#and rumpled intensity is very much that for me

[pin-k-ink]

for haikyuu thirsts, atsumu drunk and choking reader while overstimulating them, not caring if they ask him to stop or slow down (reader likes it, duh)

orrrr bokuto "just the tipping" but he can't help how good it feels and goes all the way

ardor // miya atsumu

tw ⇢ mention of alcohol consumption, needy!tsumu, praise kink, unprotected sex, asphyxiation, overstimulation, cunnilingus, fingering, squirting, mention of pregnancy

wc ⇢ 2.4k

a/n: i wanted to write for bo so bad but i felt like atsumu deserves his own fic since osamu got one too. i’ll write a longer one someday

Atsumu stumbled through the doorway, the apartment quiet except for the faint sounds of a TV playing in the living room. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he spotted you curled up on the couch, eyes glued to whatever show was on the screen.

He paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of you looking so cozy and at home in his space. Your hair was pulled up in a messy bun, a few stray strands falling around your face. The dim lighting from the TV cast flickering shadows that danced across your features as you nibbled absentmindedly on your lower lip, completely absorbed.

Atsumu's heart swelled with a fierce tenderness. After being surrounded by raucous teammates all night at the MSBY Black Jackals' end-of-season party, coming home to find you here waiting for him made everything feel right in his world again.

You jumped slightly when he finally shuffled further into the room, head swiveling towards the noise. "Atsumu? There you are." You blinked a few times, taking in his rumpled appearance and glazed eyes. "Geez, what time even is it? The team party must have been really fun if you're just getting back now."

"Not much fun without ya there," he slurred, kicking off his shoes in a haphazard trail towards the couch before flopping down beside you. He immediately nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your comfortingly familiar scent. "Couldn't stop thinkin' about ya all night, babe."

You laughed softly at his drunken antics, giving his disheveled blonde hair an affectionate ruffle. "Is that so? Well, I'm just glad you made it home safe."

Atsumu pulled back reluctantly, hands coming up to cradle your face as he studied your features with an intense yet unfocused gaze. His thumb stroked along the curve of your cheekbone as his eyes roamed hungrily over you.

"Have I told ya how gorgeous ya are today?" His voice was low and rough with longing. "Because ya are. Stunning."

You felt your cheeks warm at his unabashed admiration, suddenly very aware of your casual lounge wear and lack of makeup compared to how you'd been dolled up the last time he had seen you a few days ago.

"Once or twice," you murmured back, trying for a teasing tone to hide your self-consciousness. "But I don't mind hearing it again."

Atsumu's lips curved into a slow, heated smile at your words. He leaned in closer, movements heavy and intoxicated yet brimming with yearning. You shivered at the feeling of his warm breath fanning across your skin as he paused, just inches from your mouth.

"Then let me show ya how much I mean it..."

His lips finally met yours in a searing, hungry kiss that left you dizzy and aching for his touch. Months of long separations and lonely nights apart came pouring out as you clutched desperately at him. Your fingers threaded through his silky hair, pulling him even closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

What started soft and tender quickly grew more heated and frantic, like a dam finally bursting under the relentless pressure of long-restrained passion.

Their kisses deepened, growing hungrier and more desperate with each heated exchange. Atsumu's hands roamed reverently over your body, mapping out the curves he had committed to memory yet could never get enough of. You arched into his touch with a soft whimper, craving to be even closer.

He obliged by pulling you fully into his lap, the new position allowing no space between your bodies. One of his hands threaded into your hair to angle your head how he wanted while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, keeping you flush against him.

You could feel the hard planes of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and yearned to rid yourself of the barriers between you both. Your fingers toyed with the hem of his top before slipping boldly underneath, seeking out the heated skin below.

Atsumu's breath hitched at the feeling of your fingertips gliding across his abs and he pulled away from the kiss, breathing ragged. His eyes were dark with arousal and his gaze was fixed firmly on your kiss-swollen lips.

"I wanna taste every part of ya," he growled, hands clenching involuntarily where they rested on your hips. "Every inch. Wanna hear ya moan my name over 'n over again until it's all ya can remember."

You loved the way he always seemed to know exactly what you craved, pushing boundaries while still treating you like something precious. A shuddering gasp escaped your lips when his tongue delved deeper, stoking the simmering fire between you both.

Atsumu growled low in his throat, the vibration sending sparks dancing along your nerves. Without breaking the searing kiss, he deftly maneuvered until you were stretched out beneath him on the couch. His solid weight pinned you deliciously in place as you arched shamelessly against him, desperate for friction.

"Babe..." he groaned when you nipped at his full lower lip. "Need you...so bad..."

You tugged impatiently at his shirt, wanting nothing more than to run your hands all over his bare skin. His mouth left yours briefly to allow the fabric to slip over his head, and then he was pressing feverish kisses down your jaw and neck, leaving no part untouched.

His large, calloused hands slipped under the hem of your loose tank top, caressing the sensitive skin of your stomach before slowly pushing the material up and exposing your torso to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened when they met the cool air, and you whimpered as his hot mouth began to make its way further south, stopping to lavish attention on the delicate curve of your breast.

"So gorgeous, babe," he breathed, the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips on your skin making you tremble.

One of his hands palmed the neglected mound while his mouth teased the nipple, teeth scraping lightly over the pebbled flesh before his tongue swirled and soothed. The contrast between sharp and soft had you panting and writhing, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Atsumu took his sweet time, working you over until your legs were quaking and you could barely stand it anymore. Just when you thought you couldn't take it anymore, he switched his attention to the other side, his free hand trailing fire over the sensitized skin his mouth had just left.

When he finally moved on, your nerves were singing with electricity, his every touch and whisper sending shockwaves rippling through you. The ache between your legs throbbed insistently, begging for attention. You whined in protest when he began moving away, your body craving the delicious pressure of his weight atop you.

Atsumu grinned up at you from where he had settled between your thighs, his face flushed with arousal and hair sticking up from where you had pulled and tugged on the strands.

"Don't worry, babe. Gonna give ya exactly what ya need..."

Your breath caught in your throat at the lustful promise in his tone, the anticipation only heightening the thrill. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and panties, slowly sliding the two pieces of clothing down your legs until you were completely exposed to him.

His gaze raked over your nude form with unabashed hunger, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "So fucking beautiful."

You felt your face flush at the raw desire in his voice, and shifted restlessly under the intensity of his gaze. He held your eyes as he lowered his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, his tongue flicking out to taste the soft skin.

"And ya taste so fuckin' good too," he groaned, licking his lips as if savoring the taste.

His hot mouth made its way higher, and higher, until he was nosing along the crease of your thigh, so close to where you desperately needed him yet maddeningly far.

"Atsumu, please," you whimpered, hips bucking slightly towards his mouth.

He chuckled at your obvious impatience, the puff of air sending sparks of pleasure dancing across your sensitive skin. "Always so eager for me, huh babe?"

Your only response was a wordless whine, and Atsumu finally took pity on you. He buried his face between your legs, tongue delving eagerly into the wet heat. A moan of pure relief tumbled from your lips as he began lapping greedily at your dripping core, like a man starved.

You writhed helplessly against his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his messy locks. The pressure inside was building, coiling tighter and tighter, and the only sounds in the room were your panting gasps and the wet noises of Atsumu's ministrations.

And then, suddenly, he stopped.

"N-no!" you cried, unable to stop the plaintive sound from escaping.

The bastard actually had the audacity to chuckle at your indignation, the sound dark and sinful as his eyes flashed up to meet yours.

"Shhhh, babe. Be a good girl and stay nice 'n still for me, alright?"

Before you could respond, he ducked his head once more. But instead of going back to work on your dripping center, Atsumu began to explore your folds.

"Gotta get ya ready for me, babe," he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. "Can't wait to fill ya up 'n fuck ya on the couch."

You whimpered at the dirty words, unable to form a coherent response as his mouth worked over you, alternating between soft kitten licks and broad strokes of his tongue. He traced every crease and dip, mapping out your most intimate parts with an almost reverent attention to detail.

When you felt a long finger slip inside, you could no longer hold back your moans. He pumped in and out, curling upwards with each thrust and stroking over that hidden bundle of nerves. Soon another finger joined, scissoring and stretching your tight entrance, preparing you for what was to come.

By the time a third finger slipped inside, you were a writhing, whimpering mess. Every muscle in your body was tensed in anticipation, hovering right on the edge.

"Please, Tsumu," you panted, hands scrabbling at the couch cushions, "I'm so close..."

Atsumu groaned and doubled his efforts, pumping and curling his fingers with purpose. His hot mouth sealed around your throbbing clit, tongue lashing relentlessly over the swollen bud until your entire world narrowed down to that single point of contact.

The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, spiraling higher and higher, until finally it snapped, sending you toppling over the edge. You threw your head back with a loud cry, eyes squeezed shut and toes curled in ecstasy. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, the intensity nearly overwhelming.

Atsumu kept working you through your orgasm, drawing it out until the pleasure was almost too much. When you finally came down from your high, body trembling and skin flushed, he slowly withdrew his fingers, giving one final lick to your dripping core.

You opened your eyes blearily, dazed and satiated, and watched him rise up from between your legs. He had a cocky grin on his face, clearly pleased with the effect he'd had on you.

"Enjoy yerself, babe?"

You could only manage a breathy laugh in response, still coming down from the intense high. Atsumu stood up from the couch and tried to shuck off his jeans and boxers, nearly stumbling over in his inebriated state.

Your eyes drank in the sight of his chiseled torso, broad shoulders, and toned arms, and followed the line of dark hair down his sculpted abs until your gaze landed on his straining erection. It was long and thick, curving upwards and already slick with pre-cum.

Atsumu noticed you staring and grinned, stroking a hand over his length. "Like what ya see, babe? Ya want it?"

You licked your lips, nodding eagerly.

"Ya gotta ask nicely, babe," he teased, eyes darkening with lust as he continued stroking himself. To goad you even further, he gently tapped your mound with the head of his cock, leaving a very prominent stain of his precum on your skin.

"Please, Tsumu," you murmured, voice low and sultry. "I need you inside me. Need to feel you stretching me open, filling me up..."

A low groan rumbled in his throat at your words, and he wasted no time positioning himself between your spread legs, rubbing the head of his cock along your soaked slit.

You gasped when the tip breached your entrance, the stretch already making you feel deliciously full. Atsumu gripped your hips tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and began to slide slowly, torturously, inch by inch.

It was almost too much, the overwhelming sensation of his thick length stretching you open and filling you so perfectly. Your inner walls clenched down tightly, as if trying to draw him even deeper.

"Fuck, yer so tight, babe," Atsumu groaned, voice strained. "Feels so good, ya have no idea..."

Finally, he bottomed out, hips flush against yours and every inch of him sheathed inside. You moaned at the feeling of being completely filled, your walls fluttering around him.

Atsumu braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. The heat in his gaze was almost enough to burn you.

"Yer mine, babe. All mine."

"Yes, yes, I'm yours," you whimpered, arching against him and seeking more friction. "Now please, fuck me, Tsumu!"

He smirked at your breathless plea, fingers curling around your neck so he could kiss your mouth once again, tongue sweeping into your mouth and swallowing your moans as he pulled his hips back and snapped them forward.

Your cry was muffled against his lips as he set a relentless pace, pounding into you with deep, hard thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your moans and his grunts, filling the room.

One of his hands slid down to grip your hip, fingers pressing bruises into the soft flesh, while the other kept its grip on your throat, just enough pressure to send sparks dancing across your skin. You couldn't move, couldn't do anything but take everything he gave you, and it was the most exhilarating experience.

The coil inside you was winding tight again, and Atsumu could tell from the way you clenched around him. He leaned down to growl in your ear, grip tightening around your neck until you were gasping for air. "You gonna cum for me, pretty? Go on. Cum for me…"

And that was all it took for the tension to snap, a tidal wave of pleasure washing over you. Your back arched off the couch, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a silent scream as the orgasm ripped through you.

Atsumu showed no signs of slowing down, and the sensation was almost too much. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure-pain shooting up your spine.

"Too much, Tsumu," you pleaded, trembling from overstimulation.

He didn't answer, merely tightened his grip on your neck and increased his pace, the sloppy wet noises of his cock slamming into you even louder now.

"Tsumu!"

He released your throat suddenly, and the rush of oxygen sent your head spinning. Atsumu gripped both your hips in a bruising hold, lifting them slightly so he could hit a new angle, and then his rhythm was faltering, thrusts becoming erratic.

"Fuck, babe, gonna cum," he gasped, the veins in his arms straining as his grip tightened. "Gonna fill ya up so good, make ya all mine."

His words sent another spark of arousal through you, and you felt your walls clenching down on him. With a few more desperate thrusts, he slammed his hips forward one last time and emptied himself inside you, thick ropes of cum painting your insides.

You could feel his cock twitching and pulsing, the sensation sending you careening over the edge for a third time. Your body was shaking and trembling, every muscle quivering and the velvety walls of your pussy undulating around him as you gushed and sprayed your juices all over his abdomen.

As you came down from the high, the full realization of what had just transpired slowly dawned on you. Atsumu had been too intoxicated to think about protection, and his release had spilled deep inside you.

"What if you got me pregnant?" you asked worriedly, propping yourself up on an elbow.

"Would be the best day of my life," he replied instantly, a lazy smile curving his lips as he rolled onto his side and gathered you close.

[dandelions-143]

Obsession

Minho Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Paring: Rich non-idol Minho x Dancer curvy/midsize fem!reader

Word count: 2,685 k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, you will be blocked if you don’t have an age in your bio or you’re under age. Explicit Content, Sexual Situations, Adult Themes, Substance Use, Strong Language.

Summary: Minho becomes captivated by a dancer named Y/n, feeling an intense connection and possessiveness towards her which leaves Minho coming back for more almost nightly. But is Minhos possessiveness really just that… or is it bordering an obsession.

Minho fell back on the large California king bed. His sweaty back hit the rumpled black silk sheets, causing the fabric to stick to him slightly. He watched as Jisung had a pretty redhead on all fours, taking her from behind. Minho was exhausted, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

He had just finished, so the exhaustion was a relief. All the tension left his body, at least for a while. He was always tense and on edge, and sex was usually the only way to relieve that tight tension.

Minho reached over to the nightstand to grab a pack of cigarettes just as Jisung finished with the girl. “Thanks, that was amazing as always.” Then Jisung fell back on the end of the bed, trying to catch his breath.

The girl got up from the bed, grabbed her clothes and money from Jisungs dresser by the door. “See you boys, same time next week,” she said matter-of-factly. Jisung smiled and nodded in approval, but Minho just stared at the ceiling, taking a long drag from his newly lit cigarette.

A silence fell over the two men before Minho began to chuckle. “You know, if we keep this up, people are going to start thinking we fuck each other as well.” This made Jisung laugh out loud, his big eyes going even rounder than usual. “It’s not like we haven’t come close before. I mean, a threesome is a threesome.” The men just chuckled at themselves.

To many, this would seem very odd: two grown men who are best friends engaging in threesomes with beautiful women and occasionally very handsome men. But to them, it was normal. They lived harsh lives despite the rich and lavish lifestyles of their parents. These moments of sexual intimacy gave them both a way to release any pent-up anger or tension. They couldn't care less how it looked to the outside world. It wasn't a secret, but they did keep it from their families, especially their fathers.

Minho began to sit up to pick up his clothes from the floor. He needed to get home and shower before meeting up with Hyunjin, who had recently been employed by his father. He felt bad for the guy; his life had been a train wreck lately, and Minho wanted to help him as best as he could. “Where are you going?” Jisung asked as Minho pulled on his black boxers.

“I have to go meet up with Hyunjin. Show him the ropes and get him settled in. You know my dad recently hired him as one of his carriers, right?” Minho said, pulling on his shirt and then his pants. Jisung, still lying on the bed, only nodded. “Yeah, let’s hope he does a good job. If he gets caught with that much dope...” Jisung didn't need to finish his sentence; they both knew what would happen. It had already happened to Chan once. Thank God his father was disgustingly rich and had his hands in the police force, or Chan would probably still be rotting in prison.

A thought crossed Minho's mind. Hyunjin didn’t have a wealthy father; he only had his friends and the money he earned himself. Minho wanted to ensure Hyunjin stayed safe. Just as Minho was putting on his shoes, his phone rang. He sighed, not in the mood to talk to anyone except Jisung. But when he saw his father’s name flash on the screen, he answered on the third ring.

“Hello.”

“Mhm… well- oh, okay.”

“Yeah, I’m headed there now. Okay, thanks. Mm, bye.”

Minho hung up the phone and stood from the end of the bed. He turned to Jisung as he tucked in his shirt. “I hope you have a suit. Meet me here around 10 tonight. It seems a business deal we set up went through, and both our fathers were paid very handsomely for it. So they are going to treat us tonight once I’m finished with Hyunjin.”

Jisung sat up at the sound, his pretty, toothy smile showing shamelessly. “What kind of treat are we getting?” He began to get up, the silk sheets sliding off his naked body. “Not sure yet, but I’ll let you know once I find out. I gotta run. See you later.” Just as Minho was slipping out the door, he heard Jisung's phone ringing, knowing it was probably his father calling to tell him the same thing.

After hours of showing Hyunjin how Minho's father liked things done and then actually taking him on a small drug run, he was annoyed and slightly spent. He walked through his front door and there sat Jisung, man splayed on his couch in a black-on-black suit. “Oh come on... it’s not even 10 yet,” Minho groaned when he saw his best friend.

He just was not in the mood to deal with Jisung's sunny disposition. Jisung only smiled widely with a little shrug. “I had nothing else to do, so I got ready and came over to wait on you.” Minho only scoffed and headed to his master bedroom where he could shower and get ready.

After about 20 minutes, Minho emerged in a similar-looking black suit, but he was wearing a crimson red shirt under the suit jacket. It was unbuttoned quite a bit. His hair was slicked back, a few strands falling in his eyes. “Did you ever find out where we are going?” Jisung asked as he got up from the couch, straightening out his suit and running a hand through his hair.

Minho spoke as they left his home and got inside the waiting black car parked in front. “We are going to that gentleman’s club my father just opened a month ago. He said he’s got us a private room together or we can have a private room for each of us. He said to do as we pleased.” Minho had a soft smirk on his face when Jisung giddily clapped his hands, “Hell yeah, I’m so ready to have some boobs in my face.”

Minho chuckled at Jisung, “Do you even know what a gentleman’s club is?” Jisung's smile dropped a bit, “Umm, a strip club?” He spoke slowly, unsure of the answer he was giving. Minho only smiled and looked out the tinted window from his position in the back seat, “Close enough.”

It didn’t take too long to get to the gentleman’s club. The place was in a very expensive part of town, near some of the most high-end hotels and three-star Michelin restaurants. The building itself was rather large, but simple on the outside. More discreet than one would expect, but once the two men stepped inside, the simple and discreet atmosphere was completely gone.

The establishment was VIP only. You had to have a membership to even get in, and that was a lengthy process in itself. But, of course, Minho and Jisung walked right through the doors as if they owned the place. The entire club was lit up with red lights, black velvet furniture, and everything was trimmed in gold.

There was a large stage with a live band playing. Booths covered in red velvet lined the walls and other areas. Each section had a smaller stage with a singular pole in the middle. There was also a bar where people could sit and order drinks. Waitresses were running about taking orders because, of course, you could have an elegant dinner here as well.

Girls were dancing to the music in barely-there lingerie, spinning and twirling on the poles, but none of them were naked, and most looked very put together. Minho heard Jisung whistle and nudge his arm. “This place is… way different from the strung-out strippers we have enjoyed in the past.”

Just then, a petite older woman clad in a very pretty dark green cocktail dress walked up to them. Jisung was instantly enthralled with her. “Will you two follow me? Your room is ready for you.” She turned on her heel to lead them through the crowd and to the back down a dark hallway. As they came to a stop at one of the closed doors, Jisung smiled sweetly at what he assumed was the hostess, “Do you dance as well?” he asked, leaning against the door in the coolest way he could.

Minho shook his head and opened the door, causing Jisung to stumble inside the room. He let out a soft yelp before he fell completely onto the plush carpet of the room. “Damn! Why’d you have to do that! She was gorgeous.” Jisung complained as he got himself up and walked over to the black sofa, plopping down onto the cushions. “She works for your dad, she’s his secretary. I don’t think you fucking the secretary would go over well with him.”

Jisung huffed out an annoyed sigh, “And how do you even know that?” Minho simply tapped the side of his temple, “I pay attention, something you should do more of.” The men were interrupted by a light knock on the door and then two waitresses came in with food and a large bottle of their favorite drinks. Minho politely thanked them as they left. His father must have really made sure they were well taken care of.

Jisung was rattling off about having to wait too long for their private show to start when this sultry, hypnotic beat began to play. The song had a slow, seductive rhythm. The atmosphere in the room shifted, becoming more intimate and charged with a sense of anticipation. Jisung instantly shut up when a very beautiful woman stepped out onto the stage.

Minho's eyes were transfixed on you, your body curvy and soft, with an hourglass figure that moved gracefully to the rhythm of the music. Your skin glowed under the dim, seductive lighting, and every curve was accentuated by the delicate, barely-there lingerie you wore. Your presence exuded confidence and allure, making it impossible to look away.

He felt his heart race as his eyes locked onto yours for the first time. His breath caught in his throat, and it felt as though time had slowed down. Every detail of your appearance, from the delicate curve of your smile to the graceful way you moved, captivated him completely. A warmth spread through his chest, and he couldn't help but be mesmerized by your beauty. It was as if everything else in the room faded away, leaving only you in sharp focus.

“Holy fuck..” Minho heard his best friend exclaim beside him, “She’s gorgeous.” Now Minho was not a possessive person, especially over someone he hasn’t even met. He had only laid eyes on you but, oh man did he want to have you all to himself. He didn’t like the way Jisung was speaking about you.

Minho leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes following every sensual move you made. You could feel both of the men’s eyes on you and this was nothing new to you. Working at this club and other clubs in the past, men were always around, always ogling you, always stupidly drooling over you like they had never seen a woman before.

But what made this encounter different is one of the men was watching you in a way you had never been looked at before. His eyes were extremely pretty and focused, not on your body but, your face. He kept making eye contact with you and it made you feel shy.. you never felt shy.

Minho felt Jisung tap him on the arm with the back of his hand. “Hey, do you think she would be down for more than just a dance?” Jisung was alluding to their usual threesomes they liked to partake in, but Minho was not interested in that. “I think she would be for the right price, you know?” Jisung just kept talking. Minho wanted his friend to just... shut up so he could enjoy you.

When you made eye contact with Minho once more as you dropped to your knees in a sensual move you had done many times before, he muttered, “Ji, get out.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t sound mad or angry; he just simply told Jisung to leave the room.

Jisung, of course, laughed a little as if he thought Minho was just joking. “What?”

“Leave the room, now.” Minho never took his eyes off you, even as you twirled easily around the pole. “But—” Jisung began, but Minho cut him off, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Jisung, get the fuck out.” He didn’t care where his friend went at this point. He didn’t care if he found another room, stayed at the bar in the main hall, or just simply went home, but he suddenly didn’t want anyone else’s eyes on you... especially not his best friend's.

Jisung let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes dramatically as he stood up from the couch. “Fine, fine, I’m going,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He took one last glance at the stage, clearly frustrated by the abrupt interruption of their evening. With a huff, he made his way to the door, his footsteps heavy against the plush carpet. As he reached for the handle, he cast a final glance back at Minho, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity flickering in his eyes, before exiting the room and shutting the door behind him with a definitive click.

Minho leaned back, relaxing against the couch just as the first song ended. You moved like this was just another night as the next song began, but you heard the handsome man speak directly to you this time. “You don’t have to dance anymore.” It sounded so sweet... his voice was soft and calming even. Not at all what you expected to come from him.

With his angular face, his sharp pretty eyes, and pouty lips. “Come sit with me.” He wasn’t asking so... since you were being paid for this, you did as he said. As you got closer, you could see a few tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Before you could plant your curvy, thong-clad ass on the sofa, this man stands, takes off his suit jacket, and places it around your shoulders... to cover you up.

This was not normal... not for you... and not while you were working. Even though this wasn’t a place where the women got naked on stage, you never wanted to cover up. “You don’t like what you see?” you asked, trying to sound a bit playful but also trying to see exactly what this man was doing. If he wasn’t here to see your body, then why the fuck was he here?

You watched as his pouty lips quirked to the side in the most adorable little smirk. “I actually love what I see, but I can’t concentrate and talk to you when your body is just… out for me like that.” You raised a brow at him, a questioning look on your face. “You want to talk to me?” The question came out in an astonished way.

He simply nodded, “Mm, I’m Minho and you are?” he asked, holding his hand out for you to take. With his suit jacket off now, you saw more of him. His hands were slender but not overly large, and black tattoos peeked out from the sleeve of his button-up. His build, from what you could tell, was muscular but not overly so. The more you looked at him, the more truly handsome you realized he was. His eyes though... they were the best part of him. They were not small but not large. Sharp and dark, they had this sparkle about them... like a fire was lit in them. It made you self-conscious but not in a bad way.

You took his hand, finally, “I'm Y/n.” As your hand met his, a surge of electricity seemed to pass between you both. Minho felt an unexpected warmth and a sense of connection that was almost tangible. The callouses on his hand, a testament to his tough life, contrasted with the softness of your touch, creating a moment of profound intimacy. You, on the other hand, was struck by the firmness and confidence in Minho's grip, feeling a blend of curiosity and a strange comfort. You both were momentarily lost in the sensation, realizing that this simple handshake held the promise of something deeper.

Eventually, you pulled your hand away, almost too swiftly. Your eyes broke away from the intense stare he was giving you. “So...” you slid his jacket from your shoulders, exposing the lacy black lingerie once again, “What do you want? Another dance?” You leaned closer to him, trying to slip back into work mode. “Or... I can do a lot more than dance... your father said to give you whatever you wanted.” You began to slide your hand up his arm, feeling his muscles flexing beneath his deep red dress shirt.

Just as your hand began to cup his cheek, he gently grabbed your hand and placed it down on your lap. “You’re free to go,” he simply said. Minho didn’t look angry; he didn’t look upset... he was calm. You watched as the man stood, a very evident hard-on in his pants, and you could tell he was a bit embarrassed by this. The very first crack in his very cold, hard mask.

As he walked towards the door, he glanced back at you once more, gave you a little nod as if to say thank you, and then he was gone.

He took a moment to lean his shoulder up against the wall just outside the door. What the fuck… Minho thought to himself. He had never felt so many emotions all at once due to a woman. His heart was pounding, his hands were clammy, he couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful you were. It almost made him sick as to how weak in the knees this woman HE DID NOT KNOW made him feel.

Every night for the next two weeks, Minho booked all your time. You didn’t dance for anyone else or in the main hall for the crowd. You only danced in that same private room and only for Minho.

He watched you silently, with a stoic expression, his intense dark brown eyes the only sign of emotion. He never spoke to you again like he did that first night; he just watched, sipping his whiskey or bourbon. You found yourself wanting to talk to him more each time you saw him.

You were curious about this man who only wanted to look at you without touching. On this particular night, Minho seemed anxious. He wasn't exactly distracted since he kept his eyes on you, but he kept fidgeting. His hands ran through his dark hair, messing it up, and his leg bounced a little. He was drinking more than usual.

When the last song ended, you stopped him from leaving. “Minho...” you said softly from your kneeled position on the stage. He paused mid-stride, his back turned to you. He didn’t respond, but he was listening. “Are you alright?” you asked, feeling the need to check on him.

You heard him sigh softly before turning to face you. “Don’t I look alright?” he replied, his eyes pinning you down, making you feel self-conscious again. You slowly stood up, your heels softly clicking on the stage as you walked over to him. “No, you don’t. You seem anxious. You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m here to help.” You reached out, sliding a hand over his and up his arm.

Minho jerked away and bit down on his bottom lip. “I- I don’t like to be touched like that.” You thought it was odd, so you tilted your head in curiosity. “But then how do you love a woman or a man? You have to touch and be touched.” A soft smirk formed on Minho's lips. “If you’re talking about sex, then I don’t love or make love… I fuck. As far as domestically loving someone,” he paused, “That has never happened and will never happen.”

His last sentence seemed final, as if he didn’t want to continue the conversation. Minho turned to leave again, but you caught his hand, which he didn’t pull away from this time. “Why do you book me every night I work? Doesn’t it get boring seeing the same girl on stage every time?” You were genuinely curious, but a part of you didn’t want him to leave just yet. You liked the energetic, charged feeling he gave you. There was a static in the air between you two, and you looked forward to it.

Minho turned around, taking a stride closer to you. He was so close you could feel his body heat. Leaning in, his lips almost touching yours, he whispered, “No one else is allowed to see you but me. You’re my dancer.” His voice in your ear did interesting things to you, curving your back and parting your lips. As he pulled back, your eyes met his, holding that stare.

Then you said the words you never said to any client, “Let me touch you.” You never made sexual advances like this, always making sure clients knew you weren’t offering sex for money. But with Minho, you wanted to see what his body could do to you. You wanted to be the one he allowed to touch him.

Your eyes dipped to his lips as his tongue licked over his bottom lip. For a moment, you thought he would refuse, but then he said, “Sit.” He pointed to the couch. You didn’t hesitate and sat down on the plush couch. Minho gently pushed your shoulders back so you were leaning completely against the back of the couch.

You watched this beautiful man, who probably never knelt for anyone, sink to his knees in front of you. He began taking off your heels, dropping them to the side. Then his warm hands slid up your calves, over your knees, to your thighs. Your skin was on fire wherever he touched, and the anticipation made your chest rise and fall dramatically. Minho's eyes were focused on one spot directly between your thighs as he spread your legs apart.

“I said I wanted to touch you..” Your voice was timid and soft. His touch made it hard to think. Those eyes shot up to yours, piercing deeply, “I don’t like to be touched, but I will gladly touch you.” And just like that, you were his, at least in that moment.

Minho's hands slid up to your hips, gripping them firmly and yanking you towards him, causing your ass to rest on the edge of the cushions. He hooked a finger in the gusset of your lacy, light blue, slightly transparent bodysuit, pulling it aside to expose your very wet pussy. You swore you heard a soft rumble deep within his chest as he looked at you, vulnerable and ready for him.

Minho wasted no time, leaning closer and biting at the inside of your thighs, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. His teeth on you were unexpected but felt amazing. Then his soft, wet tongue was on you, slowly licking between your wet folds. Minho stayed silent, but his face said volumes. His eyes locked on your face, filled with lust. His hands massaged and kneaded your thighs as he licked slowly over your entire pussy.

When your legs began to tremble from the intense pleasure, he finally latched his lips onto your clit, sucking gently. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn't help but moan loudly. Minho's eyes never left yours, and the connection felt electric and undeniable.

“Fuck!” you mumbled, lifting your hips and tangling your hands in his hair, tugging as his suction became more intense. His hands moved from your thighs to your ass, lifting you just enough to grab handfuls of your flesh.

“Minho.. Minho.. don’t stop.” You chanted, soft sighs and whimpers escaping constantly. The moment you began chanting his name, he seemed charged with even more need to please you. He pressed his tongue in and out of your needy hole, his entire face pressed into your pussy, his nose sliding up and down your swollen clit.

Minho wasn't afraid to get all your juices on him, loving your smell and taste. His cock grew extremely hard in his pants. It was uncomfortable, but he endured just to see you laid out like this, a dinner only for him.

As your orgasm built, your body reacted uncontrollably, your back arching, hips grinding against Minho's eager mouth. The tension coiled tightly in your lower abdomen, ready to snap. Just as you were about to tip over the edge, Minho's fingers joined in, sliding two digits into you, curling them perfectly to hit that sweet spot inside you.

With a final, desperate cry of his name, your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure coursing through every nerve in your body. Minho didn't let up, his mouth and fingers working you through your climax, drawing out every last tremor. As you came down from the high, Minho moved back, his handsome face shining slightly with your juices.

He simply licked his lips then sucked the rest of you off his fingers. You watched him put your clothing back in place and then slowly stand. You saw the imprint of his cock in his pants, and you genuinely wanted to give back what he just did for you. You moved to kneel in front of him.

Minho watched you, his hands hanging loosely by his side as you ran your hand over the bulge in his pants, but when you went to unbutton his pants, his hand stopped you. He shook his head and helped you to your feet, his hand holding yours a bit longer before letting go. “You should get home soon, I will see you soon,” he muttered before leaving, his energy still filling the room after he was gone.

You were being paid a lot to give your time to Minho, but why did it feel like every moment with him was worth far more than money? The connection between you two was undeniable, leaving you wanting more and questioning what drew you so deeply to him.

Thank you all for your support! I’m writing a bit slower due to life stuff but, I will continue posting as often as I can! As always all interactions with my works are appreciated! I hope you enjoyed!!

Taglist: @cashtonsbetch @katsukis1wife @hyunjinhoexxx @ihrtlino @breezy-simp @vixensss @yaorzu-blog @tirena1 @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @chuuyaobsessed @doohnut @babigriin @iovecb97 @kpflyn @rylea08 @sheerfreesia007 @tsunderelino @cookiesandcreamy

If you want to be tagged in only Minho gifs please specify or else you will be tagged in every members gifs! Thanks! 🙏

[da-shrimping-station]

Andrealphus with a human!SO who's curious about his scars

gender-neutral reader | slightly suggestive | mentions of sex and nudity | he calls his SO darling as an endearment | nonsexual intimacy (for the most part ig?)

MINORS DNI

i will take your kidneys 🧡

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

He can feel them staring intensely. It doesn't bother him the slightest, given that he's received far more hostile glares, but that doesn't mean he's not curious. It's rare for his darling to look at him like that.

"Is there something wrong?"

Andrealphus turned to where they are, senses acute enough to locate them despite their quiet. There was a rustle of cloth and soon enough a body pressed against his.

"You have a lot of scars..."

"Do they bother you?"

He was never one for vanity, before or after being blind. What only mattered was that he was, at the very least, clothed. Even when he became one of Niflheim's nobles. Black did well with bloodstains and a simple suit was all he needed. A tie was out of the question because no matter how much he practiced, he somehow could never get it right. And the only reason that he bothered to braid his hair was because it could be a liability in battle, what with getting tangled or grabbed if he let it be.

So, appearances were the least of his concerns. So long as his body functioned well enough to fight, that's all that mattered.

"They don't bother me," they reassured. "It's just that, seeing them makes me realise what you went through."

Their fingers gently tapped at his wrist before holding his hand.

"I never really cared for the scars." For the majority of his existence, all Andrealphus did was fight. "The doctors from Paradise Lost can't say no to me when I ask for their assistance."

He's a model patient to them, following orders and recommendations to hasten his recovery. Rushing things would be a detriment in battle.

There had been times when he'd been too zealous with fighting and outright disregarding his physical state in order to fulfill his bloodlust. It cost him and his comrades dearly.

Gusion's rant and Bathin's disapproving comments still ring in his ears to this day. Yet they still helped him, dragging him back to where Marbas was in order to receive proper treatment. He made sure to express his thanks by staying put and actually listening to the doctor.

"Still," his darling insisted, snuggling closer to him. "It makes me sad, I guess? That you had to go experience such pain. I know you can handle it and that you've gone through worse but..."

The pair sat in silence, the mid afternoon sun filtering through the window and the sheets rumpled over their bare lap.

Andrealphus thinks he understands. Humans are delicate after all and Niflheim demons are the hardiest of devils in Hell, followed by those of Tartaros. Not to mention he is a noble to boot. Suffice to say, his body can take a lot before he's down for the count. Yet he also understands their concern, he thinks. They've never interacted with devils before they got to Hell and what knowledge they have of its residents are only surface level.

Maybe he should accept Gusion's offer of tutoring his darling about the norms and cultures in Hell. There was also a suggestion from Bathin to give them basic training for self defense.

Maybe.

Are his scars that unsightly that his darling would go so far as to point it out? It's not that he's unaware of them. They're just a fact of life, given that the entirety of Hell was at war for a century now and he was constantly on the frontline.

"Are they that unsightly?" Enough for them to point it out?

"No. Not the slightest. In fact," they trailed off, sounding a little hesitant. "I find them attractive."

"Oh, I have no doubt towards that," Andrealphus said with a chuckle. "If I remember correctly, you jumped on me the first time you saw me shirtless—oof!"

His darling punched him lightly (to him at least), as they grumbled in embarrassment. He wrapped his arms around them, pulling them in for a kiss. They still haven't cleaned up from earlier activities, thought that's the least of his concerns right now. Not when his darling kisses him back with equal fervor and adoration.

"Andrea–" They gasped, moaning as Andrealphus set his eager mouth to their chest. Such music to his ears. "C-can I touch your– Ah! Your scars–"

Their nails dug into his shoulders, trying to steady themself as he set them on his lap properly. He growled as they yanked at his hair, halting his onslaught so they can catch their breath.

"Can I?" They asked, breath ragged and a face flushed.

"You can touch wherever," he said, giving them one last kiss as reassurance. He let them settle on his lap properly and patiently waited.

Hesitant fingers traced along his right bicep. He knew there was a scar there having touched it when he bathes.

"Where is this from?"

"Sparring with Bathin."

"Oh?"

"He is skilled with his sword. If I were any slower, it would've gone through my arm."

His darling let out a concerned hum but kept quiet nonetheless.

The rest of their afternoon went like that. Tentative touches on scar tissues and hushed voices asking questions as they explored the visible scars on his body. They used to be inconsequential to him. Just another notch on his body as proof of another hard won battle and further proof of him reaching his goals. But with how his darling touches them, even going so far as to give the bigger ones a kiss made him feel proud to have them.

Andrealphus thinks he'd found a slice of paradise, here in his humble home, with his darling in his lap, and the rest of the world so far away.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

A/N:

hiiii i've had a bit of a drink and when im drunk, i write (because i need me some of that dutch courage to stop being conscious about my writing)

gonna add this to my collection of "drinking drabbles"

this was all done in one sitting and definitely not proofread so,,,,,,,

also typed this all up on mobile so idk what's the word count or if the formatting is okay

eheheheheh 🦐

[lemonluvgirl]

Good

an everlark smutty drabble inspired by an anon prompt:

Post-MJ, Pre-Epilogue (after the night of “Real” maybe) and Everlark are becoming more intimate and open in the bedroom. Katniss finds out Peeta can be quite ~dominating~ in bed and Peeta discovers Katniss’ praise-kink (although she denies it sometimes)… I think you can see where this us going 😉 so kinda just dirtytalk!Peeta saying things like “Good girl” and Katniss is just “Yes, Peeta” and it just gets really, really HOT because after all, she is the girl on fire 😏🔥

since I was cleaning out my inbox today I decided to try and write this. NSFW themes ahead. Read with caution, and pay attention to the prompts specifications.

We discover it almost accidentally, lying in bed one afternoon atop the rumpled sheets, trying to catch our breath as the sweat dries on our naked skin. 

“Where did you learn that?” I ask him turning my head to peer at him from across our bed. 

He’s gloriously sweaty and flushed, his chest still rising and falling swiftly, his pink lips and over-kissed mouth hanging open and pulling in the air like a man winding down after running a mile.

 He’s beautifully, perfectly undone, and best of all, he’s mine. 

He turns to me, lazily, eyes dropping with tiredness and the leftover rush of pleasure that’s still humming through both our veins. He still has enough energy to smirk, though. 

“Learn what?” He asks in a mock-innocent tone that makes me roll my eyes.  

“You know what,” I say, with a little more grit in my voice because I actually want to know the answer and he’s being annoying. He chuckles in delight at the discomfort in my voice. 

Peeta knows by now that while I’m very enthusiastic about our activities I still have trouble discussing certain things in blatant detail. He thinks it’s hilarious that after all this time and after all the things we’ve done together that I can still get flustered discussing sex with him. 

“Oh, you mean the thing that made you scream?” He asks, trying to continue his innocent charade but the slight smug quality of his words ruins the intended effect.

I narrow my eyes at him in warning, but he doesn’t even blink. 

“Or, was it that thing that made it impossible for you to speak at all?” He adds, lowering his voice and stretching out his hand to trail one lone fingertip down my ribs to my hip. The action makes me shiver with want, even though my body is still quietly pulsing with the aftereffects of his love. 

“The second one,” I answer quietly, reaching out and twining my fingers with his, stopping his indulgent touches before things heat up between us again and I lose my train of thought. 

He gives a quiet, “Hmmm,” in response and moves in closer. Then I’m gathered up in strong arms and my head is pillowed on a strong chest. I listen to the soft drumbeat beneath my ear and I relax into his embrace. 

“I didn’t really learn it from anywhere or anyone. I just had a feeling you might like it.” He replies thoughtfully, all traces of teasing gone now. 

“But how did you know I’d like it when you called me a—” I break off, unable to repeat the phrase for some reason. 

Which is silly. Because there’s actually nothing outwardly crude or sexual about it. But the way Peeta had said it, and the way I had responded to it, was intensely erotic. 

“A good girl?” Peeta offers, finishing my thought for me and I inhale sharply. My heart skips a beat and I feel myself involuntarily clench around nothing. I feel a blush creep up my neck.

Peeta’s arms tighten around me as if he knows how much his words affect me and when he speaks next it sounds deep and rumbly. 

“Because you are, Katniss. You’re such a good girl.” His voice takes me back to a few minutes ago when we were joined and Peeta was moving in me with that perfect rhythm and his words vaulted me over the precipice and hurtled me to perfect ecstasy. I had loved it, and despite just having my hunger for him sated, I greedily, selfishly, wanted more. 

“Peeta,” I plead, not fully knowing what to ask for. I have no idea if I want him to continue in this vein or stop. 

“You’re so good, and so sweet, lying here naked in our bed, writhing and biting your lip to keep from asking for more, after I’ve already filled you to the brim.” His voice takes on a decidedly dirty edge and I know I’m already lost. There’s no way I can hold out when he gets like this. 

I let out a strangled little moan and in the next second, he has us flipped, with him on top of me, hands holding my wrists above my head, as he spreads my knees with his own. He looks down between us, eyes dark and nostrils flaring. 

“Look at you, still dripping with me but you want more, don’t you? Do you want me to fuck you again, sweetheart? Does my good girl need me to make her come again?” His warm breath ghosts first over my lips, then my throat, and collarbone, and the words are uttered against my skin like a secret before his lips close over a nipple and I cry out as he sucks. 

“Yes! Peeta…please,” I beg and he lets go of my breast with a wet pop before releasing my wrists and slowly sliding down my body. 

“Keep your hands up. You’re not allowed to touch until I tell you.” He commands and it sends a dark thrill through me. If people knew how much I liked this side of Peeta they might be surprised. I know a lot of people think of me as the dominant one in our relationship, but that’s because they don’t see us behind closed doors. When it's just us, all of the trappings fall away. And I’m free to admit that I need Peeta in this way. For me, it's not so much about submission as it is about freeing me from the burden of having to be in control all the time. That and I trust Peeta unlike anyone else. I know he will never abuse my trust or hurt me purposely. 

We are so past that. And here in the privacy of our bedroom, the only thing that exists is me and him. 

 I nod frantically at him, eager all over for him, again. I don’t think I ever won’t be. It's been years since we became intimate like this, and I still get the same rush when I think about sleeping with him. He lets out a little growl and nips at my skin when I unconsciously start rocking my hips against him. 

“Patience, sweetheart. All good girls know how to wait.” He tells me and our eyes lock. I’m practically panting for want of him, but I hold myself still.  We both know what the other is thinking, what is needed. 

There’s a magic in the way we fit together like this. Sure of ourselves and each other, neither of us questioning our love anymore. There’s only the heat of reassurance and desire that passes between us and curls in the air around us as we begin again. 

His mouth moves over my hipbone, hot, wet, and fervent. His strong arms pin my legs apart, my knees kiss the mattress as he lowers his face down to peer at my center.

“So swollen and messy,” He says, a finger dipping in to play with the puddle of fluids seeping out of me. “So beautiful. You should always be like this. Full of my come. Begging for more.” He says with a sigh before swirling his fingers, gathering it, and then pushing it back in. 

I whimper loudly, loving the feeling of him filling me up, even if it's just his fingers. I love his hands. I love his touch. I love him. Plain and simple. 

“I love you,” I say out loud because I try to make a point of saying it whenever I can now. So that he always knows. So that he never has to question it again. 

He peers up at me from between my obscenely spread legs. His pupils are so dilated, I can hardly see the thin sliver of blue iris. 

“Love you too, sweetheart. I’m going to eat your pussy so good, you won’t be able to form a full sentence for hours.” He promises, pecking my clit with a soft, short kiss that sends electricity racing through me. 

Then he starts to lick, softly, around my sensitive flesh, and down to where his fingers are pumping into me. 

“Mmm, you still taste delicious, even mixed with my come.” He states between licks and all I can do is groan in reply. 

I can feel his self-satisfied smile again on the skin of my inner thigh. 

“What was that? I didn’t quite understand you, darling.” He teases before diving back in and flicking my clit with his tongue, not even giving my muddled brain a chance to try and form a response. 

‘PEETA!” I scream as the orgasm washes over me, sharp and sweet, and sudden. 

He laps up my release, holding down my shaking thighs and murmuring sweet little praises that I can’t make out because my ears are ringing. 

Then I’m being flipped over again and he arranges me with strong, firm hands until I’m braced on my elbows, lower half lifted up and legs spread for his benefit as he situates himself behind me. 

“Fuck, this ass. I’ve always loved it.” He says, one large palm cupping and kneading my cheek possessively as his other hand tilts my hips up. 

He notches himself at my entrance but doesn’t sink in. Instead, he slides through my lower lips, coating himself carefully, even though I know he wants inside me. He’s fully hard again, and more than ready.

“Hands, sweetheart.” He says in a quiet, strained tone. 

I know what he needs, so I carefully shift my weight from my forearms and link my hands behind my back, letting my forehead sink into the bed, my nose and mouth angled in such a way that I’ll be able to breathe even if he pounds me into the mattress. 

“Good girl,” He whispers, and I whine pathetically, distressed at my own emptiness. I need him to fill me. 

“Shhh, baby.” He coos, and then with one well-placed thrust, he sheathes himself up to the hilt. 

My moan is swallowed up against the bedsheets, but Peeta’s grunt of pleasure rings out loud in the room and fills my ears, making me press back into him. 

“Still so tight, after I ate you out, fucked you, and ate you out again. Perfect little pussy, just for me. Feels, so fucking good.” I hear him say, as he plunges in, moves his hips in a circle, pulls back, and plunges back in again. 

I’m making noises, desperate little sounds that do nothing but spur him on to take me harder. It’s glorious. He feels amazing, even after all the pleasure he’s already given me. I know he’ll give me more. Because he’s so good. Because he’s my Peeta. 

“Sweet girl, taking me so well. Taking my cock and letting me fuck you however I want. You’re so good Katniss. You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me. I always knew you would be.” He says, breathless and strained, his hips knocking against my bottom with the force of his thrusts. 

“Yes!” I shout, and I can feel the way I tighten at his words, I can feel the way my body winds up and grows taught, waiting for release. 

“I always knew it would be like this. Incredible. You, sweet and desperate. Begging for me. You’re so cool on the outside, but inside you’re pure heat. All fire. All mine.” His voice is rough and his thrusts take on a punishing edge, the kind he knows really gets me fired up. 

I turn my mouth to the side, blowing stray hairs out of my face. 

“Yours, Peeta. All yours. Forever.” I promise him and he moans, his fingers gripping my hips tightly enough to bruise. 

His right hand loosens its grip and he brings it around my front to slide between my legs and rub small, firm circles around me. 

I let out a broken, choked noise. 

“That’s right, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be a good girl and come for me. Come on my cock and I’ll fill you up—” 

His words, his beautiful, filthy words are what tip me over the edge. 

I clench around him and come, sobbing his name, and clutching the sheets. 

I hear him swearing behind me and feel his hips stuttering before he lets out a low groan and plunges as deep as he can. 

Warmth pools inside me, with the ghost of my flutterings and the last of his twitching pulses, and we collapse, exhausted and much sweatier than the first time. 

We can only rest a moment because Peeta is heavy on my back, and it's uncomfortable, but he rearranges us quickly enough until we can spread out comfortably. 

“How was that, sweetheart? Was there anything you didn’t like that time?” He asks, quiet and inquisitive now.

I shake my head. Brushing my lips across his bicep, back and forth, wanting to kiss every inch of his skin in happiness, but my body is so tired and sated that all I can manage is this. 

“I liked it all,” I reply as I move to get more comfortable. 

He moves his arm under my head so I can use it as a pillow. One of his hands brushes a strand of hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His brilliant blue eyes are searching mine for something more. 

“It was good,” I tell him with a simplistic finality that makes him smile, and sleepily close his eyes in contentment. 

“So good,” I repeat to myself as I close my eyes and drift off, warm, sleepy, and safe in the arms of my love. 

[wavesketcher-sq]

8 thoughts on watching S1 E1&2 (after 8 years):

I cannot function anytime Regina is on screen. I felt the same way eight years ago, but now I understand it for what it is: gay panic. 

Henry is so adorable, what a meddler 

Rumple is such a scene stealer 

I will never get over how American’s pronounce “Graham” 

Regina: takes basket of her forbidden fruit to Emma’s door. Emma: basically naked, makes Regina word vomit tree facts. 

“Don’t underestimate me, Miss Swan” *intense eye sex* “You have no idea what I’m capable of.” *continued intense eyes sex* 

THE FUCKING TREE CUTTING SCENE. “Your move.” 

If I got a call from an unknown number and the Mayor of MILFtown said, “Miss [..], I’d be happy to keep demonstrating my power” I would tell her, politely, that I have absolutely zero qualms, in fact, I very much encourage this demonstrating. 

The S1 enemies to lovers slow burn was off to such a strong start 🥲

[butmakeitgayblog]

How would your version of canon Lexa be when Clarke tells her wifey that she was with Niylah that one time ? 😅

You mean like in my canon oneshot that's coming up?

Well they do touch on that topic 👀

Mind you in the fic the two haven't seen each other in weeks/months. The last time they were in the same room or communicated beyond quick messages via Octavia and the trader herself was after they'd spent the afternoon naked in Lexa's bed. They'd kissed and dressed in quiet, trading barely there smiles and sneaking glances at the same bodies they'd just worshipped for the past few hours, still feeling that nervous energy buzzing between them and ignoring the very real blockade slowly assembly between them with each piece of clothing they pulled back on. When Clarke had slipped out of Lexa's room with a promise that she'd figure out a way to get messages back to Lexa on the progress of her revolt, it'd been Lexa that she'd left standing next to the bed of rumpled furs.

But it's definitely the Commander staring at her in the dim flicker of candlelight inside the old hut where they finally meet. It's not the light green eyes of her lover from that afternoon, but rather the charcoal black eyes watching her from behind a mask of kohl that remind her so much of that night she chose to put Finn out of his misery before a more unpleasant justice could be served. Black eyes staring unblinking, burning a hole through her as she vaguely explains that she picked Niylah of all people as her secret messenger because she can be trusted.

And that, yes, she is sure about that trust... because she's... had to rely on it before...

The clench and shift of Lexa's jaw is all she needs to see to know how Lexa feels about that.

"The Azgeda?"

"She's Trikru, Lexa."

"Her mother was Azgeda," is the regal Heda's clipped response. Spoken like an accusation, or tattletale's last ditch trump card; as though that's all the damning information that should be needed in a situation as tangled as this.

It's not exactly an argument. More of a squabble, really. Because, Lexa? This really isn't the time ಠ_ಠ

But Lexa, in her very regal and not at all strained diplomatic cadence, just happens to feel like actually they very much should go over the trustworthiness of an Azgeda knowing their secrets ("She doesn't read the notes, Lexa." "That's hardly the point, Klark."), not to mention the fact that she's been breaking the blockade without her Heda's consent ("Are you serious right now? She's been keeping me alive in there." "Yes, I'm sure she's always very... hospitable.")

In the end it's a dead issue because it's not exactly like Lexa has any reason to actually be angry, and Clarke annoyingly isn't afraid to remind her of that fact. Those months she spent in the woods are still such a tender subject between them that while Clarke can see the jealousy burning white hot through Lexa's eyes and every grinding twitch of her jaw, she appreciates the fact that Lexa ultimately doesn't push the issue beyond the initial squabbling.

But when they do inevitably fall into bed together before heading back out their separate ways, it's not easy to miss the harsher, more intense way Lexa fucks her this time around. The more demanding edge to her kiss, the rougher bites to her neck and breasts, the way her hips add force behind every thrust of her fingers - like she's ensuring Clarke will feel the echoes of her for hours on the walk back to Arkadia.

[izzysillyhandsy]

A cool death - Ed's theatrical, performative suicide

"You know, I thought I'd have a cooler death than this. Something like being eaten, eaten by a tiger, or massaged to death by mermaids, or… belly-flopping into a volcano."

It seems I'm not done analysing The Scene from S2E2. It is a wonderful scene, perfect for rewatching - the music, the lighting, the double meaning of the things being said and the things unsaid, and the way it almost feels unreal, artificial and staged.

This is Ed's arranged suicide and he is playing by his rules, expecting Izzy to go along with it (as per usual). And at first, Izzy responds to it.

It is obvious to everyone that Ed is a highly dramatic person who loves the fantastical, symbolism and storytelling; he has a rich imagination and loves to perform. With Izzy, this is more hidden (especially in S1) but in S2 it becomes clearer and clearer that, in that regard, he is not that different from Ed. Both of them creating Blackbeard (their greatest fuckery) is only one example. The Kraken and the Shark is another.

For almost their whole lives, Ed and Izzy have been performing, creating theatrical illusions of their preferred realities to keep them safe, in charge and help maintain a certain lifestyle. But these illusions also helped in covering up their weaknesses (Ed can't kill, Ed can be unstable, Izzy loves Ed far too much, they're incapable of letting the other go, etc).

So is it any wonder that Ed, at his lowest point and just wanting everything to be over with, views his own suicide as a form of fuckery? He needs someone to kill him (the no killing rule extends even to himself) and so he arranges reality in a way to make that happen.

And for Blackbeard, it can never be an ordinary, boring, basic death. His death has to be cool and pretty intense.

Luckily, he has just the right person for the job - the master of real, sincere intensity: Izzy, who would do anything for him, who'd play along and follow him right into the fantasy, who has been with him for so long that he'd just get it.

And Ed makes it completely clear from the start - "I had a dream about you last night. I dreamt that you killed me." - this is about Ed and how Ed wants to die, dreamt up to the last detail. He holds Izzy's gaze. "It was good for me." - please do this last thing for me. He softly touches Izzy's (ungloved) right hand while standing up and getting into position - "I was standing. Just like this."

Izzy, probably half delirious from bloodloss and pain, follows Ed's every move with rapt attention.

So, how does Ed arrange his death? How does he imagine his last ever fuckery, his last shared fantasy with Izzy?

The execution of a mythical creature

Ed positions himself very carefully, at a good distance to Izzy and between Izzy and the stairs leading up to the door, with rays of sunlight coming from above.

From Izzy's POV, Ed must look like an angel ascending to heaven. Ed's posture and especially the way he holds his arms - almost a crucifixion pose - add to the impression. The sunlight frames him like a halo.

Contrary to the beginning of the scene, Ed turns his back to his executioner and calmly closes his eyes. He stands tall, proud and beautiful, accepting his fate with grace.

Perfect, beautiful and untouchable

Ed might be at his most beautiful and sublime in this scene. He is calm, dignified and regal. Izzy isn't granted the same status.

While Ed is a statue of perfection, Izzy lies on a filthy bed below him, drenched in his blood and god knows what else.

He's sweaty, his hair sticks to his face and his clothes are rumpled (and Izzy is normally so well groomed). His leather vest and even his omnipresent right glove are missing, as well as half a leg. He's so weak, he probably wouldn't even be able to sit up properly.

Also, in stark contrast to Ed, Izzy is almost hysterical. He's laughing maniacally, his face is contorted, and he's wildly emotional.

Ed is above it all, tragically beautiful and serene.

Surrendering to his fate

Ed almost projects the image of a hero or a revolutionary being executed by an evil henchman. He's Ed here - not the Kraken or even Blackbeard. His fate is decided by Izzy, Blackbeard's first mate. I think in Ed's mind, it is fitting that the man who "egged Ed on" to stay in his Blackbeard persona finally kills him when he can't do it anymore.

When Stede left him, Ed returned to Izzy without any plan what to do next. When Izzy kind of decided for him (at least that what Ed tells himself I think) Ed realized that he couldn't be what Izzy wanted him to be any more. He escalated the Blackbeard fuckery to become essentially Izzy's worst fear and nightmare.

Now, at the end of it all, he's back to being Edward, Edward who just wanted to be himself. And the man who had controlled him for decades gets to execute him. One last time, Ed is at the mercy of Izzy.

It is a compelling fantasy.

And Izzy finally, finally decides to stop playing.

At the beginning, Izzy seems entranced, a little hopeful, nostalgic and maybe even elated (even if everythings fucked to hell, at least this Ed wants to share with him). But as soon as Ed gets into position and expects Izzy to act executioner to his theatrical, arranged suicide - he just can't do it anymore.

Izzy could never kill Ed in any circumstances, but this must have been like a slap in the face (or, to be as dramatic as Ed, a dagger through the heart).

Izzy destroys the fantasy by essentially treating Ed like a little kid - "Ooh, you scared, Eddie?" and "Clean up your own fuckin' mess". He's not playing the part Ed chose for him, this is not who he is.

Izzy is not Ed's executioner. He is not a maniacal puppetmaster. He's not a higher power and Ed's not at his mercy. Ed is not a perfect, untouchable mystical creature and Izzy is not a hysterical wretch.

When Ed leaves (slightly disappointed, but not surprised, maybe even grudgingly approving), Izzy kills himself. Without any fuckery, theatricality and without an audience.

With his trusted scene partner gone, Ed immediately abandons his dignified hero fantasy. He throws himself into his next fuckery - the deranged killer. I'm quite sure that one wasn't as meticulously planned.

But when Izzy inexplicably comes back, the tables have turned. Izzy, who has finally taken control over his part in their shared destiny, appears on deck in the midst of lightning strikes and thunder. Now it's Izzy who is calm, dignified and untouchable - a mythical creature himself. Back from the dead, indestructible, disarming Ed with an impossible shot.

And Ed? Ed is visibly impressed. God I love those two. For the last time, Izzy is giving Ed what he wants, but on his own terms.

Finally, the crew kill Ed in the most dramatic way possible, in the middle of a fucking storm, on a ship doomed to sink with every soul on board.

Ed and Izzy can be proud - this was the most impressive fuckery of their lives.

[amethystdreamer114]

“I find you… amusing.”

Summary: You’re one of Professor Gold’s students in a college magic 102 class. You’re a bit of a prodigy to put it lightly, far surpassing the rest of your class. It could be due to natural talent… or the intensive attention you’re paying to your teacher.

TW: bondage, touching, swearing, Professor x student, non-consensual sexual activity, oral s*x,

If there’s a tw I didn’t mention, let me know!!

It was a normal Monday, and as always the rest of the class was barely paying attention to the lecture. That is, until Gold began talking about enchantment spells.

“It’s very simple. The subject must touch an enchanted object or say a specific phrase. Following this, you have total control over their actions until you release them.”

The class gasped and murmured.

“Dark magic? Perhaps… but necessary.”

Soon the bell rang for 5 minutes till lunch.

“Alright that’s all for today,” Gold flipped his cane, turning it into a blue dry erase marker. He turned to write your homework assignment on the board.

“Before Tuesday, I want you to test out an enchantment spell. Use it for good or evil, it’s up to you, but I want written documentation of how it went.”

Most of the class filed out of the room, some murmuring about how this class was definitely unethical on occasion.

Gold smirked hearing them.

“Rumpelstiltskin is teaching it… it’s obviously unethical.” He chuckled under his breath.

“Professor Gold?”

He turned to see you with a partial smile.

“Ah (y/n), what can I do for you?” He walked to his computer, glancing over the plans for next class’ lecture.

“Well I was having trouble with the homework from last night. Number 7…”

He looked at you questioningly.

“It’s not like you to have questions dearie. Half the time you have the assignment done before I tell you the page number.”

“Well I know,” you answered. “But this one stumped me.”

He laughed. “Alright let’s take a look at it.”

He looked over the page, pointing to the question as he read.

“Oh, this one’s an easy one.” He read it aloud. “Changing one object into another without a verbal spell. I do this all the time.”

You studied his hands, knowing full well how to execute the spell…

“Watch me.” He flicked his wrist and the marker switched back to a cane. “Just don’t think about it. Calm your mind, steady your focus.”

“The hallway is too loud, I can’t…”

He flicked his wrist and the door closed.

“Now,” he gestured to you.

“Thank you,” you smiled and flicked your wrist the same way he had. Not even a second later, his cane was a black, leather belt.

His eyes widened.

“(Y/n)…”

You smirked, feeling the leather up… and down, the slight clink of the buckle being the only sound in the room.

“Guess I knew more than I let on.” You shrugged.

You snapped and the belt was around his neck. You pulled it taut, creating a leash of sorts before you pulled him toward you.

“Tell me Rumple… what do you think of me?”

“Well… I find you… amusing.”

You could see in his eyes that he thought much more than that, and if his eyes weren’t enough, the hard bulge in his pants left no room for doubt.

“Mmmm, I bet you do.” You looked up at him, your fingers walking up his chest.

He smirked at you and picked you up, setting you on his desk, your skirt riding up as his hands slid up your thighs.

“Mmmm naughty boy.” You locked eyes with him.

You spread your legs wider, his leg pressed between them. You tilted his chin up with your finger.

“Oh dearie…” you mocked. “You look so desperate..”

He took your necklace between his teeth, tugging it lightly to move your head to the side before he began to kiss down your neck, soft and tender.

“What’ve you done to me…” he whimpered.

“It’s an enchantment spell to say it plainly. You’ll do anything I tell you to.”

“How…” he continued to kiss your neck, moving down to unbutton your blouse.

“It’s simple. You touched my textbook, I enchanted it. And now, you’re licking my tits.”

He took one of your nipples in his mouth and massaged the other.

“God I-“ he moaned breathlessly as you pulled the belt around his neck.

“Touch me rumple.”

He backed up just a bit and gritted his teeth. “This is beyond unethical…”

“You’re Rumpelstiltskin . Unethical is your middle name.” You batted your eyes, smiling evilly.

The belt began to glow red, a sign of dark enchantment.

“Rumple. I won’t ask again. Besides, you want to.”

You pulled your skirt up, and he nearly whimpered.

“And just how do you know that?”

You whispered in his ear.

“Darling I worked on this spell all last night to make sure it forced you to give in to your own desires.”

He was locked on your red silk thong.

“Go ahead Rumple. But…”

He bent down.

You pulled the belt up a bit to make him look at you. “Don’t use your hands.”

Like some sort of ravenous wolf, he bit the studded string on your hip, pulling it down to your knees.

“Good boy.” You ruffled his hair.

He was overwhelmed with pleasure just by looking at your pretty pink folds.

“You’re so wet…” he moaned, lapping at your opening.

“All for you…” you threw your head back when he began sucking on your clit. Thank god everyone was at lunch because if they hadn’t been, they might’ve heard you moaning in pleasure and knocking a stack of books into the floor.

He put his tongue into your vagina, relishing in your sweet taste.

“Fuck Rumple-“ your hips bucked up.

Seconds later, the bell rang, bringing the other students back down the hall.

“I can’t stop…”

“Easy there big boy….” You tilted his chin up again.

“You’ll have another time.” You smiled.

You could tell his boner was going to be a terrible problem during his next class as he could barely stand.

“I-what am I supposed to do with this?” He pleaded for mercy.

“Amuse me.” You smirked darkly, slipping your panties back on and buttoning your shirt before hopping off his desk to take your seat for the next period.

[noa-ciharu]

🔞 fyolai + "little biting hurt nobody"

Mini fic under cut bc nsfw

"Stop it Nikolai!", minor miracle he managed to groan a single protest in between gasps and horrifyingly high whimpers.

As on cue Nikolai stopped - but now doing what Fyodor asked of him. Rather than lifting mouth from his neck clown had to stop thrusting, like he couldn't feel how badly Fyodor was pulsating against his stomach. Sucks and bites kept on going, as if there was an inch of skin on neck that wasn't full of Nikolai's bite marks. Really, by this point Fyodor believed Nikolai was more fixated on devouring his neck than actually fucking him.

Puffing and panting Fyodor lounged up, tangled fingers through Nikolai's hair and hoisted him up. "I meant the biting", grunted and held his head in place. Flushed cheeks, rumpled hair, dilated cloudy eyes full of lust and saliva tangling from lips - debauched like this Nikolai surely pained an arousing sight.

So much so that Fyodor had to whimper and buckle up; curl legs around Nikolai's waist and hope he'll take the hint to continue railing him into sheets. "Not stop fucking me" - letting tongue this loose was humiliating for sure but Fyodor considered it neccessary - knew Nikolai loved it. If he gets too turned on biting would be the last thing on mind.

Same instant Fyodor sensed his cock pulsates inside; just much to his dismay Nikolai had more self-control than he anticipated. "Ahh Fedya, don't be such a buzzkill", he chirped, flashed a devilish smile and torturously slow pushed inside, to the hilt.

Ah, it felt so damn good. Fyodor's eyes rolled back, mouth fell open, nothing but gasps and groans spilling out. Nikolai seized the moment to pull out, reaffirm hold over hips and ram back inside with such force Fyodor's spine arched from mattress. As result his neck was exposed once more - ludicrous how the very second Nikolai spotted his colorful masterwork he began groaning and twitching inside him - talk about possessiveness, talk about how deep down his lover is more like a starving dog than any bird he proclaimed.

Tongue dragged up windpipe; swirled around Adam apple and for a moment cut Fyodor's breath short. Gosh, sensation tickled, got toes curling and mind going blank. He more felt than saw Nikolai grinning into vibrating tender skin - "Little biting never hurt nobody~"

"A little?", Fyodor lifted an eyebrow, wondering if dizziness messed with hearing. "How will I - ahhh!", before Fyodor knew it wrecked moan tore from throat. Oh if only it was due to intensity of Nikolai's thrusts - but no, sharp teeth sank into his neck again. So much for turtlenecks, at this point not even hazmat suit would cover up Nikolai's insolence.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 33/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

She remembers slow mornings. They were few and far between, but they were one of her favorite things. Nothing to do, nowhere to be, no reason to leave the warmth of the bed for anything other than a quick trip to the bathroom to brush away their morning breath. It felt so painfully normal, like they were any other couple sleeping in on a Saturday.

She remembers slow mornings when she wakes up with Mulder’s arm slung heavy across her waist, and feels the press of his erection against her ass. Morning sex. She remembers that, too.

Yesterday already feels like a dream, and yet here he is beside her. He’s not quite himself, but there will be time to find the rest of him. To pull it out slowly from wherever it was secreted away, to help him remember how dogged he is, how determined, how insufferable at times. She doesn’t hope for any aspect of his personality to remain forgotten, even the parts that drove her crazy. She wants him back in full, right down to the sunflower seed hulls in her cupholders and the socks he always seemed to leave lying on the floor. The pain of missing Cal and the kids, of worrying about what will happen to them and her mother, is tolerable with his arms around her. She hopes this feeling never fades.

Mulder’s chest presses against her back as he pulls in a deep breath and stirs. She runs her hand over his forearm to let him know that she’s awake, and he wriggles down a little so he can hook his chin over her shoulder.

“Morning,” he says in a gravelly, sleep-worn voice.

“Hi.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Really well. You?”

“Good,” he says, then drops a kiss to her cheek. “I dreamt that we were on a boat and you were wearing a red dress. Is that a memory?”

Scully tries to remember being on a boat together. She gets strange little flashes that don’t quite add up. A snow globe. Sitting on a rock surrounded by water.

“I’m not sure,” she answers.

“You punched me, if that helps,” he adds, and she rolls to her back so she can see his face.

“I punched you?” she repeats, and he nods.

He looks adorable, rumpled and boyish with his hair standing on end. She smiles at him and tries to smooth it down.

“Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“What time is it?” He asks, craning his neck to see the bedside clock. “The guys said Langly would be here to pick us up at 10:00.”

“Only 8:15,” she answers. “We have plenty of time, and not much to pack.” He looks at her for a long time, and an intense expression that makes her nervous slowly crosses his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I just…there are things I want to say to you, but I feel like I hardly know you. At the same time, I feel like you know me better than I know myself.”

The knot in her stomach tightens.

“What do you want to say?” she asks.

Mulder hesitates.

“How I feel…” he begins, then averts his eyes to where his hand is resting on her belly. “I want to tell you how I feel about you, but I don’t know if that’s already happened or if it would be the first time. And it seems like it’s too soon, but it also…doesn’t.” He shakes his head and cringes. “I’m afraid I’m not explaining myself very well.”

Her heart begins to pound and her throat tightens.

Fuck, Scully. I love you.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she whispers, and he looks at her face.

“No?”

She shakes her head.

“Maybe that’s why…” he moves his hand to her face, running his fingers lightly across her cheek. “Maybe that’s why I feel such a strong urge to say it.” She waits, and she has to remind herself to keep breathing. Mulder sighs, then leans forward and brushes his lips across hers. “I love you,” he says, just a ghost of a sound. If she’d not been waiting with bated breath, she might have missed it.

She barks a sudden sob, tears springing to her eyes with alarming speed, and Mulder pulls away, horrified.

“No, no, no,” she says emphatically, reaching for him. “Happy tears.”

She wraps her arms tightly around his neck, and he holds her while she cries with relief. Her dreams have come to life, finally. No more waiting.

Once she’s gotten her bearings, she loosens her grip on him and he pulls away so he can see her. He frowns, and she’s sure she looks a mess, but she feels better than she’s felt in months.

“I love you too,” she says, and his frown quickly morphs into a goofy smile.

All of Scully’s possessions fit into her small duffel bag, and Mulder has no possessions at all aside from the clothes he borrowed from Byers. When the phone rings at 10:01, they take a look around the apartment to be sure they haven’t forgotten anything, then lock the door for the last time. They trail down to the ground floor hand-in-hand, excited and afraid, and most of all hopeful. They both slide into the back seat, and Langly twists around to address them.

“Morning, lovebirds,” he says with some measure of surprise, and they smile like a couple of lovestruck teenagers. “Did you bring the burner cell?” he asks. “We’ll need to wipe it and pop in a new sim card before we send you on to the next leg.”

“Shit. No,” Mulder says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll go grab it, be right back.”

Before he exits the bus, he drops a quick kiss to Scully’s cheek and whispers, “love you,” in her ear.

She watches him disappear into the building, already anxious for him to return.

“Seems like you two worked things out,” Langly says with a suggestive pop of his eyebrows.

“I guess so,” Scully answers, feeling embarrassed that their affection is so obvious.

Langly chuckles and sits back in his seat, fiddling with the radio.

“Frohike drove up north this morning to pick up Mulder’s dog,” he tells her as he scans through rock, hip-hop, and pop music stations. “Our identity guy is leaning towards Canada for your location. It’ll be easier to get the dog across the border if you don’t have to fly.”

“That’s great,” Scully says. “Mulder will be happy to hear that.”

She looks at the door to the apartment building, tapping her toe against the floorboard impatiently. He should be coming back through any moment.

“Did you know that 90% of Canadians live within 150 miles of—”

Scully jumps at a sudden shattering boom against her ears, and her hands instinctively fly to the sides of her face. Her ears are ringing and her heart is in her throat as she slowly looks up to see that the bus’ windshield is mostly gone, and green-blue pebbles of tempered glass are littering the dashboard.

“What the hell was that?” she asks.

Langly doesn’t respond. She only hears a wet gurgle from the driver’s seat. She starts to sit forward so she can see him, but the door beside her flies open and strong hands are encircling her arms before she has even a split-second to react. The world goes dark as something slips over her head, pressing painfully against the front of her throat. She can’t speak. She can’t think. It’s too familiar. Is it happening again, or has time gone on a loop? Is she back there, at the warehouse?

“Mulder!” she manages to scream, just once.

Her hands are forced behind her back and she hears the zip of a cable tie, then her knees hit a hard surface. She hears a door slam and then the roar of an engine. She’s knocked against a wall as the vehicle she’s been placed in begins to move.

It’s happening again. They’re taking her back. They’re taking him from her.

Again.

-

Mulder is just swiping the burner cell off the coffee table when he hears a muted boom from below. He steps out onto the balcony and looks down to the parking lot where Scully and Langly are waiting in the bus. At first, he can’t make sense of what he sees. There are bits of something spilled all over the hood of the bus, and the steering wheel looks too in-focus considering how far away he is. Then he spots a van, black and mostly windowless, parked across the lot. He watches a broad-shouldered man walk briskly away from the van and towards the bus. He doesn’t wait a second longer.

He flies down the stairwell, his feet moving so quickly it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall. His heart is pounding in his legs and in the palms of his hands, and he feels like he might vomit. The only thought in his mind is “no.” No, this can’t be happening. No, they can’t take her again. No, not when he only just got her back. No, no, no, no, no.

When he flings the entryway door open, the van is peeling out of the parking lot, taking a right towards the freeway onramp. Mulder chases after it, his feet pounding against the pavement somehow propelled by pure will as his lungs burn and his mind goes blank. The van turns and disappears from view, and he stands there, breathless and bereft.

They took her.

They took her.

They took her.

He doesn’t know what to do. He should know what to do. He runs back to the bus, where the back door is hanging open and Scully is conspicuously absent. He pulls the driver’s side door open to find Langly blood-soaked and sputtering, a deep red patch wetting the chest of his T-shirt.

“What happened?” Mulder asks desperately, pressing the palm of his hand against the wound.

Langly lurches and blood runs from the corners of his mouth. He tries to speak, but his throat is flooded. Keeping his hand in place, Mulder pulls the burner phone from his pocket and dials 911. They keep him on the line, instructing him to do what he’s already doing by keeping pressure on the wound. Langly is still breathing, but his eyes have fallen closed.

Mulder needs to call Byers and tell him what’s happened. He needs to figure out how to get Scully back. He should know what to do, but he doesn’t. He can’t remember ever feeling so hopeless.

-

When Frohike walks through the front door with Frenchie in tow, Mulder is sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. Frenchie barks at him once, but when he lifts his head and looks at her she begins to wiggle excitedly and pulls at her leash until Frohike cuts her loose. She charges him, jumping up onto the couch and licking his face, and he actually smiles, forgetting for just a split second that Scully is gone and Langly is in critical condition.

“What the hell happened to you?” Frohike says, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter. “Where’s Scully?”

Reality comes slamming back down like a two-ton weight.

“She’s gone,” he says tightly, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He pushes Frenchie off the couch and encourages her to lie down at his feet. “They took her.”

Frohike turns and looks at him, gobsmacked.

“Who?”

Mulder shrugs helplessly.

“Whoever took us before, I assume. And Langly—” Frohike’s face blanches, and Mulder chooses his words carefully. “He’s alive, but he’s in bad shape. Byers is with him.”

Frohike slumps into a chair.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles, and Mulder gives him a minute to let it soak in.

He pets Frenchie aggressively, running his hand from the top of her head down to her tail over and over.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, glancing up at Frohike. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Jesus,” Frohike says again, his hand held loosely over his mouth. “In all the files, it never once referenced a location. We’d have to find someone who was involved in the project.”

Somebody who’s involved in the project. Mulder knows of a couple somebodies who are.

It only takes him a split second to make up his mind. He takes out the burner phone, which is streaked with Langly’s blood, and dials Diana’s phone number from memory.

“Who you callin’, man?” Frohike asks, looking worried.

It rings and rings. He waits to hear the clipped sound of her voice, followed by her angry demands. He’s prepared to do whatever is necessary to get Scully back. To keep her safe. If that means returning to Diana, so be it. If he is the collateral that will allow Scully to go free, it’s a sacrifice he is willing to make.

You’ve reached Diana Spender, I’m unavailable right now—

He snaps the phone closed as a strange mix of relief and frustration washes over him. He tries the house phone and hears his own voice on the answering machine. As a last ditch effort, he tries his parents’ house, hoping that she’ll be there.

Teena answers almost immediately, as though she’d been waiting by the phone.

“Jeff?” she says fearfully, her voice lowered. “Are you all right, son?”

“No, Mom, can’t say that I am,” he tells her, running one hand over his eyes. “And you can stop calling me Jeff; I know that’s not my name.”

There is a long, heavy silence.

“I’m so sorry,” she says softly.

“You should be,” he says flatly. “Is Diana there?”

“No,” Teena answers. “She and your father have been…busy.”

“I recently learned that my father was murdered in 1995,” Mulder tells her bitingly. She doesn’t respond. “Do you know Scully, Mom?” he asks her, sitting back.

“Yes, Fox. I’ve met Dana many times,” she says. The sound of his given name on his mother’s tongue pricks at something in his chest. “She’s a lovely woman.”

He feels the tears welling up again, tightening his throat.

“They took her away,” he whispers harshly, closing his eyes. “They took her from me, Mom.”

“I know,” she whispers back, sounding equally pained. “I’m sorry. I know now that it wasn’t the right thing to do. I regret ever agreeing to any of it.”

Mulder sits up suddenly. Frenchie scrambles to her feet and watches him raptly.

“Do you know where they took her?” he asks. It feels as though his entire life is riding on the answer.

Teena doesn’t respond right away. He hears her even breathing, and seconds tick by in agonizing purgatory.

“Have you ever visited the Patapsco River, Fox?” she asks, and he blinks, stupefied.

“What?”

“Of course you have, it runs right through Baltimore, but it’s much more enjoyable in a country setting.”

“Mom, what the hell does this have to do with anything?” he barks at her, frustrated. “Do you know where Scully is?”

“There’s a nice little area called Henryton, right on the banks of the south branch of the Patapsco. I think you’d like it there, Fox. Just do be careful of the tunnel, the railroad is still active.”

His anger fades as a chill creeps up his spine. He stands, and Frenchie follows him as he paces towards the kitchen. Frohike follows as well, only with his eyes.

“Is that where she is, Mom? In Henryton?” So much adrenaline is coursing through his veins that he feels sick.

“Be careful of the tunnel, Fox. Trains do pass through,” is all she says in response.

Mulder closes his eyes and heaves a shuddering sigh.

“Thank you,” he says, and he hears Teena heave a sigh of her own.

“It’s the least I can do,” she whispers. “Please, take care.”

She hangs up before he can say goodbye. He turns to Frohike, who is waiting with raised eyebrows and upturned palms.

“Well?” Frohike asks expectantly.

“Find out everything you can about an area on the Patapsco called Henryton,” Mulder tells him. “We’re going to need a car.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

[everyones-fangirl]

Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers.

Word Count: 5,806

Chapter 11

Astarion

It took days before she woke up, and with every agonizing second that passed, I doubted she ever would. But then, she did. Relief surged through me, yet it was quickly tempered by guilt and dread. I had locked her in a room, secluded from the world, with a special looking glass installed so I could keep an eye on her without having to face her directly. The truth was, I couldn’t bring myself to confront her. To confront what I had done to her. In the silent hours of the night, as I watched her through the looking glass, the weight of my actions bore down on me. Was I any better than Cazador? The thought gnawed at my mind, a relentless parasite. I shook my head, refusing to let that comparison take root. She had been dying, and it had been my fault. If anything, she should be thanking me.

But deep down, I knew I was wrong.

Her transformation was not something I could take pride in. It was a desperate act borne out of fear and love, a twisted manifestation of my inability to let her go. I watched as she lay on the bed, her body still and fragile, the remnants of her humanity clinging to her like a shroud. She was pale, even paler than before, her skin almost translucent, almost as if she was made of delicate porcelain. Dark circles framed her eyes, stark against her pallid complexion, and her once vibrant hair now seemed dull and lifeless, lacking the lustrous sheen it once had. The only thing that wasn’t dull were her eyes. They were a brighter emerald green than before and seemed to glow from within, a vibrant contrast to her otherwise lifeless appearance. They held a depth and intensity that was unnerving, piercing through the gloom of the room with an almost supernatural light. It was as if her very soul was burning behind those eyes, defying the transformation that had robbed her of so much. I didn’t understand how her eyes hadn’t turned red like what happens to all spawns; it was an anomaly that worried me deeply. Her lips, once full and rosy, were now a faint shade of pink, almost blending into her skin. They were slightly parted, revealing the faintest hint of her new fangs, sharp and deadly, yet somehow they seemed out of place on her delicate features. Her hands lay limply at her sides, the veins beneath her skin faintly visible, giving her an ethereal, almost ghostly appearance.

Despite my attempts to nourish her, she refused to eat, rejecting every offering of blood I sent her way. Her refusal to feed was slowly killing her, and it broke my heart to see her wasting away, becoming more fragile with each passing day. Her body, though now immortal, was still subject to the agonies of starvation, and I could see the toll it was taking on her. Her once elegant figure had grown gaunt, her collarbones and ribs more pronounced, giving her a skeletal appearance that was a painful reminder of her suffering. She wore a simple white gown, now stained and rumpled, hanging loosely on her diminished frame. It seemed to symbolize the purity that had been tainted by the darkness of her transformation. As she lay there, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, I could see the faint, almost imperceptible movements of her fingers, as if she were clutching at some invisible thread of hope. It was a heartbreaking sight, one that made me question everything I had done, everything I was. In her eyes, I saw both a haunting accusation and a plea for release, a duality that tore at my very being.

Watching her in this state, I was consumed by guilt and self-loathing. I had turned her into this creature, robbed her of her humanity, and now she was paying the price for my selfishness. Each moment I spent observing her through the looking glass was a torment, a reminder of my failure. But I couldn’t bring myself to face her directly, to see the pain and betrayal in her eyes up close. I was both her savior and her tormentor, a monster who had acted out of love but ended up causing only pain. The sight of her, so frail and yet so fiercely alive in her defiance, was a constant reminder of the depths to which I had fallen. And as I stood there, watching her, I knew that the road to redemption, if it even existed, would be long and arduous.

The room I had confined her to was sparsely furnished, a stark contrast to the opulence I was accustomed to. The need for secrecy dictated the austerity of her surroundings. I couldn’t risk people knowing that I cared more for her—couldn’t risk anyone discovering how much she meant to me. So, I gave her the title of my whore, a cruel misdirection meant to keep her close without drawing too much suspicion. The bed she lay on was simple, a far cry from the luxurious silks and plush mattresses that adorned my own quarters. Its frame was made of rough-hewn wood, and it creaked under the slightest movement. The plain linens draped over it were thin and coarse, doing little to provide comfort. A single, threadbare blanket lay over her, inadequate against the chill that pervaded the room.

Beside the bed stood a small, rickety table, its surface scarred and stained from years of use. On it rested a basin of water, the liquid still and clear, reflecting the dim light of the room. A few cloths, worn and frayed at the edges, were folded neatly beside the basin, ready for the next attempt to cleanse her wounds. The window nearby was narrow and barred, allowing only a sliver of moonlight to seep through, casting long, eerie shadows across the floor. The only source of illumination came from a single candle perched on a shelf on the far wall. Its flame flickered weakly, sending shadows dancing across the stone walls. The light was feeble, barely enough to pierce the oppressive darkness that seemed to cling to every corner. It was a room designed to suppress, to strip away hope and warmth. The air was heavy with the scent of fear and uncertainty, a tangible reminder of the dire circumstances that had brought us to this point. The smell of dried blood mingled with the musty odor of damp stone and old wood, creating an atmosphere that was both suffocating and cold. Every breath I took was a reminder of the desperation that had led me to this point, the lengths I was willing to go to keep her by my side.

The walls were bare, save for a few cracks that ran through the stone, testament to the age and neglect of the building. No tapestries or paintings adorned them, nothing to break the monotony or provide a distraction from the bleakness of the room. It was a place of confinement, designed to contain and control rather than to comfort or console. The room was devoid of any personal touches, any signs of the person she once was. It was as if her very identity had been stripped away by, leaving only the shell of who she had been. It was a cruel irony, that in my attempt to save her, I had reduced her to this. And as I stood there, looking at her frail form, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had done more harm than good. Every time I checked the looking glass, I felt a pang of regret. Her eyes, when they opened, were vacant, a reflection of the inner turmoil she must have been experiencing. She was trapped in a nightmare, one that I had thrust her into. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to step through that door, to face the reality of what I had done. I was a coward, hiding behind the safety of distance, unable to confront the consequences of my actions. I told myself that it was for her own good, that seeing me would only cause her more pain, but deep down, I knew it was a lie. I was terrified—terrified of the look in her eyes, the accusation I would see there, the betrayal. As the days turned into nights and back again, the world outside her small, confining room moved on, oblivious to the silent torment within. I continued my duties, playing my part in the council, all the while haunted by the image of Cassara's vacant eyes. My mind was in constant turmoil, torn between my desire to protect her and the reality of the darkness I had condemned her to.

I knew I couldn’t avoid her forever. Each passing hour brought me closer to the inevitable confrontation, the moment when I would have to face her and the truth of what I had done. The thought of seeing the betrayal in her eyes was almost too much to bear, but I owed her that much. I owed her the truth, no matter how painful it might be. I spent countless hours in my chambers, rehearsing what I would say, how I would explain myself. But no words seemed adequate, no apology sufficient to bridge the chasm I had created between us. The memories of our time together, the moments of closeness and trust, played over and over in my mind, each one a cruel reminder of what I had shattered. Finally, the moment came when I could delay no longer. The anticipation was a knot in my stomach, a weight on my chest that made it hard to breathe. With a deep breath, I steeled myself and stepped toward the door, my heart pounding in my chest. The world seemed to hold its breath as I reached for the handle, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth of my trembling hand.

As I pushed the door open, the dim light from the single candle cast long shadows across the room, illuminating Cassara's still form on the bed. She looked so fragile, so small, and my heart ached with a mixture of love and regret. She stirred at the sound, her eyes slowly opening to meet mine, and in that moment, I saw everything—the pain, the confusion, the betrayal. I took a hesitant step forward, my voice barely above a whisper. "Cassara," I said, my throat tight with emotion. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen."

Her eyes, those bright emerald eyes that now seemed to glow from within, locked onto mine. There was no accusation in them, only a deep, weary sadness that cut through me like a knife. The silence stretched between us, heavy and oppressive, as I struggled to find the words that could possibly make amends.

"I did this to save you," I continued, my voice trembling. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. But I see now that I was selfish. I took away your choice, your freedom, and for that, I am truly sorry." The room seemed to close in around us, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with tension, the weight of our shared history bearing down on us. The silence was not what I expected and it made me feel even worse. I wanted her to scream, to cry, to hit me—to do anything but sit there in that haunting, vacant stillness. Her eyes, once so full of life, now looked right past me as if I were nothing but a ghost. It was as if she had already resigned herself to this new, twisted reality, and that resignation cut deeper than any words or blows could.

"Cassara," I said softly, taking a step closer. "Please, say something. Anything." My voice cracked, desperation seeping through the cracks of my composed facade.

She finally moved, but it wasn't the reaction I had braced myself for. Instead, she turned her head slowly, her eyes drifting lazily to meet mine. There was a hollow emptiness in her gaze, a void where there used to be fire and defiance. It was as though the vibrant spirit that had once shone so brightly within her was now just a dim, flickering ember.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Astarion," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You took everything from me. My life, my freedom, my humanity. What's left to say?" Each word was like a dagger to my heart, a brutal reminder of the depth of my betrayal. I had expected anger, but this profound sense of loss, this devastating emptiness, was something I hadn't prepared for. The guilt was suffocating, wrapping around me like a vise.

"I never wanted to hurt you," I said, my voice breaking. "I thought I was saving you, but I see now that I was only saving myself from the pain of losing you. I was selfish and I..." I trailed off, unable to find the right words to convey the depth of my regret. Cassara remained silent, her expression unreadable. I longed to reach out to her, to offer some form of comfort, but I knew that my touch would be unwelcome. The barrier between us was more than just physical; it was a chasm carved by my own hands, a rift that seemed insurmountable.

As the silence stretched on, I felt a crushing weight settle over me. The reality of what I had done, the irrevocable damage I had caused, was inescapable. I had condemned her to a life of darkness, all because I couldn't bear to let her go. "I'll find a way to make this right," I promised, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you adjust, to give you some semblance of a life."

Her eyes flickered with a brief, bitter amusement. "A life?" she repeated, her tone mocking. "What kind of life can I have now, Astarion? You've turned me into a monster. There's no going back from this." The truth of her words was undeniable, and it hit me like a physical blow. I had done this to her, and there was no way to undo it. All I could do now was try to ease her suffering, to be there for her in whatever way she would allow.

"I know I can't undo what's been done," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "But please, let me try to help you. Let me try to make amends."

For a moment, her eyes softened, and I saw a flicker of the woman she used to be. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once more by that cold, empty gaze. "Fine," she said at last, her voice flat. "But don't think for a second that this makes us even. You owe me more than you can ever repay."

Her words were a stark reminder of the enormity of my actions, and I knew she was right. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I could never truly make up for what I had taken from her. But I had to try. For her sake, and for mine. As I left the room, the door closing softly behind me, I felt the weight of my guilt settle even heavier on my shoulders. The next couple of hours were spent getting her moved into my room—still under the perverse guise of having her closer for easier use. I planned to keep that from her for as long as I could. As I directed my spawns to move her scant belongings, I watched her closely, trying to gauge her reaction. She moved listlessly, her eyes taking in the surroundings with a detached air.

High, vaulted ceilings arched overhead, adorned with intricate moldings and frescoes that depicted scenes of both beauty and violence. The walls were paneled in rich, dark wood that gleamed with a polished sheen, contrasting sharply with the black velvet drapes framing tall, narrow windows. These windows, high above the ground, were fitted with thick, heavy curtains that could block out any hint of daylight, preserving the sanctity of the night within. When open, they offered a view of the sprawling, darkened estate grounds, shrouded in perpetual twilight. A massive four-poster bed dominated one side of the room, draped in luxurious silks and velvets of deep crimson and black. The dark wood was intricately carved with symbols and motifs that hinted at my ancient lineage and the long history of the vampiric council. The bedding was sumptuous, a mix of soft linens and thick, heavy blankets that invited rest and respite.

Beside the bed stood matching nightstands, each holding a candelabrum with flickering candles that cast a warm, golden light. The candlelight played off the ornate, gilt-framed mirrors hanging on the walls, creating a dance of shadows that added to the room's mysterious allure. These mirrors were strategically placed to reflect light and create an illusion of even greater space. A grand fireplace took up another wall, its mantle adorned with a collection of curious artifacts and personal mementos—ancient tomes, delicate glass vials, and a few pieces of fine art. The hearth was always kept burning, the flickering flames providing warmth and a sense of living energy to the otherwise cold and dark chamber. Above the mantle hung a large portrait, its subject unknown but painted with such detail and emotion that it seemed almost lifelike.

Across from the bed, a plush seating area was arranged around a low table, perfect for intimate conversations or quiet contemplation. The chairs and settee were upholstered in dark, rich fabrics that complemented the room’s color scheme. The table often held a decanter of wine and a pair of crystal goblets, ready for an impromptu evening drink. An expansive wardrobe stood in one corner, its doors carved with intricate patterns and inlaid with precious metals. Inside, it held a collection of finely tailored clothing, ranging from elaborate ceremonial robes to more practical attire for nightly excursions. Next to the wardrobe, a full-length mirror allowed me to inspect my appearance, ensuring that I always looked the part of a distinguished and powerful vampire lord. The bathing area was partially hidden behind a set of intricately carved wooden screens, offering a measure of privacy. A large, claw-footed bathtub stood in the center, made of polished black marble and filled with steaming, scented water. Shelves nearby held an array of bath oils, soaps, and soft towels, all meticulously arranged for easy access.

Despite the room’s grandeur, there was an underlying tension, a sense of a battle fought and won, but not without scars. Every detail, every piece of furniture, and every decoration had been carefully chosen to erase the memories of the room’s previous occupant, to turn it into a space that was unequivocally mine.

As Cassara looked around, I could see her taking in the blend of luxury and personal touches. She appeared so fragile in this vast space, her transformation weighing heavily on both of us. This room, this place that had once been a symbol of my own suffering, was now a prison for her. I had to find a way to make it more than that, to make it a place where she could begin to heal. Cassara moved slowly, her fingers trailing over the polished surface of a mahogany dresser. Her eyes lingered on the ornate mirror above it, reflecting her pale, almost ghostly visage. She looked like a wraith, caught between two worlds, neither fully alive nor truly dead. "Is this where you sleep?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. There was no curiosity in her tone, only a resigned acceptance.

"Yes," I replied, struggling to keep my voice steady. "It's where you'll sleep too. You'll be safer here."

"Safer," she repeated, the word hanging heavy in the air. She turned away from the mirror, her eyes meeting mine with a look of hollow resignation. "I suppose that's something."

I wanted to tell her that she would be more than just safe, that I would do everything in my power to make her feel at home, to give her some semblance of comfort. But the words felt empty, meaningless in the face of what I had done. Instead, I just nodded, feeling the weight of my guilt pressing down on me. "Rest," I said softly. "You need your strength. I'll be nearby if you need anything."

She didn't respond, simply moving to the bed and lying down with a grace that belied her weakened state. I watched her for a moment longer, then turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind me. As I stood in the hallway, I felt a pang of regret. This room, this place that had once been a symbol of my own suffering, was now a prison for her. I had to find a way to make it more than that, to make it a place where she could begin to heal. For now, all I could do was wait and hope that she would find some measure of peace in this new life I had thrust upon her.

Later that night, I returned to my chambers to find Cassara wrapped in one of the dark red plush towels from the bathing room. The sight of her bare skin glistening from the bath made my cock twitch in my trousers. She looked exhausted and malnourished, yet still achingly beautiful. The candlelight accentuated the soft curves of her body, the droplets of water catching the flickering light, making her appear ethereal. I cleared my throat to gain her attention as she wrung out the water from her hair with another towel. “I’m happy to see that you’ve cleaned up,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. I was genuinely relieved to see her up and doing something normal again, and I hoped it was a sign that she might be beginning to adjust, however reluctantly, to her new existence. She turned to face me, her eyes still carrying that vacant look, but there was a flicker of something else—perhaps curiosity, perhaps resignation. Her gaze swept over me, then returned to the towel in her hands. “Now what must I do to get you to eat something?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, but the desperation must have seeped through.

Cassara’s expression hardened slightly, a shadow of defiance crossing her features. “I don’t want to eat,” she said flatly, her voice a stark reminder of the life I had stolen from her.

I moved closer, careful to keep my movements slow and non-threatening. “You need to regain your strength,” I insisted gently. “I can’t bear to see you suffer any more than you already have.”

She sighed and looked away, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t even know what I am anymore,” she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice cutting through me like a knife.

“You’re still you,” I replied, taking another step forward. “You’re still Cassara, and you’re still important to me. More than you can imagine.” I mumbled the last bit more to myself and doubted she even heard it.

Her eyes met mine again, and for a moment, the veil of apathy lifted, revealing the raw pain and confusion she felt. “And what does that mean, Astarion? What does being important to you entail? Being your prisoner? Your...slave?”

The words stung, but I couldn’t deny the truth in them. I had claimed her to keep her close, to protect her under the guise of possession. “No,” I said firmly. “You’re neither of those things. You’re...you’re my anchor. The one thing that keeps me grounded in all this madness.”

Her expression softened slightly, but the skepticism remained. “Then show me,” she challenged. “Show me that I’m more than just a tool for you.”

I nodded, determined to prove it to her. “I will,” I promised. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help you adjust, to help you find your place in this new world.” Cassara didn’t respond immediately, but there was a glimmer of something in her eyes—hope, perhaps, or the beginning of acceptance. It was a small victory, but I clung to it. “Come down to dinner with just me.”

“I can’t—” she choked on a small whimper. “Please don’t make me kill anything.”

My gaze softened as the first sign of emotion broke through her walls. “You don’t have to. I’ll have the blood put into a goblet for you, it’ll be just like wine. I promise.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know if I can... if I can drink it.”

I stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s difficult,” I said softly. “But you need to regain your strength. And I promise, I’ll be with you every step of the way. You won’t have to face this alone.”

Cassara looked up at me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of deception. Finding none, she nodded slowly. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” I said, relief flooding through me. “Let’s take it one step at a time. Come, let’s get you dressed.” I guided her to the wardrobe where a selection of clothes had been prepared for her. Panic began to rise in me as she sifted through the garments, each one more revealing than the last. She looked over at me with an unreadable expression.

“Are you serious? This can’t be it?” She pulled out one of the more modest pieces, but even that was a stretch.

I shrugged my shoulders, my mind scrambling for a reasonable explanation. “It’s the style,” I said weakly. I cursed myself internally for not considering the implications of the clothing options I had provided, especially after telling everyone she was my whore. I took a step toward her but hesitated. “Put it on, you’ll look beautiful.”

To my surprise, she listened. I couldn’t wait until she got her strength back up so she could be the bratty little pup she was. The dress was rather large for her frail frame, and I only hoped that getting her to eat tonight would aid in getting her healthy again.

The dress was made of black lace, the intricate patterns swirling in delicate, mesmerizing designs. The sleeves extended down the length of her arms, fitting snugly before attaching to her middle fingers by delicate loops, giving the impression of elegant spiderwebs draped over her pale skin. The neckline was a daring plunge, dipping low enough to hint at the curves she had lost, yet still possessing an ethereal beauty that was uniquely hers. The skirt of the dress was scandalously cut all the way to her waist, revealing tantalizing glimpses of her legs with each step. Bands of lace and mesh connected the bodice together in a lattice of dark, delicate strands, creating a contrast against the almost translucent pallor of her skin. The intricate design did little to conceal, instead, it showcased the fragility and strength that coexisted within her.

With every movement, a sliver of leg or thigh would escape, a teasing glimpse of the beauty that lay beneath the surface. Her body, though frail, moved with a hesitant grace, and I couldn’t help but notice the way the dress highlighted her vulnerability and resilience. I felt a mix of guilt and desire, realizing that she had chosen to forgo any panties, perhaps as a sign of trust or a small rebellion against the control I had exerted over her life.The dining hall was grand and imposing, designed to intimidate and impress. The long, dark wooden table stretched out before us, adorned with a lavish spread of food and drink that neither of us could enjoy. The candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the ornate walls and high, vaulted ceiling. The room was silent, save for the soft crackling of the fireplace at the far end.

I had arranged for the goblets of blood to be brought in discreetly, not wanting to further unsettle Cassara. She sat across from me, her frail form dwarfed by the high-backed chair. She looked even more delicate in the flickering light, the black lace dress highlighting her pale skin and the dark circles under her eyes. A servant entered quietly, placing a silver tray with two goblets filled with blood on the table. I dismissed him with a nod, and he retreated silently, leaving us alone. I picked up one of the goblets and held it out to her, trying to mask my anxiety. "Here," I said softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Drink. It will help."

Cassara hesitated, her fingers trembling as she reached for the goblet. She brought it to her lips and took a tentative sip, her face contorting with disgust. But she forced herself to drink more, understanding that this was her new reality. "How does it taste?" I asked, trying to gauge her reaction.

"Terrible," she replied, her voice hoarse. "But... I can manage."

I nodded, relieved that she was at least trying. We sat in silence for a while, the weight of our situation pressing down on us. I couldn't help but watch her, my mind racing with guilt and regret. I had done this to her, and now it was my responsibility to help her through it. "I know this is difficult," I said finally, breaking the silence. "But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make this easier for you. You're not alone in this, Cassara."

She looked up at me, her emerald eyes still glowing faintly in the dim light. "Why did you do it, Astarion?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and pain. "Why did you turn me?"

I took a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you," I confessed. "It was a selfish act, born out of fear and desperation. I took away your choice, and for that, I am truly sorry. But now that we're here, I need you to understand that I will do whatever it takes to make this right."

Cassara's expression softened slightly, though the pain and confusion were still evident. "I want to believe you," she said quietly. "But it's hard. Everything is so different now."

"I know," I replied, my heart aching at her words. "I can't change what I've done, but I can help you adjust to this new life. We'll take it one day at a time." As the night wore on, we continued to talk, slowly bridging the gap that had formed between us. I told her about my own struggles with vampirism, sharing the darker parts of my past that I had never revealed to anyone. She listened, her eyes filled with a mix of empathy and sorrow.

By the time we finished our meal, there was a glimmer of understanding between us. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start. I escorted her back to my chambers, feeling a sense of hope that perhaps, with time and effort, we could find a way to navigate this dark path together. Before she retired for the night, I stopped her by the door. "Cassara," I said softly, taking her hand in mine. "Thank you for giving me a chance to make this right. I promise, I won't let you down."

She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine for any sign of deception. Finding none, she nodded slowly. "Alright, Astarion. One step at a time."

As she settled into the bed, I watched her for a moment longer, feeling a mix of relief and determination. I had a long way to go to earn her trust and forgiveness, but I was willing to do whatever it took. The feelings coursing through me were bewildering, a chaotic whirl of emotions that I had never experienced before. Protectiveness, vulnerability, fear—none of these had ever found a place in my heart. I had never wanted to protect someone before. I had never even wanted to be protected—never trusted anyone enough to allow it. Cassara had gone through hell because of me. She had almost died because of me. She had lost her mortality because of me. And through it all, she had remained her own person, never once losing the essence of who she was. Her strength, her resilience, her unwavering spirit—they were a stark contrast to the broken souls I had encountered in my past, those who had been under my control or those who had sought to control me.These feelings she stirred within me were terrifying, yet intoxicating. She made me feel alive in ways I had long forgotten or perhaps had never truly known. She was worth figuring it out—worth the risk of letting someone in. The walls I had built around my heart for centuries felt like they were crumbling, piece by piece, every time I looked at her.

I approached the bed, my footsteps soft against the cold stone floor. Cassara’s eyes fluttered open briefly, meeting mine with a mix of exhaustion and something else—something that resembled hope. I reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering on her cool skin. “You’re safe here,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “I promise I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re protected. I owe you that much.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, she gave a small nod, her eyes closing once more as she succumbed to the fatigue that weighed heavily on her.The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, dancing in a silent testament to the turbulent journey ahead. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—there would be struggles, setbacks, and moments of doubt. But for the first time in my long, cursed existence, I felt a spark of something I had thought lost forever: hope. As I turned to leave the room, I glanced back one last time at Cassara. She was worth it. Worth the fear, worth the pain, worth the fight. And perhaps, just perhaps, she was worth the chance at redemption. With a deep breath, I stepped out into the corridor, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind me. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, I was ready to face it, not alone, but with someone by my side. Someone who made me believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be more than the monster I had always feared I was.

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder’s Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part III): "Processing" in Mulder's Apartment

(To quote Mulder in Lazarus: “For those of you who don’t know already, this one’s important to me.” So, I hope I do this one right~.)

The apartment scene in Three Words is incredibly important and incredibly misunderstood. Mulder already knew the baby was his (which I tackled in this other important post); but, regardless, that isn't the cause of his distance. Knowing that you have a partner to come back to and that she is carrying your child doesn't stop the freight train of traumatic memories and blooming PTSD. And as much as he tries to hide from it-- burrowing away in his hospital room and his apartment before possessiveness drives him back to the office-- Mulder is suffering intensely: not because he feels displaced by Scully's actions or her new priorities, but because-- he thinks-- this dark fate was brought upon them by his own actions. Further, the trauma he and Scully endured because of his abduction has been worked through by his partner. Scully was already healing and moving forward (see post here, thank you @akiplo for your observation~); and Mulder fears that his presence-- a man lost in darkness-- can only drag her and their child back into chaos and ruin... and he won't do that to them.

Mulder's Apartment, the First Scene

Mulder and Scully arrive at his apartment fresh from the hospital; and their entrance-- she unlocking his apartment with her key-- marks the beginning of Mulder’s alienation from his own life. 

Walking in hesitantly-- creaky inch by creaky inch-- Mulder closes the door, angling himself away from Scully’s observation as much as possible. 

Once he collects himself, Mulder pulls an exaggerated face, trying to mask his discomfort with old coping skills.

Scully tries to break the ice: “Must feel good to be home"-- and is awarded by a stiff (though genuine) smirk from Mulder, taking her sentiment and turning it into a tongue-in-cheek joke. 

When he won’t respond more than a soft “...Yeah,” (or even meet her eyes), Scully leads the way further into the apartment. His faux appeased expression drops when she is no longer observing him: Mulder closes his eyes, pulls in a sharp breath--

and steps stressfully forward out of the shadows… swiftly then right back into them. 

Plodding along behind Scully-- who gives him a wide berth to reacclimate-- Mulder observes every inch of his apartment, insecurely putting his hands on his hips and pulling in his lips when he notices how changed his space is: cleaned, organized, and more comfortably "homey" (marked by the addition of two fluffy pillows, one still very rumpled-- which shows Scully's care to recapture a bit of Mulder's old, habitable "mess" for his return-- on the couch.) 

Not only has Mulder been significantly changed in his absence-- abducted and tortured for three months then returned dead another three before being resurrected for mere days with an added bonus of severe PTSD-- but even his apartment, the solitary space that was only his own, shows signs of the effects.

And Mulder knows it’s Scully who’s changed it-- “Something looks different,” he comments sadly, meaning more than the tidy apartment.

Mulder now knows Scully needs more from him-- a clean bill of health, a clean apartment, and a happy father-to-be for their child-- but he also knows her scars have had the time to be worked through and healed (or mostly so.) He feels locked out and left behind because Mulder has just started on the path Scully already traveled-- and now he thinks he must travel on alone, unable to ever catch up as his devouring trauma eats away at him with every progressive step he takes. To quote Fight the Future: "I don't know if I wanna do this alone... I don't even know if I can...."

“Yeah,” Scully acknowledges before lightening the emotional burden with an “It’s clean” quip. 

Mulder’s huff turns into his first chuckle, which turns into his first attempt at eye contact on their formerly personal ground. He realizes, however, how false his smile is and how much pain is bleeding from his eyes; and falters, looking away again. 

First important note: it’s easy to misconstrue his gun-shy eye contact as avoiding Scully’s pregnancy; but this moment illustrates how her baby (while a concern) wasn’t what drove him away from his partner. Mulder can’t look Scully in the eyes period, wounds too raw and exposed to not be easily diagnosed by his clever doctor partner. Mulder’s modus operandi has always been to hoard and wallow in his grief and pain alone (i.e. moodily staring at Modell in Pusher, angsting in the basement in Paper Hearts, etc.), only allowing himself to break down emotionally in Scully's presence in the most extreme of circumstances (ex. his mom’s health crises in Herrenvolk and Sein und Zeit, etc.) This is no different; and Mulder is more than willing to retreat and shut down internally than painfully deal with letting Scully (and their baby) down even more (ex. past self-sacrificial actions in Little Green Men, One Son, Amor Fati, etc.) 

“That’s it,” he plays along.  

Second important note: Scully keeps repeatedly trying to work herself up to talk to her partner; and her attempts are either intercepted, diverted, or stalled because Mulder is not prepared for any conversation deeper than surface-level. 

Before Scully can begin a new (potentially dangerous) topic, Mulder dips down to his fish; and, though using them as a brief ploy, he is truly overjoyed to see his little buddies again. They’re his and unattached to any extra weight that might add to the burdens on his back and cause him to drown… or at least, he thinks so. 

“Missing a molly,” he says, in what seems to be a casual remark and a question and a statement all at once. 

“Yeah,” Scully replies woefully, her own Starbuck guilt complex kicking in.

Mulder looks up, the loss hitting him in that uncomplicated, childish loss of a first pet; or, more accurately, of a first pet lost unexpectedly but markedly in his absence. His problems weren’t supposed to affect or hurt anyone, not even his fish; and that old guilt-- my partner was abducted, my partner’s sister was killed, my partner has cancer, my partner, my partner-- is yet another reminder that nothing is safe or sacred. He rises slowly, backing into his desk almost without realizing, needing something to lean on as yet another tragedy-- huge in the face of everything else-- hits him. 

“She wasn’t as lucky as you,” Scully explains, her voice creaking with conflicting emotions. 

Her remark hurts more than helps: Mulder sighs, spins, looks out the window, then sinks onto his desk: this room, this apartment, this homecoming, this life is too much. 

At Scully’s “Mulder…” he spins his head back, forcefully snapping himself out of whatever dark place he had sunk into. At her “I don’t know if you’ll ever understand what it was like…”, his mouth drops open, the classic tell of a Mulder on the brink of hyperventilation. He is able to recover from and channel away from those feelings by forcibly focusing solely on Scully’s, nodding along with her honest narration of her own experiences. 

But when Scully turns the conversation back on him (“And now to have you back…”), Mulder pops up with faux animation to deflect her focus from deeper inspection: “You act like you’re surprised”, followed by a grand gesture followed by a cheesy grin followed by a hand wave. The animation, however, wilts rather quickly. 

A beautiful little touch: When Scully confesses, “I prayed a lot,” she is neither awkward nor ashamed to talk about her faith with Mulder, a point of contention the two had always struggled with in their relationship. It’s a sign of the trust she places in him. Mulder sees this, and it calls out a part of him that was "them" before he was abducted-- his expression softens for the first time, his mouth relaxes, even his posture is less despondent. If only for a moment, her trust in his respect helps him feel a little more human. 

“And my prayers have been answered” refers once more to him; and Mulder must, again, deflect, deflect, deflect. 

“In more ways than one,” is a clever way to monkey branch back to Scully (and to something else-- someone else-- he knows occupies a great deal of her mind), but it’s delivered with false glibness and pain and regret. And there is so much regret: it’s practically pouring out of his eyes. 

Mulder follows up his remark with a tighter smile, a head nod, and an eyebrow twitch: a (botched) attempt at a “hey there” acknowledgment. Scully reads the spirit of his intent, however, and is touched (if a bit delightedly off-kilter by his sudden reference), looking down to confirm with a third “Yeah.” 

“I’m happy for you,” Mulder rushes out, genuine; but Mulder also chews the inside of his cheek in distress, biting back glistening tears.  

Two important things are happening in this scene: 

1. Mulder is being eaten alive with guilt and trauma and self-imposed distance; and is afraid Scully will see through it-- will see his weakness and fear-- and try to cross that divide. And he can’t open himself up because (Mulder thinks) she doesn't deserve that. But the toll this is taking on Mulder is worsening his suffering; so--  

2. Mulder's level of detachment is not as complete as it seems. In fact, Scully's reactions break through before this scene is over, causing him to meet her halfway as he hints at his struggle on reentry. Mulder then spends the rest of Three Words angling his movements to either attach Scully to his side or draw her back to it (with both pretending not to notice the conspicuous orbital paths drawing them back into the other's personal space.)

Mulder straightens again (clinging onto any sense of strength he can muster), and reiterates with another nod, “I think I know--” a long pause “--how much that means to you.” The underlying meaning: how much that would mean (means) to me. But he's still distant.

Scully is crushed; and Mulder purposefully avoids her face by looking at their baby. 

Third important note: Mulder’s expression here tells it all-- he knows that child is his, and it means the world to him, too. His faux side smirk has melted into real affection, even pride, that they’d (he’d) managed the impossible.

But it doesn’t take away his conviction that their miracle kid (and Scully) is better off without his issues; and he looks down and away from the baby, too. 

A heavy moment of silence is broken by Scully’s plaintive “Mulder…”, which he immediately cuts off with a sincere “I’m sorry.” Her pain breaks through the wall he’d erected: Mulder is never able to push Scully away completely, even for her own sake. “I don’t mean to be cold or ungrateful, I just….” Another heavy pause as he measures how truthful he plans to be. “I have no idea where I fit in….” 

Scully knows what he’s saying: a plea to drop it, a plea to have her back off, a plea to recover and not confront his problems now in order to patch himself back together. A plea for space. She doesn’t know why he wants space from her, too-- can only guess-- but she backs off, for his sake.    

Mulder backpedals from the strength of his previous statement, following up “no idea where I fit in” with a rushed “Right now.” In spite of Mulder’s distance, he can’t let Scully go completely, couldn’t handle it if she let him go at all.  

“I just, uh…” he says, pursing his lips as he carefully chooses his next words-- Scully’s heartbroken reaction making him doubly cautious--  

“I’m having a little trouble--” a quick, fortifying inhale (the first time Mulder’s shown Scully how out of sorts he truly is)-- “...processing.” A slight pause, then a weighted, “Everything,” before Mulder darts his head away, withdrawing from his confession as quickly as possible to take another steadying breath (his mouth now fully open-- the aforementioned hyperventilating tell-- for a longer period of time.)    

The scene ends on Scully’s worried, hurt, and floundering mood. Mulder is returned but strangely absent; and how is she going to figure out why and return them to the way they were… if that’s even possible? 

Mulder, meanwhile, takes a few things from this scene forward with him: his brief emotional disclosure deeply affected Scully, affirming to himself that his problems and pain need to be kept far, far away from her and their child. He will spend the rest of Three Words trying to do just that while sticking as close to her as nonchalantly possible, scheduling her to meet him or him to meet her or wheedling her along with him on various misadventures. A conversation is desperately needed; but it's not until sometime pre-Empedocles that Mulder allows himself the time to pause, regroup, and begin to heal.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[melissamasakari]

Confessions you didn`t notice

Chapter twelve. Tough fight.

“Well, buddy, are you ready to warm up?”

“Always ready! Oh, our girls have arrived.”

“How are you feeling, soldiers? Don’t overdo it there, I don’t want to be on duty at headquarters for another week all by myself.”

“That rich. You should firstly remain intact.”

“Aren’t you afraid of rumpling a skirt, baby?”

“Only yours, sunny.”

Accompanied by the roar of the crowd, our guys entered the arena. They cheerfully roughed up each other a bit and brought the first round to a draw. I would have thought that they have a match-fixing if I hadn’t known better. But really, they are about equal in strength, so no surprises here. The next two rounds passed quickly, intensely and spectacularly. It ended in a victory for the redhead. My bet worked out well.

“You caught me cleverly, boss.”

“A couple of times I was already sure of losing.”

“Well, it’s our turn. Get ready.” Sam said.

“Ha, let's see who wins.”

“Just don’t cry a river later, baby.”

“You told that you will not give in to me!”

Sam and I climbed onto the mats. Well, losing to her won't be such a shame.

“Why are you hesitating? Just attack, don’t be shy,” she teased.

“You know, it will be kind of awkward sweeping the arena with you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Sam said and rushed to attack.

We exchanged blows and parted. I was distracted and received a heavy kick in the knee. I almost fell, but managed to resist. Lucky me. I caught the moment and twisted Sam's hand, pushing her slightly. Victory.

“That was impressive.”

“I tried to. Shall I help you up?” I extended my hand.

“I'll do.” She smacked me with her palm and quickly stood up.

“Shall we rest?”

“Nah, I'm ready.”

And now I was very glad that I had such a small stature. Sam immediately jumped up and tried to kick me in the head while turning around. I just bent down slightly and moved away. While she was regaining her balance, I hit her in the side with my knee. Then I jumped up and threw her onto the mats.

“Well, how do you like it?”

“And you were well prepared! Congratulations. Arlo is yours, little fella.”

“I hope so, just let me catch my breath.”

Somehow, completely unnoticed, the time came for the final round. Confident Arlo stood opposite me in a relaxed stance. Such a handsome guy, I'd like to do a sculpture of him once.

I’ll ask journalists for photos from the event later.

I barely managed to bring the first match to a draw. Perhaps it would be much easier if I was not constantly distracted. During the break, I noticed Nora jumping around with a poster. I, of course, understood that the whole city already knows that she is in love with Arlo. But why demonstrate it so bluntly? Seriously, a banner with hearts? She should just also write: “notice me, brother.” It's annoying. Next round went by so quickly that I didn’t even have time to understand how I managed to win it. Rising up, the redhead grinned slyly.

“I see someone has been practicing a lot!”

Now I’ll wipe that smile off your impudent face.

After missing a couple of blows, I quickly ducked under his arm and knocked him down with a neat sweep. Take that. He seemed angry. In two movements, he grabbed me like a toy and laid me on my back on the mats. Hm. I wouldn't mind doing it again but in more privacy. And without prying eyes. Unless, of course, Gale is wrong and we're not siblings.

“So what, a decisive match?” I asked, wiping the blood from my broken lip with my sleeve.

“Don't you need a doctor first?”

“Maybe a shrink. I'm fine. Let's continue.”

It was a tense battle. Pretty beaten and almost exhausted, I finally knocked him down. Just in case, I leaned over and pressed my elbow on top of his chest. The crowd buzzed. Just in time, otherwise a little more and I would have kissed him. I was eager to.

“How do you like my skills, teacher?”

“Awesome! Congratulations! Now maybe you can let me out?”

“And what will I get for this hard work?”

“A Cup. And let's go celebrate your victory. Right after Xu takes a look at your injuries. You’re still bleeding,” he stroked my cheek with his palm, carefully examining the damage. It felt so good, and was definitely worth all the minor pains. I could barely restrain myself from leaning into his touch.

“Hey, lovebirds, are you going to continue to grope each other in front of everyone? The city is waiting for its champion!” Sam said, approaching us. I embarrassingly crawled away and stood up. Arlo didn't seem to react to the remark. Is he satisfied with everything?

Having settled the formalities and listened to tons of congratulations, we headed to the Round Table and threw a fun party for four. Django stared strangely at our cheerful company all evening long, but said nothing. I was very grateful for his silence, actually. Even Sonya was somehow quieter that usual, what a nice girl! So it was a wonderful holiday.

[peachsayshi]

Hi Peach! Hope you're doing well <3 This is for your wip ask game! Would love any crumbs you can spare for the way you claim me (pt. 2). I think about your dad sukuna series regularly! Also this series is what made me start reading sukuna fics 🤭 (the power your words have over me)

-🕊️

hello, darling 🕊️!

of course! thank you so much for asking! here is a tiny little blurb (subject to change of course because I am still very early on in my draft for this part)

"what's wrong?" you ask, your thumb trailing over the pensive scrunch between his brow, your delicate touch prompting the cursed king to close his eyes while he exhales. he opens them again to take you in, eyes falling to your lips once more, the ache contracts in his chest as it expands across his torso. he swallows the sudden lump in his throat, unsure of how his wayward thoughts brought him to the depths of guilt. how could he have ever denied you? "nothing," he sternly answers, shifting his weight around and pinning you beneath him. one hand reaches to hold your cheek, two others gripping your waist intensely while the fourth rests just above your head to cage you in. he leans forward, snagging your bottom lip between his teeth as he nips at the plush, swollen muscle. you sigh sweetly, far too sweetly, it makes him firm his hold on your cheek. he slides his tongue into your mouth, intoxicating you with a deep kiss that makes you melt into the rumpled sheet. all mine, he thinks possessively when he swallows your moan. you're all mine.

⥽ ask 💌

[lemonluvgirl]

Hello! I love all your Everlark fics so much! You’re legit one of my favorite fic writers ever! Basically, my queen of Everlark smut 🥹❤️ I’m not sure if you’re accepting prompts right now, but if ever you decide to again, I have one I’m dying to see played out! 🥰

Okay so, we all know Katniss has a problem with authority in general but I lowkey believe she has a praise kink if its coming from a certain blond baker 😉

so basically, my prompt request is: Post-MJ, Pre-Epilogue (after the night of “Real” maybe) and Everlark are becoming more intimate and open in the bedroom. Katniss finds out Peeta can be quite ~dominating~ in bed and Peeta discovers Katniss’ praise-kink (although she denies it sometimes)… I think you can see where this us going 😉 so kinda just dirtytalk!Peeta saying things like “Good girl” and Katniss is just “Yes, Peeta” and it just gets really, really HOT because after all, she is the girl on fire 😏🔥

So yea that’s it HAHA I hope you see this!! ❤️❤️❤️

Ok, so I've only dabbled a little in dominant!Peeta smut before, but this request was so sweet I decided to give it a try. Hope you like.

This is just straight-up smut, so anybody not into that need not read.

We discover it almost accidentally, lying in bed one afternoon atop the rumpled sheets, trying to catch our breath as the sweat dries on our naked skin. 

“Where did you learn that?” I ask him turning my head to peer at him from across our bed. 

He’s gloriously sweaty and flushed, his chest still rising and falling swiftly, his pink lips and over-kissed mouth hanging open and pulling in the air like a man winding down after running a mile.

 He’s beautifully, perfectly undone, and best of all, he’s mine. 

He turns to me, lazily, eyes dropping with tiredness and the leftover rush of pleasure that’s still humming through both our veins. He still has enough energy to smirk, though. 

“Learn what?” He asks in a mock-innocent tone that makes me roll my eyes.  

“You know what,” I say, with a little more grit in my voice because I actually want to know the answer and he’s being annoying. He chuckles in delight at the discomfort in my voice. 

Peeta knows by now that while I’m very enthusiastic about our activities I still have trouble discussing certain things in blatant detail. He thinks it’s hilarious that after all this time and after all the things we’ve done together that I can still get flustered discussing sex with him. 

“Oh, you mean the thing that made you scream?” He asks, trying to continue his innocent charade but the slight smug quality of his words ruins the intended effect.

I narrow my eyes at him in warning, but he doesn’t even blink. 

“Or, was it that thing that made it impossible for you to speak at all?” He adds, lowering his voice and stretching out his hand to trail one lone fingertip down my ribs to my hip. The action makes me shiver with want, even though my body is still quietly pulsing with the aftereffects of his love. 

“The second one,” I answer quietly, reaching out and twining my fingers with his, stopping his indulgent touches before things heat up between us again and I lose my train of thought. 

He gives a quiet, “Hmmm,” in response and moves in closer. Then I’m gathered up in strong arms and my head is pillowed on a strong chest. I listen to the soft drumbeat beneath my ear and I relax into his embrace. 

“I didn’t really learn it from anywhere or anyone. I just had a feeling you might like it.” He replies thoughtfully, all traces of teasing gone now. 

“But how did you know I’d like it when you called me a—” I break off, unable to repeat the phrase for some reason. 

Which is silly. Because there’s actually nothing outwardly crude or sexual about it. But the way Peeta had said it, and the way I had responded to it, was intensely erotic. 

“A good girl?” Peeta offers, finishing my thought for me and I inhale sharply. My heart skips a beat and I feel myself involuntarily clench around nothing. I feel a blush creep up my neck.

Peeta’s arms tighten around me as if he knows how much his words affect me and when he speaks next it sounds deep and rumbly. 

“Because you are, Katniss. You’re such a good girl.” His voice takes me back to a few minutes ago when we were joined and Peeta was moving in me with that perfect rhythm and his words vaulted me over the precipice and hurtled me to perfect ecstasy. I had loved it, and despite just having my hunger for him sated, I greedily, selfishly, wanted more. 

“Peeta,” I plead, not fully knowing what to ask for. I have no idea if I want him to continue in this vein or stop. 

“You’re so good, and so sweet, lying here naked in our bed, writhing and biting your lip to keep from asking for more, after I’ve already filled you to the brim.” His voice takes on a decidedly dirty edge and I know I’m already lost. There’s no way I can hold out when he gets like this. 

I let out a strangled little moan and in the next second, he has us flipped, with him on top of me, hands holding my wrists above my head, as he spreads my knees with his own. He looks down between us, eyes dark and nostrils flaring. 

“Look at you, still dripping with me but you want more, don’t you? Do you want me to fuck you again, sweetheart? Does my good girl need me to make her come again?” His warm breath ghosts first over my lips, then my throat, and collarbone, and the words are uttered against my skin like a secret before his lips close over a nipple and I cry out as he sucks. 

“Yes! Peeta…please,” I beg and he lets go of my breast with a wet pop before releasing my wrists and slowly sliding down my body. 

“Keep your hands up. You’re not allowed to touch until I tell you.” He commands and it sends a dark thrill through me. If people knew how much I liked this side of Peeta they might be surprised. I know a lot of people think of me as the dominant one in our relationship, but that’s because they don’t see us behind closed doors. When it's just us, all of the trappings fall away. And I’m free to admit that I need Peeta in this way. For me, it's not so much about submission as it is about freeing me from the burden of having to be in control all the time. That and I trust Peeta unlike anyone else. I know he will never abuse my trust or hurt me purposely. 

We are so past that. And here in the privacy of our bedroom, the only thing that exists is me and him. 

 I nod frantically at him, eager all over for him, again. I don’t think I ever won’t be. It's been years since we became intimate like this, and I still get the same rush when I think about sleeping with him. He lets out a little growl and nips at my skin when I unconsciously start rocking my hips against him. 

“Patience, sweetheart. All good girls know how to wait.” He tells me and our eyes lock. I’m practically panting for want of him, but I hold myself still.  We both know what the other is thinking, what is needed. 

There’s a magic in the way we fit together like this. Sure of ourselves and each other, neither of us questioning our love anymore. There’s only the heat of reassurance and desire that passes between us and curls in the air around us as we begin again. 

His mouth moves over my hipbone, hot, wet, and fervent. His strong arms pin my legs apart, my knees kiss the mattress as he lowers his face down to peer at my center.

“So swollen and messy,” He says, a finger dipping in to play with the puddle of fluids seeping out of me. “So beautiful. You should always be like this. Full of my come. Begging for more.” He says with a sigh before swirling his fingers, gathering it, and then pushing it back in. 

I whimper loudly, loving the feeling of him filling me up, even if it's just his fingers. I love his hands. I love his touch. I love him. Plain and simple. 

“I love you,” I say out loud because I try to make a point of saying it whenever I can now. So that he always knows. So that he never has to question it again. 

He peers up at me from between my obscenely spread legs. His pupils are so dilated, I can hardly see the thin sliver of blue iris. 

“Love you too, sweetheart. I’m going to eat your pussy so good, you won’t be able to form a full sentence for hours.” He promises, pecking my clit with a soft, short kiss that sends electricity racing through me. 

Then he starts to lick, softly, around my sensitive flesh, and down to where his fingers are pumping into me. 

“Mmm, you still taste delicious, even mixed with my come.” He states between licks and all I can do is groan in reply. 

I can feel his self-satisfied smile again on the skin of my inner thigh. 

“What was that? I didn’t quite understand you, darling.” He teases before diving back in and flicking my clit with his tongue, not even giving my muddled brain a chance to try and form a response. 

‘PEETA!” I scream as the orgasm washes over me, sharp and sweet, and sudden. 

He laps up my release, holding down my shaking thighs and murmuring sweet little praises that I can’t make out because my ears are ringing. 

Then I’m being flipped over again and he arranges me with strong, firm hands until I’m braced on my elbows, lower half lifted up and legs spread for his benefit as he situates himself behind me. 

“Fuck, this ass. I’ve always loved it.” He says, one large palm cupping and kneading my cheek possessively as his other hand tilts my hips up. 

He notches himself at my entrance but doesn’t sink in. Instead, he slides through my lower lips, coating himself carefully, even though I know he wants inside me. He’s fully hard again, and more than ready.

“Hands, sweetheart.” He says in a quiet, strained tone. 

I know what he needs, so I carefully shift my weight from my forearms and link my hands behind my back, letting my forehead sink into the bed, my nose and mouth angled in such a way that I’ll be able to breathe even if he pounds me into the mattress. 

“Good girl,” He whispers, and I whine pathetically, distressed at my own emptiness. I need him to fill me. 

“Shhh, baby.” He coos, and then with one well-placed thrust, he sheathes himself up to the hilt. 

My moan is swallowed up against the bedsheets, but Peeta’s grunt of pleasure rings out loud in the room and fills my ears, making me press back into him. 

“Still so tight, after I ate you out, fucked you, and ate you out again. Perfect little pussy, just for me. Feels, so fucking good.” I hear him say, as he plunges in, moves his hips in a circle, pulls back, and plunges back in again. 

I’m making noises, desperate little sounds that do nothing but spur him on to take me harder. It’s glorious. He feels amazing, even after all the pleasure he’s already given me. I know he’ll give me more. Because he’s so good. Because he’s my Peeta. 

“Sweet girl, taking me so well. Taking my cock and letting me fuck you however I want. You’re so good Katniss. You’re perfect, sweetheart. Perfect for me. I always knew you would be.” He says, breathless and strained, his hips knocking against my bottom with the force of his thrusts. 

“Yes!” I shout, and I can feel the way I tighten at his words, I can feel the way my body winds up and grows taught, waiting for release. 

“I always knew it would be like this. Incredible. You, sweet and desperate. Begging for me. You’re so cool on the outside, but inside you’re pure heat. All fire. All mine.” His voice is rough and his thrusts take on a punishing edge, the kind he knows really gets me fired up. 

I turn my mouth to the side, blowing stray hairs out of my face. 

“Yours, Peeta. All yours. Forever.” I promise him and he moans, his fingers gripping my hips tightly enough to bruise. 

His right hand loosens its grip and he brings it around my front to slide between my legs and rub small, firm circles around me. 

I let out a broken, choked noise. 

“That’s right, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be a good girl and come for me. Come on my cock and I’ll fill you up—” 

His words, his beautiful, filthy words are what tip me over the edge. 

I clench around him and come, sobbing his name, and clutching the sheets. 

I hear him swearing behind me and feel his hips stuttering before he lets out a low groan and plunges as deep as he can. 

Warmth pools inside me, with the ghost of my flutterings and the last of his twitching pulses, and we collapse, exhausted and much sweatier than the first time. 

We can only rest a moment because Peeta is heavy on my back, and it's uncomfortable, but he rearranges us quickly enough until we can spread out comfortably. 

“How was that, sweetheart? Was there anything you didn’t like that time?” He asks, quiet and inquisitive now.

I shake my head. Brushing my lips across his bicep, back and forth, wanting to kiss every inch of his skin in happiness, but my body is so tired and sated that all I can manage is this. 

“I liked it all,” I reply as I move to get more comfortable. 

He moves his arm under my head so I can use it as a pillow. One of his hands brushes a strand of hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His brilliant blue eyes are searching mine for something more. 

“It was good,” I tell him with a simplistic finality that makes him smile, and sleepily close his eyes in contentment. 

“So good,” I repeat to myself as I close my eyes and drift off, warm, sleepy, and safe in the arms of my love. 

[eddawrites]

Arcane Rarepair Week prompt: First Meetings & Post-Canon

An excerpt for @arcane-rarepair-week from a Sevika x Viktor fic that I unfortunately haven't been able to finish yet due to life interfering and keeping me from doing important things that actually matter - like writing this fic.

Many thanks to @dontbotherwiththepronunciation for beta-ing. ——————————————

The first time she came by was a mere courtesy call. She scanned her surroundings, taking in the multitude of tables littered with rumpled papers, some of them sticking from the overstuffed drawers, another stack shoved unceremoniously under the leg of an exceptionally wobbly desk—most of them branded with the House Talis seal, she noticed. The rest of the clutter comprised of a leaking fountain pen and a short stub of a pencil, a banged up ruler, some scrap metal, hand-me-down lab equipment, a stained brass samovar, and inexplicably... an empty pickle jar?

“I could arrange something more… homely.” Sevika had said, looking around.

There wasn’t much by way of furniture in his little lair either. A pair of rickety chairs, an aged wooden closet where he kept his laser arm—the Hexclaw, he called it—tucked away, though calling it a closet would be generous, in reality it was hardly more than a couple of planks nailed together; a trunk with a rusted lock that held his few personal possessions, and in a secluded corner, an uncomfortable-looking, narrow bed with a metal frame that was all creaky old springs and chipped paint, a set of moth-eaten blankets and pillows lying atop of an old, musty mattress. Certainly a downgrade from the living standards he’d grown used to topside, she thought, wondering what could have possibly led him to return to Zaun, much less lodge in this dank pit of a building.

Eventually, one piece after another, she will replace his shabby furniture with something more dignified. Find a proper armoire—as the topsider peddler she bought it off of had called it—with doors that actually shut, and shelves that did not bend. She’ll get rid of that desk which wobbled with the slightest shift of weight. Add an armchair and a sofa with worn velvet upholstery, but seat cushions so soft you’d think you could drown in them. Most importantly, she’ll procure a bed that’s just a little wider, a little kinder to his back.

“I prefer to have my research at an arm’s reach. But… thank you, Sevika.” he replied politely. “You have been very accommodating.”

That was the first time he’d heard her laugh. A hearty guffaw resounding from deep within her chest, punctuated by a snort that he found oddly endearing. The joke had been wholly unintended on his part but he partook in her merriment all the same, infectious as the warm, smokey sound of her laughter was. Even at the risk of knocking his own wind out of his lungs.

“Any friend of Singed is a friend of mine.” she said, examining him with her eyes, black as void. “He’s vouched for you.”

“Singed?” he questioned, a small smirk playing on his lips. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Wasn’t my idea.”

His acute, yellow eyes flittered to the metal prosthetic that hung heavy at her side, then back to her face, peering at her with such intensity that she could’ve sworn he were reading her mind.

“Of course not,” he conceded at last. “You seem above such japes.”

Sevika decided then that she preferred him to the doctor.

***

Truth be told, Viktor was a heaven-sent. After Renni cut ties in the aftermath of her son’s death, and Smeech decided to follow her suit not long after, Sevika was in the market for a tinkerer. She was no slouch herself, but her mechanical skills were a far cry from someone like Jinx.

Ah, Jinx. Frankly, she was relieved by her disappearance. The girl was a whizz, but unstable. She had her reasons, of course, as many in the undercity did, and Sevika wasn’t in the habit of judging people by their quirks—her own colourful crew stood as proof of that. But Jinx was prone to self-sabotage as often as not and presented a liability Sevika was all too happy to replace.

Viktor, though, seemed to still be on the fun side of insane. It might’ve been his resume that had caught her attention, but it was the charm that kept her coming back.

Sometimes she even brings him treats. Brain fuel, she calls it, liquorice candies and chocolate-coated marzipan, pretzels and poppy seed cake. A pot of hot tea, or coffee that tasted like dirt to his topside-spoiled taste buds. Other times it would be a bowl of soup or fried rice. She tried to brush it off, pretend like it wasn’t a big deal to play caretaker to a mad scientist readily given to negligence.

“Here’s your payment.” she would say.

And he would resist, of course. “I didn’t ask for compensation.”

“You say you don’t need money, but you still need to eat.”

And if it was something sweet, he would retort: “These aren’t exactly nutritious.”

“It’s for eating, ain’t it?” she would insist. “Eat.”

And then she would plant herself in the ratty old armchair and watch him feed himself with slow, deliberate motions as if every single morsel exhausted him.

After all, it wasn’t unlike what she used to do for her old man returning piss drunk from his mine shift, late at night. She would take off his shoes, remove the soiled clothes and clean him with a washcloth before hauling him off to bed. In the morning, she would force hot broth down his throat, make sure he drank something other than spirits; that his clothes and sheets were clean, that he didn’t stink like a brewery.

Viktor was a cakewalk in comparison.

He doesn’t challenge it. There is a comfort to her visits. A periodicity—tangible proof of passage of time in the lightless room where a minute might be over in sixty seconds or drag for six thousand more.

The one time he did, he had told her, prosaic as ever: “I don’t need a caretaker.”

“No, you don’t.” she admitted. “You’re more than able. But you’ve got that machine of yours drip-feeding you that crap all day, every day. And I know what it does to your body. It makes you forget your limits, and things like hunger and exhaustion and even pain stop existing for as long as the effect lasts. But all of those things are still there, buried under that high. So consider my visits a reminder.” The other part of her motivation remained unspoken.

There was a logic to her words that he couldn’t counter.