guest room.

“Shit,” you mutter, bending down from the vanity to reach for it in your rush to meet Remus downstairs.

He honks again, for longer this time—your head crashes against the wood of the desk and you howl in alarm.

“Darling, I think your boy is waiting for you outside! He’s gonna scare the neighbors!” Even so, you can hear the smile in her voice wafting up from the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon rolls spreading through the house.

“Tell him off Mimi! Almost ready,” you call out as you scramble to powder your face before leaving. By the time you’ve slipped your sandals on and checked yourself in the mirror for the last (fifteenth) time, you catch the tail end of your grandmother squeezing Remus’ reddening cheeks as he idles in the doorway.

“Could hear you speeding down the hill even without my hearing aids on,” she says with a sparse laugh, the years she’s lived folding into the creases that carry her smile, “Be safe you two, and get back here in one piece!”

“Yes, Mi. See you later,” he says with a grin, pulling you by the hand and intertwining your fingers as you release yourself from the old woman’s hold. You skip down the pathway with matching excitement and then he’s holding the car door open to let you slip in.

When he makes it around the car to get to the driver’s seat, you’ve pulled the car mirror down and open to finish your makeup, applying your blush and lip liner. The car starts with a roar, black smoke popping out from the exhaust. He’s shaking his head and chuckling as he looks back toward the road.

“What?” you say, eyes darting between the side of his face and the extreme focus it takes to smear your lips in a smooth coat of gloss.

“‘ve already seen you. No need for all of that, lovely. You look pretty today,” he reasons, a rough hand making its way over the console to play with the threads of your denim skirt. Smirking, you shut the mirror and flip the visor back up. You squeeze your thighs around his hand on what must be instinct or muscle memory, or both.

“I’m doing this to look good for myself, you know? Not everything’s about you,” you tease, your tongue rolling against the skin of your teeth to hold back a smile. The music is low in the background, the lush green hills of the Welsh countryside stretching out as far as you can see across the horizon. Remus rolls his eyes at that, grabbing your hand that’s still clutching your lipgloss tube and pressing a kiss against it. The other is still rubbing at what’s sure to become a bump on your head from earlier.

“S’that?”

“You rushing me earlier. Hit myself on a knob.”

It barely hurts anymore, just stings when you prod at it—but Remus is pulling over into the grass and you look at him in confusion, “Rem?”

He’s flipped the blinkers on and tugs you toward him to kiss your temple right where it hurts. You swear it’s like slathering the bump with Bruisewart balm, or maybe your brain’s done a hard reset at the feeling of his lips on your skin. When your eyes flutter open, he’s pressed another on your nose. You’re giggling now, and he seals the sound with a kiss on your lips—nevermind the fact his own now shimmer sweetly once he pulls back to look at you.

“Hi,” he murmurs, face stretching to a grin as you swipe his mouth with your thumb softly.

“Get back on the road, Lupin.”

—

“Civilization!”

Remus is pulling into the parking lot of the mall about an hour later, and you look like you’re ready to jump out the window and kiss the concrete. It’s been weeks since you’ve seen anything that resembles the city, and this outing is proof of that.

No one would want to be stuck in the countryside of Mold forever, after all.

“Alright, come on now,” he says, looping his arm with yours and the car locks with a beep beep!

Window shopping can actually be quite fun, Remus realizes—as the many times he’s done it before with his mam was because they were short on money, or when he’s with his boys, he’d have to tussle for them to not buy him things. His pockets had always been a bit lighter than most, especially considering that he goes to one of the most prestigious wizarding schools in the world.

He’s gotten used to it—but now he’s finding the fun in traipsing through stores with you and trying stupid things on for the hell of it. Neither of you are planning to buy anything from Selfridges, but he does enjoy sitting outside the waiting room and watching you come out in different outfits like it’s his own private show.

Of course, he sneaks backstage for a bit when the attendant goes on break.

Both your feet ache by the time you’ve made your way to the top floor of the mall, and still you look at everything in wonder. There’s a tiny assortment of things you purchased for your siblings in paper bags around the arm that Remus isn’t holding onto you with.

“What is this? Knockturn Alley?” he mumbles as you walk through the doorway of Spencer’s Gifts. The neon lighting casts a purple and red sheen on your hair as you walk past the walls of shirts and novelty items without looking back.

“It’s a fun store, Rem. Like Muggle Zonko’s.”

One second, he’s looking up at an iridescent lava lamp and marijuana leaves printed on shot glasses and the next second—you’re gone. The music is blaring overhead and Remus squints, looking over the tops of the aisles to try to see you in the dark store.

Merlin, they should turn the lights up in here.

He finds you in the corner, squeezing your shoulder, “Can’t run away like that, lovely. Thought I lost you.” Turning to him with a mischievous look, you pout jokingly, “Aww, is wittle Remus scared of the dark?” He scoffs and pokes at your side, hugging you from behind and nuzzling your hair.

“Whatcha lookin’ at any—Oh.”

You’re scanning over a wall of personal care items, a bunch of things he’s never seen or never even imagined, though he’s definitely accidentally kicked open the small box under Sirius’ bed in the dorm. Nothing compares to what he’s seeing here though—machines shaped like roses, glowing silicone, throat-numbing spray and—Holy Helga, that can fit in where?

You’re not facing him, hands securing his on your stomach as you arch your back toward him and he knows in his gut and the burning sensation that’s rising in his core that you’re getting such joy from throwing him off-guard like this.

“Needed to get new batteries for my rabbit. Or maybe something new, as a treat?”

“For who?” he smirks, stamping a kiss onto your collarbone at the idea of you playing with yourself in your nan’s guest room, fingers slick as you rub against your toy and muffle your moans into your pillow.

Or maybe you moan into the quiet of the night, knowing no one can hear. Remus’ throat dries up like a desert in an instant.

“Earth to Remus.”

“Hmm?” he mumbles, clearing his throat. His jeans are uncomfortably tight, firm against your backside as you crane your head up to look at him, “Ready to go?”

He grabs the small, pink bullet out of your hand and places it back on the shelf—picking out a blue remote controlled one instead, with his other hand still grazing your waist.

And then he makes his first and only purchase of the day.

—

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