#and when they reduce him to things he’s not

[xprinceling]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ enhypen’s favorite positions.

. ׂׂૢ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑖 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟.

ׂ╰┈➤s. 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑠’ 𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑥 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 wc.1.1k w. 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 + ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠 (18+ 𝑚𝑑𝑛𝑖!) n.𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦!

heeseung - mating press. oh, he adores the mating press - like, obsessively. it's heeseung’s go-to position, his absolute favorite, the one thing he’ll never get tired of because it just hits different.

it’s the ultimate intimacy - chest to chest, hips locked together, faces so close you share each and every breath. you can kiss, bite, whisper filth, or just stare into each other’s eyes as he moves, drowning in the intensity.

the angle is chef’s kiss - deep, relentless, no escape. every thrust drags against all the right spots, and the way your body arches beneath him? utmost perfection.

there’s also something about having you pinned, completely at his mercy - it’s a power trip, which makes him reach a state of insanity.

also, the aftercare is immaculate. collapsed together, still joined, catching your breath while trading lazy kisses? godsent.

jay - cowgirl. when he wants control, when he wants to take his pleasure with desperate, bouncing frenzy - cowgirl is his kingdom.

the power dynamic is chef's kiss - gripping your waist and watching you take what you want - it's intoxicating.

chests heaving, hair tousled, that perfect flush spreading down your body as you move? art. absolute art.

slow, sensual rises and falls, then suddenly bouncing hard enough to leave bruises on your thighs. the versatility? unmatched.

his hands are free to wander - gripping hips, thumbing over nipples, pulling them down into a messy kiss - every touch just makes it better.

also - eye contact ruins him. locking gazes while you ride him? that's the kind of intimacy that leaves him trembling.

jake - doggy. oh, he lives for doggy - the raw, unfiltered thrill of it, the way it makes him feel both wild and worshiped at the same time. i's not just a position -it's a vibe, a whole damn experience.

the sight is everything- - he curve of your spine, the way your body moves, the sheer obscenity of or taking what he wants like this.

also that angle? brutal. every thrust hits different, punching out noises he didn't even know you could make. it's the kind of pleasure that borders on too much, and yet he’s always begging for more.

jake has complete control - hands tangled in hair, fingers digging into flesh, setting the pace rough and fast or slow and teasing. and you? totally at his mercy, reduced to whimpers and broken moans. (bonus points if there's a well-placed spank or two)

the pose is dirty talk central. growled praise, hissed curses, the kind of "you take me so fucking good" that leaves the both of you shuddering.

sunghoon - pronebone. he’s obsessed with it - the kind of obsession that makes him melt just thinking about it. it's his secret weapon, his guilty pleasure, the position he always circles back to, because it's just that good.

it's all about the surrender. you - face down, body pressed into the mattress, completely at hoon’s mercy. no distractions, just pure, unfiltered sensation - every thrust hitting deep, every drag of skin on skin pulling moans he didn't even know he had in him.

the angle is sinful. hips tilted just right, leverage perfect for hitting the spot that makes you see stars. and the view? devastating. the curve of your back, the way your fingers claw at the sheets, the desperate little noises muffled into the pillow - it's art.

sometimes he’s too wrecked for eye contact, too far gone for anything but the raw, grinding pleasure. it's the best of both worlds - filthy and possessive, but low-effort enough that the both of you can just take each other when you’re too hungry to bother with finesse.

the aftermath is a mess of shaky limbs and bitten-off laughs. collapsed together, still trembling, trying to remember how to breathe. maybe a lazy hand tracing the marks left on your ass, or a kiss pressed between your shoulder blades.

sunoo - face off.  there’s something about the face-off position that drives him wild - the way you straddle him, thighs gripping his hips, bodies pressed so close the both of you can feel every heartbeat, every shuddering breath. it's raw, it's intimate, and it's his.

there's no hiding here - no buried faces, no turning away. just locked gazes, pupils blown wide with pleasure, watching every flicker of emotion cross each other's face. it's too intense, too vulnerable, and that's exactly why he craves it.

he’s the one beneath - completely at your mercy, forced to take whatever he’s given, hands gripping your thighs for leverage.

every movement hits just right - deep, relentless, with your weight pressing him down in the best way. the friction is maddening, the pressure unbearable, and neither of you would change a thing.

jungwon - reverse scoop. there’s something delicious about the reverse scoop -the way he folds you over, chest pressed flush against your back, hips cradled tight in his grasp. it’s possessive, it’s deep, and it’s inescapable.

he can set a brutal pace, grind slow and filthy, or pin you down with an arm hooked under your thighs, forcing you to take every inch. there's no leverage, no wiggle room - just pure, helpless surrender.

chest to back, lips on the nape of your neck, hands gripping wherever they can reach - it's overwhelming in the best way. the heat, the sweat, the way your breath hitches when he bites your shoulder? chef's kiss.

with his mouth right by your ear, he can murmur exactly what he’s going to do - or how good you feel, how tight, how his. either way, it's game over.

when he finally snaps, it's with his teeth sinked into your shoulder, hands bruising your hips, pressing you down into the mattress as he rides out the high.

ni-ki - spork. that tangled, half-folded, limbs-everywhere way of fucking isn't graceful, but that's why he loves it. it's desperate, uncoordinated, and so good he can't think straight.

one leg hooked over a shoulder, the other trapped between your bodies, back arched at a ridiculous angle - nothing about this is practical, but the way it makes you gasp? worth it.

somehow, this jumble of limbs lets him sink deeper than should be physically possible. every thrust punches the air from your lungs, and the choked-out moans it pulls from you? art.

the angle hits so good that neither of you can keep it together - breathy curses, bitten-off pleas, the wet slap of skin echoing between the both of you. it's filthy in the best way.

even in this mess you lock eyes - half-lidded, dazed, watching each other come undone. it's too intimate, too raw, and it ruins you every time.

the collapse is truly inevitable - muscles give out, you slide into a heap, still panting and laughing breathlessly. it's not elegant, but who cares when the aftershocks are that good?

-

divider credits: cursed-carmine

[sh1-n0bu]

♡︎ 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 ♡︎

characters: sub!qiuyuan x gn!dom!reader

warnings: written before anything about character is known except for his name and design so obv it’s free balling, strap/cock traditions per usual, exhibitionism, handjob, cumming inside, hair pulling, multiple orgasm, degrading, feminization, attempt at breeding, talks of pregnancy, going with the theory that quiyuan is jianxin’s master, reader is a FREAK and is obsessed with the poor man

notes: i am a WHORE

in the temples that resides at the very top of one of the many peaks that surrounds jinzhou with its protective barrier, there is where the next masters or aspiring martial artists commune to train, share experiences or to simply rest their weary bones. young and old, experienced and brimming with thirst for adventure, many martial artists walk through the doors of the temple with open heart and clear mind. not all however, is so keen on keeping their visions clear and at their prime, choosing to tug one of the wandering masters who seldom showed their visages to the nearest room and shutting themselves inside.

it wasn’t even night nor had he bathed yet, still slick with the latest tacet discord’s blood and sweat, impure and made even more filthier as you chose to ram your cock into his half prepared hole, shutting the choked scream with a hand over his mouth. qiuyuan let out a whine into your hand, feeling the way how your dick wasn’t even all the way inside him and yet how his leg was shaking already, hands clambering to hold onto the nearest wall for support. the sweetest little noises escaping through your fingers, gasps and moans filling the empty room as you finally bottom out inside him with a pleased groan. immediately, qiuyuan was slapping at you as far as his arm could reach, scratching at your hand over his mouth while his one leg is pulled up with your hand underneath his knee.

“y-you filthy creature” qiuyuan spat out, hissing at you like some adorable angered kitty while he tried to hide his flushed cheeks with his messy hair. “this is t-the temple huuhg of jinzhou. should you wanted me ahh-haah this badly, a-at least do it someplace private!” his hoarse voice tipped off into a whine when you chose to move just a bit, nudging against his prostate sweetly, making his hands clammer up with sweat as he worries over keeping himself quiet. but even then, try as he might to keep his noises down, he could still hear the wet squelch of your cock fucking him open and how his nails scratched against the wood.

you couldn’t help but laugh quietly under your breath, seeing the ever so stoic and cold wandering swordmaster be reduced to stuttering little thing by just shoving your cock inside his hole. lone wolf, my ass, he was anything but a lone wolf with the way he keeps falling into your hands over and over despite his complaints. a bunny in heat would suit his description more with the way his hole and throat loves to swallow your cum, as if he wanted to be bred full.

“ah, but master qiuyuan” you coo out his name and title with so much sweetness that the swordsmaster felt sick. or was that because he swore he could feel your cock pushing against his guts? feeling his legs tremble and lips quiver as his poor neglected dick weeps untouched? qiuyuan didn’t know and frankly, he didn’t wanted to know.

“you’re just so cute, y’know? standing there with your arms crossed, cold eyes glaring at some poor tree while you blank out. it makes me wanna ruin you. get you all filthy and messy, maybe even fuck you ‘till you squirt”. oh how he hated how he bit back a whimper at your words, tilting his head down even further to try and hide the shame he felt from getting aroused by just your disgusting words alone. who even gave you the rights to get this touchy with him in the first place? why does he keep allowing you to do these things to him?

before the cold man could think of something to hiss back at you, you were already grabbing at his hair, holding the fluffy long ponytail tightly in your hand and pulling on it, making the swordmaster let out a cute squeal as he arched his back, body flush against the wooden walls.

“you damned bea—aang♡︎!” an uncharacteristically high pitched moan leaves his lips when you start to move, pulling out until your dildo was nearly out of his slippery hole before slamming it all the way back inside. his body, albeit bigger than yours, rattled at the force of the thrust, his hands leaving their purchase by the walls and instead choosing to hold them over his mouth. he’ll get back at you for this, definitely torment you with stricter training, but right now, qiuyuan tried his best to keep his mind in place, to prevent himself from letting out stupid noises that he knows you love to hear fall from his throat.

“you’re no fun at all, master. i wanted to catch you off guard and hear your cute noises” you whisper against his shoulder, smelling the metallic scent of the TD’s blood on his clothes. not like it was disgusting, if anything, it made you green eyed. made you thrust harder, deeper, as if jealous over the notion that the cold man you liked so much was so physically close to another beast other than yourself.

qiuyuan was sure of it, sure that you were some monster in human form, because every thrust into his lubed up hole was so forceful to the point he swore he could feel your strap carving out his insides, forcing him to get used to the size of your stupid dick, remember the shape of your cock. the cold lube that was smeared over his succulent ass created filthy plap! plap! noises every time you fucked the air out of his lungs, leaving him feeling lightheaded as he desperately tried to quieten his moans. even then, even with the way he held his hands over his mouth, bit his lip or held fabrics of his scarf over his drool covered lips, small gasps and sharp punched out whines escaped. and they seemed to motivate you, making your thrust more harder, nearly jackrabbiting constantly into his sweet spot.

“nngh—ungck.. y-you really.. do-on’t know aangh haah know to uhmmg-guck.. f-fuck! fuck fucking hell, [na-ame]♡︎” qiuyuan all but mewled, every last thoughts of indignation being fucked out of his brain every time your strap grazes his prostate, his knee that you held up jerking upon the feeling. his mind was melting away, he was sure of it. you must be using your forte, you must have poisoned his mind and his body because he was tearing up, his own untouched dick bobbing every time you thrust back into his clenching hole, rendering him speechless.

whining under his breath, shaking his head as if to try and clear his mind, he let out pathetic little noises. punched out moans and sharp gasps rising in volume as you keep his head pulled back by his long hair, fucking every thoughts out of his brain.

“ngh—no! no more! [name], we ca—ahn’t… can’t♥︎ can’t! we— aanh ahg-gahc mhh hummg♡︎” the swordmaster shook his head over and over, already babbling as if you had fucked him until his mind melted into a useless mush with sharp gasps increasing in volume. letting go of your hold on his hair, you turn your attention to his dick. still weeping like the sad little thing it was, all left alone and untouched, a cute red in the tip as if it was chocking on the amount of cum it held back.

“better keep your voice down, master” you whisper into his ear, making qiuyuan shudder with a swallowed moan. he hated how much control you had over him, over his body, how easily he folded under you like a little toy for your satisfaction. but his thoughts of hatred for you is for later time, a chocked sob escaping his throat as if he had been strangled when you touched his weeping cock, taking it in your hand and swirling your thumb constantly over the tip, occasionally rubbing down into his slip forcefully. qiuyuan damn right mewled, pushing his hips back, wanting to escape your cruel hands but fucking himself right into your strap, feeling the stupid thing up into his throat with a punched out noise.

forcing him to keep himself upright, you fuck into him with the same pace as you twist and swirl the tip of his cock. qiuyuan just all but lost it and had it not been for his growing endurance against your libido and obsession with him, he would have screamed as he creamed your fingers, cried like some untouched virgin while his drool slipped down to his chin.

legs shaking, hopping like the cute bunny you see him as, his tremors finally die down after a while, leaving you still guts deep inside him as your hand lets go of his now softening dick. the ivory colored, sickeningly sweet smelling semen drips down to the floor, no doubt would leave a stain later on, but it wasn’t in your interest. the man who was hiding his face was.

shifting him around, pulling him closer, you wrestle his bigger body to turn face towards you. pulling his legs up to wrap around your waist, his back flush against the wall, for a moment, your hand grasps his jaw to make him keep an eye contact. steely grey eyes with his pupils blown wide, you remembered how they turned into a cute heart shape with glossy tears over them when you first fucked him dumb, left him incoherent and stupid.

“hey, master qiuyuan” you call out quietly, a little bit too intimate to his liking as his cute flushed face tries to glare at you through his drool covered chin and red bitten lips. it made you grin, a look on your face that just spelled trouble for the swordmaster as he bit down his whimper at the hungry look you give him.

“how would you feel about a baby?” you whisper, leaning your face in close to his own as if about to kiss him. he would have preferred it even, inching his own handsome face closer to yours, ready to pucker his lips. but that question seemed to kick some sense into his fried brain, regaining a sense of consciousness. “what? y-you can’t be serious, i’m a ma—aAANGH♥︎!” his protest is cut short, a loud wail leaving him as you return to rearranging his guts full force. oh, how was it possible, he could feel your tip all the way up to his throat! what sort of forte would you use on him, you senseless beast? his hole would be left gaping whenever you’ll be satisfied with his body!

“you know, a cute little baby. a mix of you and me, a little one. boy or girl, i wouldn’t care. i’d just love to see ya’ waddling around, belly round and adorable” you continue with your mumbling, a dull noise to his ears as you keep your gaze on his face. so cute, this swordmaster was. blushing to his ears, grey eyes like the sword’s blade he wields rolling to the back of his skull while you thrust your cock back into his hole. clenching down around you every time you pull out as if his body subconsciously wanted that, craved to get knocked up by you. carry your seed in his womb, get all round and become yours.

“y-you caaanh’t..! aah yoo-ouw can’t haah mmgh hhngk [n-name]♡︎ n-no.. no babiesssh. n-noough aahgg haahg♡︎♡︎” his words trailed off into a senseless squeal, switching from the common tongue to what you guess is jinzhou dialect, babbling random things as the wet plaps of your thrusts meeting his ass get louder with the reach of your dick going further inside him. qiuyuan took in a loud gasp, mewling when your rough thrust fucked into his sweet spot just perfectly, tears starting to build up in his eyes from the constant pounding to his fluttering hole.

ah, he’ll cry. he’s going to cry and it will all be your fault for being so damn mean to him. have mercy on his dumb self and let his sensitive body catch a break, or else he’ll be squirting over himself like some pretty little whore for you.

qiuyuan let out another filthy mewl, too high-pitched, too breathy, too whiny, too girly when you heard footsteps outside the thin paper walls of the room, placing a hand over his drooling mouth to silence his cute noises. as much as you loved to hear him slur over his words senselessly, you’d rather not get caught and be forced to share. qiuyuan was only yours and you’ll find a way to make him yours eternally one day.

speeding up your thrusts, making up for the sloppy jackrabbiting of your hips meeting his with the roughness of your movements, you could feel qiuyuan’s hands tremble as he clutched at your arms and shoulders. a single tear falling from his eye, going slack in your hold as his dick slaps against his stomach one last time before it weakly spurted out his cum, painting the pretty scarred muscles of his stomach. you were sure he would have screamed judging by the way his legs shook around your waist when you pushed your strap into his hole one last time, muffling your own groans and moans into his neck. eagerly, his hole clenched tight around you — so tightly you nearly worried if the blood flow will stop — lapping up every drop of your cum inside himself before his shaking is replaced by gentle tremors, soft whines muffled by your hand.

pulling out after waiting for qiuyuan to stop shaking, you quickly plug him up with a butt plug, silencing his refusing sobs with a messy kiss full of spit and blood. that’ll keep him warm until you see him again later tonight, and certainly remind him of your presence. the swordmaster was already hissing at you random words of annoyance, resisting the urge to hump the air as he felt the warmth stay persistently inside his gummy walls. you were ruining him, fucking him up in both ways and more.

once the footsteps had passed by the room you two were in, you hastily clothe him up before stepping outside.

later on, you could overhear a certain monk lady worry over her master and why he was limping and all pink in the face. in response you only whistled a tune from where you swept the temple grounds, already brimming with excitement and looking forward to your midnight rendezvous. meanwhile, qiuyuan had to deal with his sweet yet overly distressed disciple. he will get you back for this.

[viperify]

1k celebration | ᴀᴄᴀᴅ. ʀɪᴠᴀʟ ꜱᴜʙ!ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆˚𝜗𝜚 ˖ Good Boy.

Short Summary: Tom Riddle and you have been fierce rivals for as long as you can remember. The year you finally beat him for top student, certain secrets come to light.

Warnings: 18+ only! sub!Tom—I mean it. submissive. mentions of intoxication, unprotected p in v, begging, brief handjob, teasing, edging, slight dacryphilia, creampie, face riding, oral f!receiving

A/N: here it isss!!! This is based of @tomriddleemp’s request! Thanks again for requesting, baby!

wordcount: 3,4k

in this fic, you will find HINT NR #6

The Great Hall erupts in cheers when your name is called. Your heart drops—head spinning. You’ve won it, made it. Become student of the year. You remember how hard you have fought for it. Pulled countless all-nighters just to get ahead of Riddle—who had defended the title for as long as you can remember.

You walk up to the professors and headmaster, facing all other students who seem to be quite pleased with your victory. Then, you hold your winner’s speech that you have prepared—half as a joke, half seriously. Your eyes flick towards Tom, briefly. The chatter and cheers fade into a blur, silence engulfing you as though time stills the moment your eyes meet his.

He sits there, next to his friends. They glance at him, then at you. None of them dare to move, sitting there like carved out of stone. As always, he’s controlling them as though they were his puppets. His expression is closed, guarded—like he can’t believe it. There is fire behind his eyes. Hatred. Probably already thinking about a way to make you pay for it. Find a reason for his failure.

That same evening, his head hurts from how hard he’s been trying to figure out how to discredit you. There is nothing. You’ve beaten him fair and square. He might hate you even more for it. 

Hates how much he admires you. For not backing down, for working hard all year long—when he took time off, you studied. He admires you for what you have become. 

He’s known you for years. Ever since you boarded the train as eleven-year-olds. Now, many years later—you are the person who’ll receive the opportunity for an internship at the Ministry this year. Instead of him.

The end-of-the-year party hosted the next day is mandatory for all students—he wouldn’t attend otherwise. There are more important things to do, and partying has never sparked his interest.

—

But just like the top student, interests can change, can’t they?

He’s gotten himself more drinks than he intended. And when one of them tastes slightly off—he doesn’t notice at first. Assumes they have put less alcohol in his firewhiskey. Goes to complain about it, just to almost get kicked out—his vision is blurry, his usually strong vocabulary reduced to a few select words. Barely able to walk. Other students are staring at him now—and the state of him.

It was not the Tom Riddle people knew—and he’d surely hate himself for it in the morning. Drinking, because of you. He’s never done this. Resort to alcohol when he is upset. And he knows there is more behind it—something he can’t quite grasp.

“Riddle! I want you and Riddle to go in there.” Your friend giggles, almost spilling her drink all over herself. Your eyes widen in horror. She can’t be serious, right? You clasp your hand over her mouth, but it’s too late. The others cheer you on, and Tom turns around from where he’s standing, having barely even registered his name being called.

Before you get to complain, a hand wraps around your wrist, and you are pushed towards a nearby broom closet—Riddle following you.

Your eyes narrow at the sight of him. One of the Gryffindor guys tugging on his sacred suit—and he doesn’t even bat an eye. His walk is unsteady, a half-empty glass of firewhiskey in right hand. Then, he gets shoved into the tight space, right next to you—and the door shuts close.

You fetch your wand, creating a small source of light. Tom is looking right at you, smirking while he takes a sip. You stare back at him for a moment, eyes scanning over his taller figure. Unsteady legs, dilated pupils—smell of alcohol so thick in the air, you have to keep yourself from gagging.

“You shouldn't look at me like that when we're alone. You know exactly what you're doing to me.” He manages between a few breaths, voice husky and suggestive.

The dots connect in your brain, and you take a step back, eyebrows furrowed.

“You are drunk, Riddle. Since when do you even drink?”

“M’ not,” he slurs, leaning in so close you have to push him away, steadying him. You definitely prefer him all arrogant and untouchable—not like this.

“Come on. I have a sober-up potion in my dorm. Can’t have you embarrass yourself—even I have some decency left.” You say quickly, intertwining your arm with his and slowly pushing the door open, checking whether anyone is watching. Then, you lead him away from the crowd, into the corridor and towards your dorm.

You have to stop several times so he doesn’t trip.

“Taking me to your dorm, huh? I have always wondered what it might look like from the inside. If you have pictures of your family, friends—your adorable little hobbies. What was it? Crocheting?” He stops mid-track and takes another sip.

These were probably the clearest sentences he’s spoken all evening—and you wonder how he knows all of this—why he knows and has remembered it. 

Why he chose to tell you.

You shake your head. “You are out of your mind, Riddle. What have they given you to drink?” You snatch the glass he’s been holding this whole time and hold it close to your nose. Immediately, you recognize a trace of something herbal that was definitely not firewhiskey.

Veritaserum.

Well, you certainly do not have an antidote for that. It is badly brewed too—Veritaserum is supposed to be taste- and odourless. So the effects may last shorter or longer—

“Let’s go. Quick.”

When you shove him past the entrance to your dorm, closing the door behind you, a deep sigh falls over your lips. A drunk Tom Riddle in your room is not how you pictured this night to go. Certainly not a drunk Tom Riddle who is overly affectionate and honest.

You open your drawer, scrambling through the contents. A blue vial catches your attention, and you grab it. That must be it.

“Here, drink this.” You say, turning around—just to see him sprawled out on your bed, eyes scanning your room. Pausing at the pictures of you and your family on the wall next to your bed. You walk over to him with hurried steps, grabbing his arm and pulling him upright.

“Please just— drink this.”

His lips lift into a smirk, and his hands grip your waist, pulling you closer. So close, you almost lose your balance and fall on top of him.

“Sit on my lap,” he instructs, looking up at you with those big brown eyes of his. So soft now—unguarded and genuine. You’ve never seen them this close. Your heart skips a beat, and you look away, suddenly feeling hot all over.

Fuck.

He is drunk, you tell yourself. He’ll push you away as soon as the first drop of the potion touches his tongue.

“You don’t actually want me to. It’s the alcohol that’s talking for you,” you try, but he shakes his head.

“I have never wanted something as much as I want this.”

Usually, you pride yourself on your rational thinking skills. They are screaming no. But your instincts are screaming louder—and they are saying yes.

Then, you do get on his lap. Carefully. Hook one leg over his, then the second. He pulls you closer.

Darkened eyes instantly dropping to the hem of the dress you are wearing—it’s short, almost too short now. Your favourite. A black, satin material with glitter elements. It’s gorgeous—and he can’t take his eyes off you. How perfectly it hugs your curves, cut low enough for him to see the soft swell of your tits.

Your face heats up at the realisation of what he might be thinking. Meanwhile, his hand comes to rest on your thigh, wandering higher and higher—

“Drink this. Now!” You blurt out, opening the vial in a haste, placing the head of the bottle against his lips—and he empties it in one go.

You watch his reaction. His pupils shrink back to normal, and he breathes out—shakily.

Instantly, you try to get off—but he stops you. Without words, just tightens his grip. One hand on your thigh, the other on the curve of your hip. Fingers digging into your skin. He watches you for a moment, takes in his surroundings. The situation he is in.

At peace, no longer surrounded by loud music and the thick stench of alcohol in the air. Instead, it smells like perfume—a sweet scent, floral. Jasmine, perhaps. 

With—you on his lap. He only faintly remembers how he got here.

Still, he can’t find himself complaining.

Your head spins as seconds pass. And suddenly, he is everywhere. His breath, his eyes, his hands. The bulge you feel growing beneath you.

“Stay.” He murmurs, finally.

You nod, reluctantly. Relax against him. The tension between you two is at an all-time high—and it feels different now. Not the academic type. It feels like the one-wrong-move-and-I-moan kind of tension. You try to avoid his gaze as best as you can, looking over to the drawer.

“I— I can look if I have another. You are not well.”

He shakes his head. “I am doing fine.”

“But—“

His hand cups your face, gently guiding your gaze back to his. “Shhh.” He whispers, drawing soft patterns on your waist. 

Your protest catches in your throat as you get lost in the depth of his brown eyes—and he uses that moment to tenderly brush his thumb over your lips. Then, he leans in, slowly but surely, and presses a kiss to them. Soft, gentle, deliberate.

“We shouldn’t,” you whisper against his lips, shaking your head.

“You are right, we shouldn't. But that's exactly why it feels so good.”

His fingers brush your skin as he eases the first strap of your dress from your shoulder. You kiss him again—and your mind goes blank. Suddenly the year-long rivalry between you both is forgotten, or doesn’t matter—not now, at least.

What matters is him and you, this moment.

“Do you hate me as much as you pretend?” You whisper as you break apart.

His eyes scan your face. “No. Never have.”

You’ve never thought there’d be a day where you would thank whoever invented Veritaserum. But it has come.

The second strap follows—and your dress slips down to bunch around your waist—Tom’s gaze following the satin fabric, lingering on your tits for a moment, placing a kiss to your sternum—looking up at you as he does. His grip on your thigh softens—the slightest twitch in his finger. Yet, you feel it. Feel how he softens, opening himself up to you. The usual harshness vanished—big brown doe eyes staring back at yours. 

The energy between you shifts in that moment, and both of you sense it. Confidence blooms in your chest, and you slide off his lap, stepping out of your dress as it drops to the floor. He watches your every movement, eyes following your hands as you undress in front of him.

First your bra, discarding the lace on the floor. His hands cup the soft curve of your hips once more, trailing kisses up your lower tummy as his fingers hook into your panties, slipping them down your legs. An action so calculated, you could mistake it for one straight out of your countless romance novels.

“What are you waiting for, Tom?” You purr, pulling him closer by his tie as you bend over, kissing him. “Need me to help you?”

Words fail to form in his brain. He nods, breathless. “Please.”

You sit down on his lap again. Naked. He swallows, hard. Fabric of his trousers stretching taut over the dent that has formed beneath them.

Piece by piece drops to the ground. His suit, his tie, his shirt. Lastly, his trousers and underwear. You let him step out of them, capturing him in another kiss.

“You like when someone takes control for once? Gives that beautiful brain of yours a break?”

Again, he nods.

You huff a laugh. “Lay down, then. Just lie there and look pretty for me, okay?”

He follows your order without a moment of hesitation. Lies down on your soft mattress, which dips beneath him. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even when you climb on top of him and settle on his thighs.

“That’s what you do best, after all.” You continue, trailing your hands up his thighs—making him breathe in, sharply. “Looking pretty—a shame you weren’t just as good in class this year. I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

You don’t give him time to find an answer—wrapping your hands around his cock, your finger ever so gently following a thick vein on the underside, which stretches all the way to his flushed tip—already glistening with precum. His head drops back at the sensation, eyes squeezed shut, lips slightly parted.

God, he is gorgeous like this.

Tom’s hands reluctantly reach to touch you, palming your tits—but you shake your head, pinning them to his side instead. “No touching. Just watching.”

Then, your hand wraps tightly around his length, giving him a few gentle strokes. He hisses as you do—hips jolting upwards. 

So sensitive.

“Fuck,” he rasps, fingers curling into the bedsheets. “I need to feel you. God— let me feel you.”

“Hm. I think you forgot something,” you reply, thumb swiping over his tip, a ghost of a touch—but he is so, so reactive.

“Please,” he whimpers, finally. “Please let me feel you.”

You grant him his wish. Positioning his tip on your entrance, you slowly, carefully sink down on his length. Inch by torturous inch. Until you are flush with his hips—a soft moan escaping you. He is the perfect combination of girth and length, stretching you open perfectly. You place your hand on his chest and start moving. Rolling your hips against his, gently at first.

Tom has to fight himself not to touch you. He wants to—so badly. Wants to feel your smooth skin, feel your curves beneath his hands when he closes his eyes. Yet, he refrains. Lets you have control over him. It’s hard—but the longer he endures, the more he enjoys it. Being able to shut off his brain. Just feel.

You swipe a curl from his face, leaning over to press a kiss to his swollen lips. “Touch me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands wandering over your hips, waist, to your tits. Palming them, squeezing. Whimpers here and there when you take him all the way. Reacts to every change in pace, angle. Looks at you as though you were an angel sent from heaven—soft, beautiful, mesmerizing. How tight you are squeezing him, how you manage to make each moment better than the last. Your own soft moans music to his ears. It drives him to the edge of sanity.

You notice when he gets louder, his eyes fluttering closed. Take in his expression, stilling your movements. 

“Look at me,” you murmur, taking one of his hands in yours.

Tom whines as he does—soft, broken. Lips swollen and bleeding from how hard he’s been biting them. Tears pricking at his eyes. He is so close—just in reach. So sensitive, it hurts.

Lifting yourself slowly, you sink down again—steadily, just to tease him.

Yet, you feel him pulse inside you, eyes rolling to the back of his head—hips stuttering beneath you.

“Shh.” You whisper, silencing him with a finger on his lips, shaking your head softly as you force him to look into your eyes. “Don’t come yet. Don’t you dare come yet.”

He nods, a tear rolling down his cheek. You wipe it off with your thumb.

“Don’t cry, pretty boy. All you need to do is ask.”

No hesitation. Pure and raw need. “Please— fuck, please let me cum. Please—“

Smiling at him, you get off—instead taking his cock in your hand, soaked in your arousal. You caress over his tip—which pulses at your touch. He moans, hips jerking up at the slightest contact. Chasing your touch—anything.

“That desperate? Poor you. Just want to cum, don’t you, Tommy?” You mock with fake sympathy, head dipping to place a kiss right below his sensitive tip. 

He nods, hastily. Groans when you give him a single stroke—slow, not even remotely tight enough for it to feel good. Yet—his eyes beg for more. He’ll take anything at this point. You grin at the state of him, satisfied. You’ve broken him. Great Tom Riddle, looking up at you like a lost puppy with his big brown eyes. Even prettier than usual. So soft, so submissive. You could get used to this.

“Why don’t you tell me how much you want it? Show me how pathetic you can sound while begging?”

His lip quivers. “I am— God, I want— I need it. It’s all for you— just please—“ he whimpers, and you press a kiss to his forehead, shushing him.

“Good boy. Such a good boy.”

Your hand wraps around him again, giving him a few more strokes, dragging it out. Over his swollen tip, eagerly leaking with need. “No, Tommy.” You whisper. “Not yet. Wait for my permission.”

You are pushing him to his limits, and you know it. “Please,” he whispers, broken, half a sob. “I’ll do anything.”

Deciding to end his torture, you sink down on him once more, angling yourself better. Using the last bit of strength left in your thighs.

“Come for me, pretty boy.”

And he does—hard. The feeling of your warm cunt wrapped so snugly around him, clamping down—he loses it. Whimpering your name as thick ropes of cum paint your walls white, hips stuttering beneath you, every muscle in his body wrung tight. Hands interlocked with his as you guide him through it, praise him.

It lasts several long seconds—and after, his body just goes limp on your bed, chest heaving, eyes closed.

You give him a minute to calm down before you gently lift yourself off of him, getting a towel to clean the both of you.

But he stops you. Holds onto your wrist. You turn to face him, about to ask what’s wrong—

“Sit on my face, please?”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I don’t need to—”

“Yes, absolutely. Please?” He asks again, and you don’t deny him this time.

Fingers digging into your hips, pulling you even closer—and God, his tongue works magic. Licking and sucking on your clit just the right way, you soon find yourself a trembling mess on top of him.

“How do we taste, Tommy? You like it?” You breathe, accompanied by a moan.

He nods, humming against your soaked cunt—greedily lapping up your mixed arousal. “Good. So good.”

Tom doesn’t let go immediately—not even when your climax washes over you with such force, you see stars dancing in front of you, vision going black at the edges. Your thighs tremble, no longer able to hold yourself up—but he loves it. Doesn’t stop sucking on your clit until you beg him to.

After cleaning everything up, you settle down beside him—and he pulls you in, holding you close until you fall asleep.

Tom knows he can’t stay. That you might regret this the morning after.

So, after double-checking you are asleep, he quietly gets up, dresses himself. Looks back one last time at your sleeping form. Smiles to himself. Then, he pushes down the handle of the door, and with silent steps walks down the corridor to his own dorm, the first golden sun rays of the morning lighting his way, casting a glow on his messy curls.

When you wake the next morning, the spot next to you in your bed is empty, cold. He’s gone, and that for a while, although it’s only 6:00.

You wonder whether he regrets last night, if he regrets you.

That is, until you spot a note on your bedside table.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | 1k celebration. <- event masterlist.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[georgeclarkeys]

blue eyed bet - george clarkey x reader

summary: you met a gorgeous blue eyed man at the club, whom you eventually grow to love. things take a turn when to come to understand the terms of your initial interaction. - 1.4k words

this is the first time i have ever written angst in my LIFE. i hope it doesn't suck hahaha. i might write part two of this idk

hope y'all don't hate it!

-

The thumping bass and pulsing lights of the club were giving you a headache. It was your friend's birthday, so you agreed to go out for the night, but you quickly began to regret your decision. The soles of your shoes were sticking to the floor as you leaned onto the cool counter in front of you. You had been standing there for several minutes, and had yet to catch the attention of any of the bustling bartenders. Sighing in defeat, you turned around and placed your elbows on the bar, taking in your surroundings. 

Nothing looked out of place for a rowdy pub on a Saturday night. There were couples pressed into dark corners, drunk girls singing horribly off key, and plenty of rambunctious groups of men downing pints in quick succession. Your gaze lingered on a group of friends in the corner. They seemed significantly less boisterous, but you could tell they were still having fun. The one in the middle looked like the kind of man that love stories were written about. 

You tilted your head to the side and studied him quietly from across the room. His features were chiseled, but paired with an unexplainable softness that made your head spin. His curly hair was cut into a mullet, and the scar on his eyebrow intrigued you. He glowed with an attractive sense of confidence, and you took note of the way his eyes lit up as he looked at his friends. Then, there was his smile. You felt your heart skip a beat when he laughed, and you swore the whole room lit up. His smile was so unbelievably charming, and you suddenly found yourself wanting to be the reason for it. You were lost in your thoughts when a pair of breathtakingly blue eyes met yours.

Shit you thought. He caught you staring. You averted your eyes without a second thought, and decided it was time to make your exit. After weaving your way back to the table that your friends had claimed, you said a few quick goodbyes and made a break for the door. 

It was quiet outside, the bumping beat reduced to a dull thud, and you felt like you could breathe for the first time in hours. You had only made it a few steps down the damp pavement when you heard a voice behind you. 

“Hey!” The voice called, drawing your attention. Please don’t be a creep you thought I don’t have the energy to deal with that. You gripped your purse tighter, and flicked your hair over your shoulder as you turned towards the commotion. 

Your nervous eyes met those beautiful blue eyes for the second time.

“Are you heading out?” The gorgeous mystery man asked. “I was just inside working up the courage to come speak to you.”

You blinked your eyes, feeling the blush reach your cheeks. You were thankful that they were already flushed from the alcohol. 

“That’s funny,” you retorted, “I was running away because you caught me staring.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, “Well if you want to run, I won’t try to stop you.” He paused for a beat, “but I would prefer if you left me with your number.”

Your mouth twitched, almost a smile, “I think we could work something out.”

You dug in your purse for a pen, grabbed his hand, and scribbled your number onto the top of it.

“Call me,” you suggested, quirking an eyebrow in his direction. 

He returned your alluring gaze, offering you a wink as you turned around and continued down the street.

When you turned the corner you glanced behind you to find him watching you walk away, and you realized you never got his name. 

-

His name was George, at least that’s what the first text he sent you implied. He asked you out to dinner, and you were happy to join him on what would become the first of many dates. He was perfect; charming, funny, and thoughtful. The love that had bloomed between the two of you was undeniable. Now, it had been nearly seven months since that fateful encounter outside the club, and you and George were only growing more in love. 

The couch at Casa Clarke-Dixon-Hill was beginning to form a you sized dent in the cushion. You loved spending time getting to know George’s friends, who you learned were with him at the club that night. 

It was just past midnight on a Friday, and you were occupying your spot on the couch. George had wrapped an arm around your shoulder, allowing you to snuggle into his side comfortably. Chris and Arthur were scattered around the room as well, and all four of you were somewhere between buzzed and tipsy. 

“No, mate, I promise!” Chris laughed out, “I was not into that girl at all.”

“Whatever,” Arthur argued, “I could see you giving her heart eyes from five people over.”

You turned to George, who looked amused at his friends bickering, and muttered, “what are you doing tomorrow?” 

His eyes cut down to meet yours, “well you mentioned that new Café down the street. Since you’re staying here tonight we could go in the morning?”

Your face lit up, “oh, that sounds lovely.”

George pressed his lips to your temple, “well let’s plan on that then.”

The two of you were so caught up in each other, you failed to notice that Chris and Arthur had ceased their bickering and turned their attention to you and George.

“Oh my. Isn’t that so sweet, Christopher. I feel a tear coming.” Arthur teased, fanning his eyes.

Chris chuckled at his roommate, before turning thoughtful. “It’s crazy to think that all of this,” he waved his hand towards the couch, “happened because I bet George twenty pounds he couldn’t get her number.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

George immediately stiffened next to you, but no words touched his lips. You pulled out of his grasp, and he let you.

Chris’s laughter died down when he noticed the shock on your face. His eyes jumped back and forth between your stunned face and George’s panic filled eyes. 

Chris exchanged an alarmed look with Arthur as you turned and spoke directly to George, “What did he just say?”

George refused to meet your eyes, keeping his head straight forward. His mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. It appeared he was at a loss for words. 

You glanced across the room, taking in the wide eyes of both Chris and Arthur. Neither of them daring to break the silence. An ache settled into your chest as you returned your gaze to George. 

“George?” You felt the ache in your chest growing deeper with each second that passed in silence. 

His eyes were glued to the floor. 

“Is that true? That’s why you followed me out into the street?” You questioned him, brows furrowed in distress.

His beautiful blue eyes, full of regret, met yours for the first time since Chris revealed his secret. “Yes.”

The tears were sliding down your face before you could stop them. George reached out towards you, but you moved away quickly. Your breathing quickened, you needed to get out of there. You needed to be anywhere else but where you were. You needed to escape the watchful eyes of your lying boyfriend and his flatmates. 

You stood quickly and grabbed your bag off the ground. Chris and Arthur watched in horror as you hurried towards the door. You heard George call your name, but you did not stop until your hand was wrapped around the door handle. Grounding yourself of the cold metal of the handle, you turned and leveled your teary eyes on your boyfriend. He was standing several steps away, looking absolutely defeated. 

“Please-” he started, his voice trembling.

“No.” You cut him off. “Don’t call me, George.”

With those final words you pulled the door open, forcing yourself out without a backwards glance, and slammed it behind you.

[lunarrolls]

this is totally a fair way to look at it, because zac’s incredible rolls did end up softening the blow, but to me, it was so frustrating to see porter deny a student he knows is a gifted barbarian (because he’s fucking gorgug thistlespring, he’s defeated kalvaxus and the nightmare king and the night yorb, two of which he did supplemented by artificing) simply because gorgug’s rage isn’t palatable to him. porter tells gorgug that the way he handles his emotions is wrong, that the way in which he chooses to be a barbarian is wrong, even though it undeniably works for him, just because it doesn’t line up with porter’s existing philosophy. it’s abundantly clear upon rewatch that porter is essentially trying to groom gorgug into taking a rage token through his immense stress, a plan that fully would have succeeded had zac not rolled so well. you can even see as time goes on that gorgug gets more anti-social and angry, lashing out at fig in barbarian class—a fact that she’s initially proud of, but which takes on a sinister light post-reveal.

to me, the infuriating thing about porter is that gorgug did nothing but work, work, work during his junior year, nearly entirely burning himself out on a passion he’d carried since the beginning of his high school days, because a biased and unreliable teacher refused to believe that his proven, effective, exceptional style of learning was actually working. the cherry on top for me was the reveal that porter himself was a multiclass—just one he saw as more “optimal!” porter devalues intelligence on the battlefield and ideally wanted gorgug to quit being an artificer, giving in fully to rage and bitterness as the impossibility of the task porter set before him reduced him to a husk of a person. it wasn’t at all porter’s teaching method that made barbificer possible, it was gorgug’s drive and determination to work towards a path nobody else saw.

as zac says when brennan asks him if he’d have found a way to barbificer without porter: “maybe [he] wouldn’t have, but something just as good might have happened.”

i will also never be over zac gaslighting himself into thinking porter’s a good teacher. like he clearly thought they were headed towards a whole “the struggle made you better at what you do so it’s fine actually” message, so he leaned in, because it’s a collaborative story, but the second porter’s revealed to have been a bitchass bully the whole time, zac LOSES HIS MIND

[loganficsonly]

hello!!! hope you're have a great day so far!! I was wondering if could you write something with Logan and an easily flustered! reader?? like they get bashful when he does anything sweet and super embarrassed when he's being flirty or touchy with them?? maybe they're a little insecure that he might still have feelings for Jean or think that he could do way better??

thank you for writing in! this is super cute but i think i ended up writing something so fucking debauched, i'm so sorry. this is just straight up porn lmao

i hope you don't mind me taking jean out of the equation too!

first time writing patch!logan >:)

beneath the mask

patch!logan x f!reader, 3.4k WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI please this is nothing but filthy smut!!!, flirting?, patch is a warning, reader has hair and is able-bodied, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), piv, riding, unprotected sex (please be responsible), pet names, not proofread or edited AUTHOR'S NOTE: writing sexy shit is hard eh. anyway, reader is a singer who looks like she can eat a man up and picks her teeth with his bones but is actually super easily flustered. i think i lost the plot towards the end but at least reader and logan get to bang!

Cherry lips croon from behind the silver microphone. Each syllable forms like the slow drip of nectar, lush and perfect and full of promises for those in the audience who have a thirst to quench.

And indeed one could say you’re a tall glass of water, standing on the stage with your hair framing your face like a painting, delicate nails stroking the mic. But with that deep red dress that shines every time you move under the light, it would be more accurate to call you a tall glass of Madripoor’s finest wine. 

Coveted. Delicious. Expensive.  

The spotlights are blinding, reducing the faces staring up at you into shadowed outlines.

That’s good. Between that darkness and the buzz of a warm drink you had just before the start of your set, nervousness has no place here.

You feel a curl of a smile on your lips. Melancholy melodies from the piano resound beneath your voice. The plucks of a double bass from the back of the stage, in time with soft shuffles of a drum set. The music is slow and languid, and you feel yourself sinking into it as you sing.

There was a boy

A very strange enchanted boy

They said he wandered very far

Very far

Over land and sea…

A figure in white cuts through the bar. There’s no need for words—a drink is placed in front of him swiftly, the caramel-colored liquid refracting in the light, ice clinking against the chilled glass. He sits, facing towards the stage. 

One eye trained on you.

Business held him up more than he’d like. He settles down after a burning sip of whiskey, sufficiently satisfied with how he dealt with the problems that caused him to be late for this.

He’d call it a win-win situation. They paid the price. His suit remains crisp, unsullied. You are still singing. Your last song, evidently—Nature Boy is always your closer—but at least he got to hear you and that beautiful voice. 

A little shy and sad of eye

But very wise was he

From behind the rim of his glass, he drinks in your figure.

Stunning. The dress betrays your curves, hugging them like second skin. He sees the sinful slit on the side of your thigh, only visible when you move enough. Your hair is down tonight, he notices—a different impression compared to that of your usual updo. Relaxed. Free. No doubt inviting visions of what you would look like with your head on a pillow, hair splayed as you sigh a sultrier tune… 

You look like you were destined to doom good men. 

Lucky for him, he isn’t a good man.

And then one day

One magic day he passed my way

And we spoke of many things

Fools and kings

This he said to me 

Something pulls your eye to the bar, the only illuminated spot in the crowd.

He’s here. 

There’s a subtle shiver—your skin reacting to the sight of him. White suit, black bowtie. Always the same colors, always here, watching. The many stares you earn from others don’t stand a chance to the smolder of his single eye. Unlike the rest, you can’t tell what’s on his mind. Maybe that’s why his presence at poker tables is considered a curse.

You thought he wouldn’t show, seeing as he missed almost the entirety of your set. But now that he’s fifty feet away, strong hand wrapped around a glass, you find butterflies in your stomach.

Your eyes meet. 

The greatest thing

You’ll ever learn

Is just to love

And be loved in return

A thunderous applause and fifteen minutes later, he finds you on the other end of the bar, surrounded by admirers. They stand a little too close for his liking, but it’s almost part of your job to smile and laugh at them. 

He watches as your fingers move up to fix a gentleman’s tie, half-lidded eyes focused on your task. The man tenses in a way that looks all too familiar. You move smoothly to hug an older woman, lips puckered for an air kiss on her cheek. There’s a hand on your jaw, thumb stroking affectionately, and you lean in, basking in the attention. 

A hand on your arm. Fingers brushing against yours as they hand you your drink. And eyes, god, eyes that roam over you, barely veiling the wicked thoughts behind them.

You merely give them a small smile. The kind that tells them you know, and that you like it.

If he weren’t any better, he’d be seething, but really he’s the same as they are. Hungry for a drop of you. 

But he isn’t angry, or jealous. Can’t be. Not when you catch his eye and cordially murmur your thanks and ‘excuse me’s before parting the crowd, moving towards his seat at the end of the bar. 

Of course, knowing who he is, they don’t pursue you.

He stands as you arrive in front of him, eye locked on yours while he brings your knuckles up to his lips. He notices your painted nails, elegant and manicured to resemble little claws that remind him of cats. He smiles.

The brush on your skin feels innocent, but the shudder you try to suppress is anything but.

“You look beautiful as always.”

Maybe it’s your proclivity for music that makes you so sensitive to his voice. It’s deep and rumbly, awakening a longing for you to place your hand on his chest to feel it. 

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” you reply back softly. He places a hand on your lower back, guiding you to walk with him, likely to one of the private lounges he has access to. Your stride is in time with his as you walk side by side into the velvet-covered hallway.

You can see a slight quirk on his lips, ornamental sconces bathing dim light on his handsome face as he murmurs words only for you to hear.  

“How could I ever miss your show, honey?” 

It’s always like this with Patch.

A big bouquet of red roses, as if you just made your debut when you’ve in fact done this a hundred times over. They’re placed in a nice vase before he pampers you with the kind of dinner you used to have once every year for a birthday celebration. The conversation that ensues with him is quiet but easy, despite each word hanging heavily with the hidden prospect for more.

Before he leaves, he’d ask you to drink with him. A small amount of something heavy and chilled. Keeping him company. So far you’ve never denied his request—not because you’re intimidated, but because you’re interested.

Tonight is no different, except the two of you are standing, and he’s so close.

He’s as striking as a portrait, white suit cutting a clear silhouette against the dark mahogany walls of the room. Low lights and a thick door grant a sense of isolation while you’re, in fact, still in a public place. He has a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin, and you know the heat that gathers under his touch is not because of the alcohol.

“You know I’m a patient man, don’t you, honey?” he rasps, hungry eyes taking in your face. God, you’re even more perfect up close. 

He feels you nod, the gesture a little timid. Something in his chest blooms at the look in your eyes—when it was steady before, cool under the hot spotlights, he can feel a slight change swirling in it. It’s been there, brewing since he closes the door to this room. Blooming when he pays all of his attention to you while you eat.

Nervous. Just from being with him.  

He takes a step forward, slowly cornering you into the wall. Your eyes widen slightly as you look up at him. He sees you swallow, breath hitched, a hand on his chest ready to push him away.

When you don’t, his blood sings.

“Patch—”

“It’s just us, sweet thing,” he purrs, correcting you. You exhale a little shakily.  

“...Logan.”

He hums, pleased at the sound of your voice calling his name. What he’d do to make you sing it louder, like you’re begging for him—he’s had plenty of dreams where you haunt him with just your voice, cooing, coaxing him to unravel you, to take you—

“Not sure I can be so patient anymore,” he says, his body brushing against yours. A hand rests on your waist, pulling you close. The other that’s on your cheek slides down to your jaw before nestling at the back of your neck, craning your head so you’re looking directly up at him.

“What do you mean?” you whisper, staring at his chin instead. If you looked into his eyes right now, you’d wither.

Lips press against your ear. The touch is undemanding, but firm, warm breath eliciting a gasp from you. Your hand on his chest catches him tensing at the sound.

“Means I want you. Now,” he answers, voice low. His hand on your waist slides down to your hip, tugging you until your breath stops—he’s hard. Your chest heaves. 

Pulling away, he looks at you. You wonder what you look like. You feel feverish.

“Will you let me have you?”

A warm, calloused hand slips onto your naked thigh through the slit of your dress, and your knees are so close to buckling. Heels knock into the wall behind you, but there’s nowhere to run.

…do you even want to?

Madripoor is filth dressed up as a gemstone. The city’s deceitfulness is something Logan is accustomed to. He has seen and studied all the ways people lie.

Except for yours. The moment he takes you to the penthouse of the hotel, kissing you senseless against the locked door before carrying you to the bedroom, he feels it. The unraveling of your own brand of trickery.

Senses it through the way you slot your lips against his, how your hands glide softly down his back. He’s been with enough women to know exactly how different you are just by having you like this, under him on his bed while his mouth devours yours. 

When he pulls away, he doesn’t see the woman on stage. There’s no surety in your half-lidded eyes, already glazed with desire, and certainly not in the way they avoid his own gaze, looking away over his shoulder. 

Hazel eye rakes down your body. Your dress rides up, slit revealing your leg in its entirety. The cowl neck of your outfit reveals a hint of your breasts as you heave with each labored breath.

You are a seductress, just not the kind people think you are.

While you put on your mask, you feed their imaginations with easy smiles and affectionate touches. The picture-perfect illusion of a siren, dangerously alluring.

That same person is crumbling underneath him only after a few deep kisses. Averting your gaze, eyelids fluttering. Blushing. 

It drives him wild.

His mouth waters as he hovers above you, still dressed. An animal wearing human clothes. His deception. He uses his hand, directing your gaze at him, smirking at the lost look on your face.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

A palm presses against your breast, lips latching onto your neck as he gets you out of the dress. As gorgeous as you look with it on, he needs to see you bare. He is slow with it, letting the straps fall first, marking the skin of your shoulders, preening as he feels your hands on his back guiding him close. 

Then Logan tugs the silky fabric down, revealing your breasts. You move your arms to cover it. He doesn’t let you, grabbing them and pinning your wrists with one hand to keep you still.

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, twisting your body away from him, but that only makes you look more delicious, tits bouncing. 

“Oh, honey,” he hums. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you try to shrink.

Makes him want to ruin you even more.

“I’d do whatever you ask me to, but that’s just impossible.”

He leans down, tongue lapping up a hardened peak before he uses his free hand to grab your flesh and sucks. You cry out, writhing beneath him, looking like you’re close to tears. Pleasure floods his veins, making him impatient. Where he was restrained before, he’s all relentless lust now—teeth, tongue, and lips working together to coax more of those gorgeous sounds out of you. He moves to your other breast. God, your moans…

“Logan,” you cry out, and he just about loses it.

“Fuck, you sing amazing, but that sounds even better,” he laughs, letting go of your hands so he can provoke you with both of his. The sight of your tits under his palms, slick with the attention he’s given you, nipples hard… Logan wonders whether this is a special type of heaven.

“Give me more, baby.”

You find yourself doing as you’re told, all kinds of lewd noises escaping your lips. He makes you, playing your body like some kind of instrument he��s long mastered, despite having you for the first time. When the dress comes off you entirely, you squeeze your thighs together, vaguely aware of the sopping mess that’s coalesced in your center. 

Logan’s hand parts you, growling.

“No hiding.” He yanks the side of your underwear down, slipping it down your legs before tossing it. Where it lands, he couldn’t care less. 

He smells you before he sees you, and his cock twitches. His good eye focuses on the glisten at the apex of your thighs, visible even in the dim light of the bedroom.

“She’s so wet already, honey,” he smiles, zeroing in at your pussy as two fingers come up to play with your folds. You arch your back, groaning. “Just from playing with your tits?”

“A-ah…” 

Your thighs clamp together, but his other hand interferes just as quickly, gripping your knee to keep you spread. Fuck, he’s still fully dressed—

“So it’s all just an act? The sensual songstress,” he breathes heavily, slipping his middle finger in, watching you writhe at the sensation. He almost laughs, not out of humor, but from the way your walls clench onto his digit like you don’t want him to ever leave. “Soaked for me—” 

“No, it’s not—”

“When was the last time you had a man, then, honey?” he grits, his middle finger all the way inside of you. His cock strains underneath the tent in his pants, eager to have you.

“I d-don’t remember,” you reply, your voice thin and airy.

Ideas flood his head then and there. All the ways he can make you feel good, how loud he can make you scream for him, how he’ll change you, make you want more, make you greedy—

“You’ll remember me after we’re done,” he rumbles, sliding down until your legs bracket his shoulders, head between them. 

When his tongue slides up your cunt, you part your lips in a silent scream, before whines slip past your throat. He’s almost conceited in the way he eats you out, so sure, and he’s not wrong to be. Lips tease and kiss until you’re certain your lungs are short on air, all while his finger stretches your insides, reaching a part so deep you’re sure it hasn’t been touched in a long time.

Then one finger becomes two and they pump, slick sounds of your leaking cunt echoing in the room. Your hand flies to his hair, tugging needily. He moans against you, vibrations racking your body with goosebumps.

As he closes his mouth around your clit, fingers ruining you, you sob his name, cum soaking his digits.

That’s only the first one.

Logan sinks his fingers into your pussy, two fingers scissoring you. He hovers over you, mouth against your ear saying all kinds of obscenities while he stretches you in preparation for the real thing. 

“Pussy so tight, baby, relax for me,” he growls, feeling you drench his fingers. The slapping sounds of his hand against you grow louder. You moan as he curls inside of you, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “Wanna make sure my dick fits inside her, yeah?”

“Fuck,” you cry weakly. He grins.

“It’s just my fingers, honey. My cock’s going to fucking ruin you, I know it. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, you won’t even look at any other guy. That right?”

Your response is an unintelligible mewl. A familiar wave crests, the knot at the bottom of your gut tightening.

“Come on, pretty girl, come for me.”

How on earth he does it, you’re not sure. Your body obeys his command as if he has some kind of control over it, spine arching high as your hips sway, greedy for his digits, and when his thumb flicks that bundle of nerves you collapse. There’s a long drawn-out moan of his name as you spasm and shake, music to his ears.

He doesn’t waste time entering you, jacket shed, pants hanging low on his thighs—far too desperate at this point. Soon, you’re leaking all over his cock. His hand gently directs your gaze to where your bodies join, holding your chin as he feeds you his inches.

“Fuck, honey, look at that. Taking me so well.”

He moves.

A common sense of decency, the songs you sang in the set earlier, the taste of the drink he poured you—all of these things are forgotten, your mind a clean slate with each thrust of his length inside you. The way he moves is designed to make you fall apart quickly, relieving the ache in your core while making you want more, and you feel that sensation build within you again. Hands grip his biceps as you pant, eyelids fluttering up at him, drinking his expression while he spews filth at you. 

“Feels so good, baby, you’re so fucking hot.” His hips snap, a squelching sound between your legs. “Hear that? So wet for me. Want more?”

You mewl a ‘yes, Logan, please’ and he grins in delight, a renewed vigor in his already ruthless pace.

“God, fuck, you’re so tight. Gonna come on my cock?” 

Nodding, you bury your face in his neck, letting out little gasps every time he sinks into you. You feel so full, like he’s all the way in your stomach—

“Tell me. Use your words, baby.”

“I-I’m so close, Logan,” you cry. 

“That’s right, let go, sweet thing, let me take care of you.”

The third time your orgasm hits, you’re hit by the reality of everything, your senses honing in to register only him. The way his length drags your walls—fuck, he hasn’t stopped—, his breath on your temple, the rumble of his voice as he praises you—“good girl, doing so good,”—the world stops. 

It’s just you, him, and how good it feels.

As the last waves of release begin to simmer down your limbs, electrifying your legs and fingertips, you pant, catching your breath. A gentle hand cups the fat of your cheek. You open your eyes.

Logan looks down at you, studying your utterly ruined countenance. Lips parted, cheeks burning, hair messily splayed on his pillow—the same way he imagined it would when he saw you sing just an hour ago.

That expensive lipstick hasn’t budged, though. He already knows one way he wants to ruin it.

The world spins and you let out a surprised noise as Logan flips the two of you, him on the bed and you sitting on his abs. You whine, feeling the slick smearing his shirt. He all but rips the fabric down the center, yanking it off his skin like it offended him, revealing his bare and hairy chest to you.

Hands are on your hips now, positioning you on top of his length. Your eyes widen. He’s still hard.

Once again, his cock sinks into your heat, and you melt on top of him, hands bracing on his chest, head tilted back.

“Oh my god—”

“Didn’t think I was done with you, huh, honey?” he groans, bottoming out, hand pressing on your stomach. Then his eye snaps up at you, pleased at the hazy look on your face. 

“Come on, ride. Gonna fuck the shyness outta you.”

[suliigwp]

Thanks🫶 i love your writing.

I have another idea! So it's a flower shop worker!reader x one of the rookies. So it's like whoever it is goes to the flowers shop tk get flowers for some random thing and falls inlove with reader. So over the next month or so goes to flowershop and is giving anyone flowers, other drivers, family, neighbors. So much it gets to a point where some other rookies stage an 'intervention' where they just go and find out why he is buying so many flowers and it just spirals. But it's like total fluff and ends with the rookie asking out reader for lime coffee?

Thanksss

-🦕

Lime Coffee and Peonies

Oliver Bearman x Flowershopowner! Reader

SULI: Hi Dino anon! Thank you so much for the request! I really enjoyed writing this one- it's short and sweet but I believe that's what you wanted- hope you enjoy! — also I never knew lime coffee existed? You learn something new everyday

Warnings: none!

The tiny flower shop on Rue des Iris had the kind of charm that made people slow down when they passed it. Ivy crawled along the edges of the windowpanes, and the air smelled like sunshine and eucalyptus. Oliver Bearman hadn’t meant to stop. He was on his way to grab a protein shake after a sim session when he remembered a team PR event that needed a bouquet. Something for a sponsor. Simple. In and out.

But then he stepped inside and saw you.

You were rearranging lavender stems in a tall vase behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, earbuds in. The little bell over the door jingled, and you looked up. One earbud popped out.

“Wrapped or loose?” you asked with a soft smile, nodding toward the array of flowers behind you.

Oliver blinked. Then blinked again. "Sorry, uh... wrapped? Maybe?"

You tilted your head, amused. “What kind of flowers are you looking for?”

His mouth opened, then closed. “Happy ones. Optimistic. For... uh... a sponsor who smiles a lot.”

You hummed thoughtfully and turned to the yellow tulips. “These are good for optimism. Sunlight in flower form.”

He watched you wrap them carefully, deft hands and a ribbon that matched the tulips perfectly. The whole thing felt oddly cinematic. When you handed the bouquet to him, he stared for a second too long before fumbling for his wallet.

Outside, sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, he looked down at the bouquet and muttered, “Okay, calm down. It was just flowers. Just a florist.”

Three days later, he was back.

He told himself it was because his physio had been extra tense this week, and flowers were scientifically proven to reduce stress.

You were standing on a stool, hanging eucalyptus bundles when he entered. This time, you recognized him.

“Back already?” you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice.

“Yeah. My physio's had a long week. Thought I’d cheer him up.”

You nodded, already leading him to the hydrangeas. “Good choice. Gentle and calming.”

You helped him pick a note card. You even wrote the message he dictated, because his handwriting was, in his words, "basically a doctor’s signature but less professional."

This time, he lingered a bit. You offered him a wrapped chocolate from a jar on the counter. He left chewing it and smiling. And you watched him go.

By week two, he had become a regular.

“These are for Charles. He had a good race.”

“Neighbor’s cat passed away. Apparently she liked daisies."

“Lando and I made a bet. I lost. So I owe him something ridiculous. What says, ‘I hate that you beat me but I respect it’?”

You never pressed. Just smiled and helped him pick the right stems.

But there were moments. Little ones. Like when your fingers brushed over his while handing him a bouquet, and neither of you pulled away immediately. Or when he asked how your morning had been and actually seemed to care.

One day, he came in while you were wiping down the counters. You barely had time to greet him when he placed a takeaway cup in front of you.

“Lime coffee,” he said. “It’s weird. You might hate it. But you also might not."

You blinked, then took it. “Thanks. I’ll try it."

He nodded once, looking like he might say more, but then turned and left, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket.

That night, you drank it. And smiled.

The flower trend didn’t go unnoticed.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli squinted at his phone. “You spent €85 on gladioluses? For who?”

“My cousin. He had a dance recital.”

Arthur Leclerc leaned over the table. “You don’t even have a cousin in Monaco.”

“Maybe it was symbolic,” Jack dohaan added. “We don’t know his life.”

Eventually, after much rookie-level conspiracy, they stormed his hotel suite.

“You have a problem,” Kimi said, holding a spreadsheet.

“That’s an Excel document,” Oliver pointed out.

“Exactly. We crunched the numbers. You’ve bought 19 bouquets in 24 days.”

“You guys need hobbies.”

Arthur stood up. “We’re coming with you. We need to see the florist.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late. We’ve already called a cab.”

You looked up to the sound of several guys tripping over the flower shop threshold.

Four of them. All tall. All chaotic. All staring at you.

Oliver trailed behind them, face in hands.

Arthur beamed. “Hi! We’re... his intervention squad.”

Kimi added, “We just wanted to meet the face behind the flowers.”

You looked from Ollie to the boys, amused. “He’s been giving them to everyone but himself.”

Javk whispered, "He's doomed."

You handed Oliver his usual bouquet, subtle blush on your cheeks. He took it with a mumble, clearly dying inside.

When the boys stepped outside, giggling and nudging each other, Ollie lingered.

“Sorry about them,” he said quietly. “They’re... you know.”

“Protective?”

He chuckled. “Annoying, mostly. But yeah. I think they’re just trying to figure out why I keep coming back.”

“And why do you?” you asked, voice softer now.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. “I think you know.”

Later that afternoon, after his friends had been lured away by a nearby gelato stand, Oliver returned.

You were tying up a bouquet for the display window when he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t actually come in for flowers today,” he said.

You glanced up, heart weirdly thudding.

“I just… wanted to see you. And maybe ask if you’d want to go out for a lime coffee with me sometime.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reached for a single daisy, tied a green ribbon around it, and handed it to him.

“Only if you stop buying flowers for everyone but me.”

He grinned, cheeks flushed. You reached up and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

He stood still for a moment, hand coming up to where your lips had touched.

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

You nodded. “Definitely.”

The next evening, just after you locked the shop, you turned to find Oliver waiting outside with two takeaway cups.

He looked nervous but thrilled.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually like lime coffee,” he said, offering one to you. “But I figured I’d give it another shot.”

You took it, letting your fingers brush his.

“You remembered how I take it?”

He nodded. “Of course. And... peonies, right? You said once they were your favorite.”

You sipped your drink and smiled. “Sunlight in flower form.”

He looked at you like you were exactly that.

And just before you stepped away, you leaned in again—another kiss on the cheek.

This time, he didn’t stop smiling the whole way home.

Taglist, comment to be added;

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104

[gottagobackintime]

Pride Month 2025 🏳️‍🌈 1st of June The Red Line (2019) “I’m Daniel Calder, speaking on behalf of my husband, and as many of you know, suing the city on his behalf. Harrison brought me here to this gala 20 years ago, and back then, when people would ask us how we met, we joked that a black man, a gay man, and a doctor walked into a bar, and I fell madly in love with him. Thankfully, that’s a joke that doesn’t work as well today because people can be so many things… should be so many things. But often, they… get reduced to one thing, and they could die for it. Harrison died for it. I, um… sorry. Um, Harrison Brennan… saved lives. He saved mine. He loved me more than I ever thought I would be loved, more than I expect to be loved again, if I’m being honest. I thought my family was safe. Harrison… never made that assumption because he worked in a hospital and he saw things every day. And I thought we were safe. And now… my life is shattered and… even if the man who killed my husband is punished… there’s nothing that’s gonna bring my love back. I just wanna say thank you to Harrison for helping me raise my hero, Jira. As long as I have her, I have love in my life, and we… I hope we’ll be okay. I… would just like to ask all of you, let’s all make it harder for this to happen.”

[thatfanficstuff]

Fragile Bonds - Klaus and Elijah

Pairing(s): Klaus x soulmate!reader; Elijah x soulmate!reader

warnings: not much happy here.

a/n: it's on the list for a part 2 but it will probably be a bit as i have other things in progress.

You were just passing through Mystic Falls with no intention of staying longer than it would take you to grab a bite at the Grill and top off your tank. Your attention was on your phone, trying to plot out the next leg of your journey when you collided with a hard chest. You grunted at the impact before looking up with an apology on your lips. That would teach you to not pay attention to where you were going. Your gaze met the most stunning pair of blue-green eyes you’d ever seen that widened in surprise as a shockwave rushed through you, your wrist burning where your soulmark was.

The breath fled your lungs as his gaze swept across your face, taking you in. He was beautiful. And yours apparently. You glanced at your wrist where your mark lay and furrowed your brow at finding only half of it shining gold. His hand grasped your wrist and lifted it to examine the mark before tossing it aside as if he’d been burnt. You glanced up to find his striking features twisted with suspicion and hostility.

He grabbed your upper arm in a bruising grip. “Impossible,” he snarled before dragging you toward a black SUV. Your feet barely touched the ground as he jerked you along. You were stunned as the weight of his rejection sunk in. The world around you reduced to nothing more than your struggle to keep up, to understand why he was acting this way.

He threw open the passenger door and shoved you inside. “You’ll be coming with me until I get some answers.” The angry bite to his words was the complete opposite of everything you had imagined when you thought about meeting your soulmate. It should be happy, a celebration, not whatever this was. You sat dazed as he climbed in behind the wheel, your wrist still burning lightly with the new connection. The bond you’d spent your life dreaming of was turning into a nightmare. Your emotions were as scattered as your thoughts as you tried to process your sudden change in circumstance. You didn’t even know who this man was, only who he was supposed to be to you.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he sped through the streets. You stuttered out your name and his gaze snapped to you. “What?”

“My name.”

He narrowed his eyes briefly before turning back to the road. “Klaus. But I suppose you already knew that.”

“Why would I know that?” you couldn’t help but ask.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Don’t.” He shook his head once. “Don’t lie to me.”

Confusion swamped you to mix with the building fear. What in the hell was going on? This man should have been your everything and you were less than nothing to him if the way he was treating you was anything to go by. You wrapped a hand around your wrist to cover the mark, the proof of your connection. You suddenly felt so hollow, so alone.

When you arrived at your destination, Klaus dragged you through the mansion’s grand entrance and into a study lined with books. He slammed the door with an ominous thud. The sound echoed like a threat and before you could blink, you found yourself pinned to the wall. He’d moved too fast to be human and as you met his cold gaze you realized exactly who this man was. You were no stranger to the supernatural but you never thought you’d ever encounter the Original hybrid, let alone discover he was your soulmate. The fear you’d felt before paled in comparison to the new wave that came with the realization.

“Who sent you?” The words sliced through you. “What witch cast this spell? This is beyond the little Bennett.”

“No one sent me. There is no spell.” Desperation colored your words as you begged him to believe you.

“You expect me to believe that?” His voice dripped with skepticism. He stepped back, finally giving you room to breathe and raked a hand through his hair. He paced, restless, as your eyes tracked the movement. Surely there had to be something you could say, could do, to make him see the truth.

He paused, gaze narrowing as it fixed on you. “Do you know who I am? What I’m capable of?”

“Yes, I know.” The words were little louder than a whisper and a single tear spilled from your eye to run down your cheek.

“Then why provoke me?” he yelled, causing you to flinch. He grasped your arm and lifted it to show your mark. “And this? How did you know the mark I bear?”

“This isn’t some conspiracy, some plot against you,” you answered. “I’ve born this mark my entire life. I had no way of knowing you carried its match until today. Why won’t you believe me?” You hated the way your voice broke at the end, but you needed him to trust you, to believe you.

He began to pace again, reminding you of a tiger caged at the zoo. All lethal power, barely restrained. Each time he looked at you, it was if he was trying to solve a riddle that refused to make sense. He halted suddenly, eyes fixed on the floor before lifting his gaze to you once more. “How long did you think you could keep up this charade? Do you think I’m that easy to fool? That I’d let you in, let you make me vulnerable? I am no fool.”

“It’s not like that,” you insisted, risking a step in his direction. The desperation to make him understand making you reckless.

He closed the small distance between you in a blink, grasping your upper arms in a harsh grip. You sucked in a breath of surprise. “If you wish to see tomorrow, you will tell me everything.”

Tears burned your eyes. “Why are you doing this?” The soft question was more to yourself than him. “Can’t you feel it?”

His gaze locked onto yours, searching for deception where there was none. He grabbed your wrist again, fingers tightening painfully as he examined the mark. “This bond is a lie,” he insisted, but you were sure you caught a flicker of doubt that only seemed to make him angrier.

“Why won’t you believe me?” The words escaped in a choked sob, your defenses crumbling. You were losing him before you’d even had him and it may very well kill you.

He shook his head. “I have spent a thousand years searching for my soulmate. A thousand years in countless countries, countless cities and you expect me to believe I happened across her here in Mystic Falls? It is unbelievable.” This man, who should have been your salvation, your other half, was hell-bent on turning you into his undoing, on making you the villain.

“You are my soulmate.” You said the words firmly, without the tremor you were afraid would show. “You’re supposed to cherish me—to love me—not hate me.”

Klaus recoiled as if you’d slapped him. For a moment, you saw a flicker of hesitation, a crack in the armor of his resolve. But it was fleeting and your heart sank as it vanished to be replaced by the coldness you’d come to dread.

“Impossible.” The word sounded less like a judgment and more like a plea.

He didn’t want to believe and nothing you said would convince him otherwise. The tears you’d kept mostly at bay, overflowed as the realization set in. You met his gaze as you imparted one last, shattering truth, voice breaking under the weight of it. “I wish it was anyone but you.”

His eyes darkened then transformed into a stunning, shining gold before you could take another breath. Veins traced his skin as, with supernatural speed, he shoved you against the wall, fangs descending like razor blades. “You know nothing,” he seethed, voice vibrating with rage.

Your world went white with pain as teeth pierced your neck, a brutal agony that tore a scream from your lips. Your vision blurred and your knees gave out as your heartbeat slowed to a whisper. Your pulse thrummed in your ears like a dying drumbeat to lure you into the darkness. Klaus’ grip was unyielding as he pulled the life from your veins. The edges of the pain started to blur with the numbness that crept over your senses. You drifted as each breath came shallower than the last.

The hybrid froze against you. The pull of his bite stopped as he withdrew and a new agony tore through you as he shifted his hold on you. He cupped your chin and lifted your gaze to his, shaking you slightly when your eyes fluttered close. “Look at me, sweetheart.” And as his eyes met yours, you saw nothing but stark terror in his gaze. “No,” he whispered, horror dawning as the bond between you faded with your life.

The world tilted and blurred in a mass of colors and shapes as he lowered you to the floor, urgency replacing his anger. You couldn’t comprehend his desperation, his need for you to live when he so clearly wanted you to die only a moment ago.

Your eyes closed and he shook you again. Carefully, lightly, but enough to have you frowning at him. Why couldn’t he just let you rest?

“Stay with me,” he ordered, his voice cracked around the edges. He bit into his wrist, blood welling a harsh crimson against the haze of your vision. He pressed it to your lips. “Drink,” the command came sharp and insistent and you found yourself obeying without thought. The metallic taste flooded your mouth, foreign and rich. As his blood slid down your throat, a spark ignited against the numbness that had seeped into your very being. Every nerve ending blazed to life as strength clawed its way back into your limbs.

It was jarring, overwhelming, as sensation returned along with the thundering of your pulse. You pulled away with a gasp as you took the first deep breath in what felt like an eternity. And you suddenly realized that you would survive your first meeting with Klaus Mikaelson.

He watched you, eyes wide and searching. You saw the shift in him, his doubt replaced with genuine concern. His anger gone, all that remained was a single-minded focus on you, waiting to see if you would indeed come back to him. As you recovered, as your color returned and your breathing steadied, the panic in his gaze softened into something almost vulnerable. He closed his eyes with a breath of relief as your bond snapped back into place with the returning off your life.

Klaus reached for you, hesitating as if expecting your protest, then swept you into his arms when none came. You were aware of everything but unable to do more than focus on the world around you as your body and your mind both struggled to recover. He moved through the halls with deliberate care, cradling you like something precious and breakable. His gaze stayed on you and with each step the distance between what you were and what he feared you to be seemed to vanish.

The bedroom he carried to was full of large furniture carved from dark wood. His scent lingered in the air as he laid you delicately on silk sheets. Their luxuriant softness was a sharp contrast to the hardness of the floor where you had nearly died. You watched him, too weak, too exhausted to speak. His hesitation spoke volumes but you still wanted him to say the words you were so desperate to hear. He believed you, he was sorry, it would never happen again. You didn’t know what he could say to fix this and, apparently, neither did he. He lingered, looking like he wanted to say something, but then he turned and left you to the quiet of the room and the screaming of your thoughts.

Despite your best efforts, you were sound asleep mere minutes later.

***

Elijah arrived in a cloud of chaos and worry. Panic sliced through the air as he called for his brother. “Niklaus!”

“Here.”

The answer had him turning his steps to the living room where he found his brother slumped on one of the sofas with a drink in his hand and blood on his shirt. “I felt them fading. We nearly lost them.” Desperation dripped from Elijah’s words. The two brothers had long come to an understanding where their soulmate was concerned. They’d had a thousand years to discuss their matching marks, the mate they would have to share, and how they intended to go about it. But every discussion meant nothing when Elijah had felt that connection fading.

When he received no reaction from his brother beyond him taking another sip of his drink, Elijah scowled. “We need to find them immediately,” he demanded. “Despite our precautions, someone could know who they are to us.” They both wore enchanted jewelry that hid their marks from view. Had for hundreds of years.

Klaus drank deeply before meeting his brother’s gaze. “All done, brother. She’s right upstairs.”

Elijah’s panic shifted to relief and a slight bit of suspicion. He hadn’t expected Klaus’ cavalier demeanor, his aloofness at the narrowly avoided tragedy of your loss. It only fueled his urgency to see you, to make sure you were truly safe.

His mind raced as quickly as his feet, a thousand questions tumbling through his thoughts. The last thing he sensed was your life slipping away and his brother seemed completely indifferent to the situation. His stopped outside the door where he heard your strong, steady heartbeat.

He stepped inside, careful to stay quiet so as not to disturb you. His feet carried him to the side of the bed where you slumbered. His gaze locked on the pulse at your throat before shifting to watch your chest rise with the breath he had so feared to lose.

His relief was a physical thing that drained the tension from his shoulders as he took in the sight of you. His gaze caught on the golden sparkle on your wrist, tracing it with his fingers, smiling when the still black half glowed in the wake of his touch. It was confirmation that you were his, theirs. Not that he needed it. This close to you he could feel the connection he had so long yearned for.

Having assured himself of your survival, he took in the rest of you. You were stunning. Perfect. Except for the splash of red at your throat and the neck of your shirt. The wound was gone. Healed by his brother no doubt, but Elijah was certain he was looking at the aftermath of a vampire attack.

Pure fury shot through him at the thought that one of his kind had harmed you. That they had taken that which was not freely given. And then a horrid, horrible thought occurred to him. Klaus had always been paranoid at the best of times. Had never taken anything good at face value. Had self-sabotaged his happiness at every turn. But this…

Elijah shook his head as if to knock the thought from it. Surely, he wouldn’t have hurt you, nearly killed you. But then why hadn’t he called the moment he found you? Klaus would have known Elijah would be half crazed with worry. Unless his brother was trying to avoid his judgment for as long as possible. The behavior Elijah had witnessed upon his arrival only seemed to support this horrible truth.

You stirred, mumbling something in your sleep, but as you settled back into a restful slumber, your second soulmate was already halfway down the stairs as he returned to the living room to confront his brother. His voice was controlled but seething as he demanded the truth. “Tell me what happened. What nefarious plot did you save her from? Or was it your own actions that nearly took her from us?”

Klaus said nothing as tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his brother’s furious gaze.

[anodetoswag]

𝔐𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔦𝔯𝔰

𝑅. 𝒮𝓊𝓀𝓊𝓃𝒶

Synopsis: In some irony of nature, an immortal teaches you the ways of the living.

❀﹒Notes: Manga spoilers. Angst but y'all know I gotta be joke about trauma. Sukuna himself is a trigger warning. Suggestive humor.

𓍯 W.C. 2K

The list of cons about the lifestyle of shamans is never ending; ‘certain death’ being the one at the very top of the catalogue in big, bright letters. But at the fear of sounding morbidly optimistic, you think the perks balance it out. The money is good, for one. That’s what keeps most in this profession where everything is trying to kill you at every corner. And if someone asks, you’d probably state the same reason. It’s the easy thing to say, something that doesn’t require a lot of thinking.

But you like to think.

Which is another, if not the primary reason you don’t mind the frequent reminders of your mortality. There isn’t too much work and more often than not, you can do absolutely nothing but kill time.

It’s nothing sophisticated or anything of the sort. In fact, most days you think about absolute nonsense. Jump from one thought to the next or stay and mull over one for hours. In your head, you’re in control; not the higher ups, not Gojo Satoru but you.

Lately, your thoughts seem to always end up at one place. At first you found it somewhat irksome but you’re not one to fight these things too hard. Just let the stream flow in the direction it wants. That’s likely why you’d be a terrible protagonist; you’re passive and dull.

Sukuna however, is neither of those things. That’s likely why you didn’t mind being around him as much as a lot of people did. You’re not stimulating enough in the sense that he wants to toy with you. Neither is it your nature volatile enough to let him get under your skin.

That’s not to say the start of it wasn’t rocky. The first time you held him captive in his own domain, it was raining hellfire in more ways than one. In some depraved way, you’d enjoyed the show, you suppose. Given you a power trip because you were untouchable in the belly of the beast.

Only natural to taunt him. Hardly serious, in fact most of the things you poked at were rather harmless, or at least they were in the start. He was easier to bother then. Over time he must have built some sort of immunity so you had to alter the dose accordingly.

He’d snarl and bare his teeth like some rabid animal; like a dog. You wouldn’t even laugh, only smile as if his misery was mildly diverting. That was probably the worst part. Then like clockwork, Sukuna would swear vengeance upon your ancestry and describe in chilling detail what he’s do once he’s at the height of his power again. It was almost cartoonish to you; the supervillain describing his evil schemes.

At some point the narratives shifted around to accommodate you as a special mention, until eventually they began to be centred around you entirely.

He’d go on these vividly comprehensive diatribes. How he’s going to skin you alive and use it as the carpet to his bath house, all while beaming since he knew you find aggravation to be particularly compelling amongst all his reactions.

You politely asked him to stop self-projecting his fetishes. Safe to say that did the trick to have him frothing at the mouth.

Sometimes you’d leave him be to his devices. Coexist and nothing more. The first few times it was because you weren’t in the mood to talk for whatever reason. Sukuna had eyed you warily the first hour, tried to get something out of you the next few.

“Come on brat,” he pokes at you with what you assume is a fibula of whatever poor creature it might have once belonged to, now reduced to little more than home décor. “Is this a new scheme to get on my nerves?”

You’d shot him a half-hearted glare and somewhat whiny ‘go away’; one of your less creative comebacks.

“Is it your time of the month?”

“No,” you roll your eyes. “And even if it was, it’s none of your concern.”

“It is when a good drink is going to waste.” The casualness with which he said it was what put you off more than the words themselves.

“What,” you ask, somewhat wide eyed. Maybe the sleep deprivation was catching up.

“What?”

For better or worse, you were shipped off on a mission the next day so you didn’t have to unpack that with him.

Yuuji Itadori is declared dead by the time you return. Sukuna, by extension, to some degree. It’s tragic, of course but hardly anything you never witnessed. People come and go in a profession like this one.

The day Yuuji wakes up in the morgue, Sukuna throws a tantrum. Naturally, you find yourself back on babysitting duty. He doesn’t bother berating you this time around, only grumbling an ‘about damn time.’

You realize soon enough that he just wanted someone to share the results of his latest lunacy episode. He lays great emphasis on the part where he rips his shirt off, or Yuuji’s , more accurately. Gives you a real life replay even though you very much did not ask for it. Proceeds to casually breeze over the part where he rips out his heart. You find no reason to stretch out that part, specially not when you’re currently in a way, inside the boy’s subconscious.

♒︎

That’s probably when things really eased up. Felt less like you’re on the clock, expected to keep a millennia old fiend in line and more like a troublesome roommate. The kind who never does the dishes but gives the people next door a piece of his mind when they get carried away in debauched pastimes and you’re either not confrontational enough to deal with them or not in the mood.

“What do mortals do to pass time?”

You hold back a yawn; almost certain he chose to ask something right in this moment because you were just about to fall asleep peacefully. “They do each other.”

“Brazen, but what do you do to pass time?”

An owlish blink before the jab clicks. “Funny.”

♒︎

He’d taken to story telling at some point. It was a particularly uneventful week and you’d been crabby over being stuck inside in the most literal sense. Something about burning down villages and tearing jujutsu sorcerers limb to limb. You wonder to yourself at some point if publishing them would be worth it but shove the idea to the back of your head for the moment.

Sukuna’s Bizarre Adventures

It’s gratifying, you realize. Listening to him recall events. He never justified anything. Unlike most who did horrible things, Sukuna wasn’t deluded. Didn’t see himself as some divine justice. What he says, goes. An unjust however simple enough way to go about things.

Losing track of time was easy. In fact, often he’d have to shoo you away. You’d leave the domain, only to discern it’s already dark when you started early in the afternoon. Other times he’d regard you with a coy sort of look before asking when you last blinked.

He must be fucking with your head. It’s like saying you forgot to close the valves in your veins. But then you would blink, realize it’s sort of uncomfortable. You chalk it upto placebo.

In listening to Sukuna talk about himself you realized some things of your own. Primarily that you liked it. A little too much in fact because you come to become conscious of your habits over time. More specifically the one to eavesdrop. It’s at the most arbitrary places too; that group of high school kids talking about some upcoming club recruitment event. Or the elderly resident in your neighborhood on the call with his daughter, asking if she could make it home for the holidays.

It doesn’t have to be scandalous. Hell, sometimes it’s utterly mundane. But it’s really not about entertainment as much as it was about inquisitiveness. The things people do, the things they say, their regrets and their lies; the stories that never make it to paper because they’re boring yet make people what they are in present day.

But more importantly, you realized you hardly have anything of your own to say. Actually, that is somewhat of an inaccurate way to phase it. It’s more like you don’t want to, or didn’t want to.

The sorcerer life is hard not just because you can lose yourself but because you can lose the people around you. You’d taken that lesson too hard, shielded yourself too much and somewhere in the process of surviving, you’d forgotten to live.

You’d envied the intimacy your peers shared with each other. It wasn’t like you didn’t get along with them or anything but things with you were always surface level. Plans would be made but you’d back out more often than not, some excuse or the other ready. They’d sigh, tell you it’s fine, there’s always the next one. More of a formality than anything. They’d come to expect it from you.

Now well into your adulthood, the rift is too wide and you’re stuck on one side with no clue what to do about it.

The what ifs of life are what occupy your headspace. You wouldn’t say it’s lonely, per se. But it does get boring sometimes.

You’re similar in that way at least, you and Sukuna. That’s another reason why your time together doesn’t feel like as much of a chore as it is. Sukuna isn’t going to turn up his toes anytime soon. In hindsight, you jinxed that one too, huh?

♒︎

When the thoughts began, you’d felt like you’d committed a cardinal sin. Comrades fallen, humanity at stake and yet the one in your ruminations was the one who had consideration for nobody but himself.

But who prays for Satan?

It’s a derisory outlook. One that made you sure you were slipping away too. Going demented after all the recent events. It would hardly be the first case of psychosis amongst sorcerers.

The first time you pass by the shrine, you only spare it a look. The second time you slow down, the third you stop and by the fourth, you find your will having eroded enough to enter. A saunter around the courtyard confirms your only company are the rodents scurrying about and termites infesting the wood.

Strangely enough, no curses around either.

The face of the deity is almost entirely eaten away. In your mind, it looks like him. There’s incense sitting in a box somewhere to the left of the statue. You take out the lighter and put it near the end of it despite not counting on them to light up.

One does, despite all odds.

Deeming that satisfactory enough of a result, you push it into the stand and just stand there for a second. You try to recall any prayer from your childhood but your mind draws a blank in that moment. Getting performance anxiety in front of a block of wood has to take the cake as far as self esteem issues go for you.

“I was in the area,” and now you’re talking to thin air. “Just thought to drop by and say hi.”

That sounds like something you’re supposed to say to a summer situationship and not a once revered being but it’s the thought that counts.

Barely ten steps from the door, your phone vibrates with a notification. You fish it out, expecting it to be a promotional message. Instead, it’s Shoko’s name that lights up the screen.

An invitation to go drinking with Utahime and Mei Mei.

You don’t have to think a whole lot before punching in a reply and hitting send with an affirmation of your presence.

If you’re going to have to say goodbye, you better make every minute with them count.  Maybe every once in a while, one needs a millennia old demon and a war to learn the simplest lessons in life. On second thought, it might just be the promise of booze.

Divider credits to @cafekitsune. Images from Pinterest.

Characters belong to Gege Akutami.

[lynzishell]

Prev // Next

Transcript below the cut:

Dawn: How’s it going? Have you decided the grass isn’t greener yet? Realized you belong in San My after all? [Atlas: No, we uh, just put an offer in on a house.] Dawn: Already?

Atlas: We had to, Dawn, it’s perfect. It has everything we want, it’s in our price range, in a great neighborhood. It’s like it was built for us. [Dawn: So, this is really happening?] Atlas: Afraid so.

Atlas: How are things in Chestnut Ridge? [Dawn: Oh my god, you’ll never guess what I did yesterday.] Atlas: What? [Dawn: I rode a horse!] Atlas: Oh yeah? How was that?

Dawn: It was… exhilarating! I mean, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I miss that feeling, y’know. [Atlas: What feeling?]

Dawn: Just the excitement and the adrenaline. I haven’t done anything that’s made me feel that way in a long time. It’s like, since having Aspen, my whole identity has been reduced to being a mom. Not that I don’t love being a mom, I do. It’s just that I used to be so much more, and yesterday felt like reconnecting with a part of myself.

Atlas: So, what, you want to get a horse now? Not sure how that will work in the city. [Dawn: [laughs] No, of course not. But I do want more. I want my career back. I want to start climbing again. I want to see new places and try new things.] Atlas: And you should. As long as San Sequoia is at the top of your list of new places to see.

[Dawn: Of course it is.] Atlas: Good. Listen, let’s talk more about this when we’re back in the city. I gotta run. We haven’t eaten all day, and I think Ash is ready to leave without me.

Dawn: Okay, I’ll see you soon. [Atlas: Bye.]

Dawn: How are you doing? Phoenix: I don’t know. Am I a terrible person for being angry at a ten-year-old? Dawn: Depends on why you’re angry.

Phoenix: It’s hard not to resent the fact that he gets these moments with him. He gets the childhood I always wished I had. The one I should’ve had. Dawn: You’re allowed to be angry, but maybe it’s not fair to be angry at him. I mean, he has to grow up without his mom, and you had that. So, maybe call it even. Phoenix: Right. See, I am a terrible person. Dawn: You’re not. We both know Danny’s not the one you’re angry at.

Dawn: I know this is hard. Your dad made a lot of mistakes. He missed your whole life. You’ll never get those years back, and that sucks. But he’s here now, and so are you. And no one knows how many years we have left. So, how do you want to spend them? Why did we come here?

Phoenix: I don’t want to be angry anymore. Dawn: Then, what are you waiting for? Get over there.

Joseph: You ready? Phoenix: I don’t know. Joseph: C’mon.

Phoenix: Are you sure this is a good idea? Joseph: You’ll be fine. Just put your foot in the stirrup and pull yourself up, nice and easy. Phoenix: …

Joseph: Phoenix. Phoenix: What? Joseph: Trust me.

Phoenix: … okay.

Joseph: There ya go! Not so hard, was it? Phoenix: No. Joseph: Now, let’s walk. Phoenix: Do what now?

Joseph: You alright? Phoenix: Yep. I’m good.

Joseph: We’re just going across the lot, you can relax. Phoenix: I am relaxed. Joseph: [laughs] Okay.

[samhadjblog2]

Hey there. Remember him? Does it seem like once he pacified Piltover he was just gonna call it a day, get back in his gigantic astral hamster ball and fuck off back to the compound? No. His goal was the evolution of humanity. Not Piltover. Jayce spells this out clearly. "This isn't a fair request". But it is the truth. And regarding the uniforms. The average Undercity character is seen is some variety of leathers/cloth/wool whatever that usually is displaying a decent amount of skin. THE ENFORCERS WEAR ARMOR.

Viktor's "End of the world" narrative a contrivance to get the two cities to talk to one another. And so its cheap to end the series that was driven by its class conflict with a MCU film where everyone joins together to save the world. And so the show having people die in suits of Enforcers is kind of messed up in the contexts of the conflict between the two cities.

As for the whole "Silco became a mouth piece for forgiveness" is also referring to the unsubtle line in Ep.7 where Silco said "The greatest thing we can do in the world is find the will to forgive ourselves". (Which is kind of messed up in the context's that Vander drowned him).

And the whole speech that his imagined version that Jinx made gave to her just kind of

Because it wasn't about Piltover or Zaun you crusty dishrag. Viktor was trying to purify all of humanity after a life-time of seeing the imperfections and weaknesses in himself as a start. Jayce loved Viktor. I'm not even getting to romantic or platonic, he LOVED VIKTOR. I suppose you would have preferred for him to look at Viktor and yell "You know what you diseased freak you have a point! Good for you taking everyone's humanity. WELL DONE!"

Yes it was about Piltover and Zaun that is the central basis of the show. And also Viktor wasn't interested in healing his sickness because he thought he was broken. He wanted to heal it because he didn't want to die. That's been his whole conflict in S1 that he has so much potential however his body is preventing him from obtaining it. And at the end of S1 he already made peace with his death. And so this conversation of "You were never broken Viktor" is empty. Also Viktor only healed people wanted to healed at first and its all Jayce's fault for not talking things out with Viktor and telling him that he met his future self.

Ekko and Vi are family. So while it is true he may be angry and we don't see it, I think a character of immense heart like Ekko who loves Vi would actually talk with her. You know.. rather than the savage degradation of Vi some people seem to wish for.

Jinx and Vi were also family and she was willing to call her out for all the murders she committed. To act like Ekko wouldn't have an issue with what Vi did isn't the case. Another thing Ekko also gave up Jinx until he was sent to the alternate dimension.

(Also Viktor end the world narrative is BS)

She is a side character. Sorry but she is. But after a lifetime trying and failing to stand for Zaun she becomes their first ever voice on the council. She is the representative of every person she has wanted to protect. Sorry if that doesn't cut it.

She still a prominent character in the show who has a lot of connections to the main cast. So her just being reduced to this one role is just cheap.

When exactly would we have seen this? I also would have been curious to see her reaction but they were dealing with the whole ya know.. war?!

As you already stated, her connections to Isha, Jinx talking it out with her about helping this fight (Even though I find the conflict a load of BS)

Same to above. I wish we could have seen Jinx rallying the undercity with Ekko. I actually give you this one. I think this was a missed opportunity.

It really isn't. This is something that "should of happened" because too much was just glossed over.

Again Viktor's story is BS.

Quick Response To Some Fresh Lunacy

**Spoilers For Arcane**

So while I have only delved into the sheer bedlam that is the Arcane Critical tag once, every now and then one of those feisty little diesel drinkers makes it onto my feed and I am treated to something like this as reasons season 2 supposedly sucked (their phrasing was much more unpleasant):

1. The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it. 2. Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters. 3. Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn. 4. Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid. 5. Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured. 6. Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover. 7. Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character.

Okay... breathe deep... it hurts.. I know it hurts. It hurt me as well to read such a strong concentration of felonious stupidity all in one place as well. But we must never falter. There are a lot of ways I could respond to this. And perhaps at some point I will go more in-depth. But the simple fact is nothing here requires a long, drawn out, point-by-point defense. Because I have seen the show. Which clearly gives me the upper hand here. So, I am going to give each of these the amount of attention they deserve.

The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it

Hey there. Remember him? Does it seem like once he pacified Piltover he was just gonna call it a day, get back in his gigantic astral hamster ball and fuck off back to the compound? No. His goal was the evolution of humanity. Not Piltover. Jayce spells this out clearly. "This isn't a fair request". But it is the truth. And regarding the uniforms. The average Undercity character is seen is some variety of leathers/cloth/wool whatever that usually is displaying a decent amount of skin. THE ENFORCERS WEAR ARMOR.

Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters

Okay. I am going to make this is as simple as possible so you can follow along with me:

As we know, Silco is not there. Jinx is essentially working this out in her own mind through these hallucinations

Her status as Silco's daughter, being a symbol, his influence and shadow, it is all tying her to the past which as we know is filled to the brim with delicious sugary trauma.

Even though he was a monster, she views him as a father figure. And as much as it sucks to say probably more than Vander. She was so young when Vander died. She was with Silco during her real formative years. And I would bet she has pushed Vander away mentally to protect herself after everything that has occured. So while Vi sees Vander in the barfight when she wants to give up, Jinx sees Silco.

Silco is giving Jinx the permission Jinx realizes she has to give Vi to save both of them.

Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn

Again. HUMANITY ENDING THREAT. Also ya know her fucking sister wanted her by her side.

OH NO! OUR MURDEROUS MENTALLY ILL TERRORIST IS HEALING AND TRYING TO TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY FOR HER MISTAKES! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! NOT CHARACTER GROWTH!

3. True. In that moment she felt she needed to die.. because as she says, she feels "there's no good version of me". I know it's unfair you have to watch the whole scene to get it. But you have taken a profound moment of Jinx's love for her sister and her recognition of how Vi loves her and made it.. whatever this was supposed to be.

Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid.

I have done this so... so many times. I am not doing it again. I will go with the same blanket statement I have been using lately: A non-lethal crowd dispersal weapon in targeted locations against dangerous drug lords and a terrorist who likes blowing shit up? Seems like a decent plan.

Well done. You have taken a beautiful moment of meaning between these two characters and simplified it down to the utmost degree. There are numerous thoughtful, in-depth and heartfelt breakdowns of this scene available and I promised myself I wasn't going to waste a bunch of my time responding to this mind-melting ignorance. So I will just say this. If that is all you see in that scene, I really am sorry for you. I hope someday things improve.

Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured

Because it wasn't about Piltover or Zaun you crusty dishrag. Viktor was trying to purify all of humanity after a life-time of seeing the imperfections and weaknesses in himself as a start. Jayce loved Viktor. I'm not even getting to romantic or platonic, he LOVED VIKTOR. I suppose you would have preferred for him to look at Viktor and yell "You know what you diseased freak you have a point! Good for you taking everyone's humanity. WELL DONE!"

Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover.

Heimerdinger is very aware of his failings. You have to watch in season one. Again.. watching the show you talk about.. very hard I know. And as close as he and Ekko are in season two I think we can safely say they are on the same page. Never mind that Ekko has shown he has no trouble calling out anyone who needs it.

Ekko and Vi are family. So while it is true he may be angry and we don't see it, I think a character of immense heart like Ekko who loves Vi would actually talk with her. You know.. rather than the savage degradation of Vi some people seem to wish for.

AGAIN FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY

Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character

She is a side character. Sorry but she is. But after a lifetime trying and failing to stand for Zaun she becomes their first ever voice on the council. She is the representative of every person she has wanted to protect. Sorry if that doesn't cut it.

When exactly would we have seen this? I also would have been curious to see her reaction but they were dealing with the whole ya know.. war?!

Same to above. I wish we could have seen Jinx rallying the undercity with Ekko. I actually give you this one. I think this was a missed opportunity.

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING

I'm sorry scary Viktor. I don't know why they keep forgetting you.

[rextrafan]

Because there aren't enough Gravity Falls AU that put Stan through the wringer and people like @dark-lord-of-awesomeness inspired me with all of their own AU's, I've decided to add to his suffering with my own AU idea.

Wendigo!Stan

Wendigos, in some mythologies, were once human who had to result to cannibalism through one reason or the other. I'm putting my own spin on it, so it's not fully sticking to the known mythology.

Stan is very good at ignoring red flags. After all, if he doesn't acknowledge something, it isn't real right?

So he ignores the fact that he has no money and tells himself that it won't be much longer until he has the million and then he can get Ford back.

He dismisses the danger he is in after borrowing money from Rico, because he will make it big and pay it back! With interest even!

He waves the nagging suspicion away that he will collapse soon, because he just ate 5 days ago and can last a bit longer. He needs the money for more important things after all.

All that leaves him in quite a pickle, when Rico does catch him before he has his money and stuffs him, as well as another unfortunate sad-sack, in the trunk of a very beat up truck and drives of into the desert.

Stan's pleading falls on deaf ears, and the only thing he can hear himself is the laboured breathing of the other guy, the crack of a gunshot and a hand patting the roof of the trunk before another car drives off into the distance.

Leaving them trapped in the trunk, being cooked alive.

Stan chews his way out, but too late to save the other guy.

He is alone, in the middle of a desert, spitting broken teeth into the dry sand, with a corpse and car with a leaking gas-tank. On the brink of starvation. Not great.

He knows he was as good as dead. He has made it out, but he is starving, the next city is nowhere in sight and there is no food.

The soon-to-be-dead man sat in the car's shade for a long time before he makes a decision.

He wouldn't die today. He couldn't. He still has to make it up to Ford.

Stan doesn't really remember what came after that. (He remembered each bite.)

But somehow he made it to the next city. He even got back to the Stanmobile, and he booked it as fast as he could, as far as he could. Tried to forget about what he had to do out there. How the vultures picked clean th-

Stanley Pines is good at ignoring many kinds of red flags.

The constant hunger that nagged at him was normal, he went hungry all the time. Maybe he just managed to steal the shittiest gas station sandwiches, those with the super cheap veggies that were already on the verge of being tossed or something.

He ignored how his frame became almost skeletal. Fat gained from unhealthy meals melted away, leaving gaunt cheeks, prominent ribs, and the need to tie his pants with an old frayed rope so he wouldn't loose them.

He ignored how only meat seemed to at least reduce a fraction of that nagging hunger.

He absolutely ignored what happened with that roadkill the other day.

What he couldn't ignore anymore though, was what happened after Rico found him again.

How his body stretched, how his head hurt, how the man actually flinched back in fear at whatever he saw, how Stan's mind was screaming at him, to rip, to tear, to devourer the other.

What he couldn't ignore anymore, was how the hunger, his constant companion, actually lessened.

What he couldn't ignore anymore, was how he suddenly was back to his normal height, his jacket full of holes along the spine. His shoes absolutely busted.

What he couldn't ignore anymore, was how the hand, that Rico shattered with a gunshot, healed itself after just a few days.

So he runs. Because outrunning and ignoring his problems always worked right?

He runs until the hunger turns into agony, and tries to forget each incident when was stopped from running, be it by foes, by police, by random people.

Until he decides to ditch civilization all together. Because if he is in the woods, he can't hurt people. Just animals. And that had to be enough.

Until he found a postcard on the passenger seat of his car.

Please come!

-Ford

Edit: There I go and make a new blog to keep my own ramblings on a separate blog, only to accidentally post it to my everything goes blog, whoops xD

Future AU ramblings will be here: @rextrafansrambles

[syerra-637]

Unseen

A/N: I had a dream, and I had to share it with the rest of the world. This is my very first time writing for Sebastian, so please be gentle with me. Trigger Warning: Death, soul pact, implied afterlife. It takes place well before the events of the manga.

A long, long time ago, in an age when Rome ruled the world, you had heard whispers of an ancient ritual, hidden deep within a dark forest. The witches spoke of it in hushed voices, like a forbidden secret murmured in the hollow of night. They said the raven would come, the demon would listen, and your wish would be granted… if you agreed to sell your soul. And you did — without flinching.

But you were not like the others. You made a demand. A rule no demon had ever heard before: once the pact was sealed, you would forget everything. You would forget the wish, the demon, the price. You wanted to live this life fully, without the weight of the exchange, without fear, without doubt. And the demon, intrigued, fascinated by your defiance, accepted.

When you stepped out of the clearing, you were lost, confused… but free. A man was waiting at the edge of the path. Tall, elegant, with an unreadable gaze. He had no name. So you gave him one. And he smiled softly, as if that name had always been his.

You built a life far from the world, far from cities and wars. A peaceful home, filled with books, firelight, and cats you adopted like wounded souls in need of shelter. Sebastian watched you live with a strange, almost painful intensity. And you loved him. Without knowing why. Without remembering who — or what — he truly was.

The years passed. You aged, and so did he — or at least, his mortal shell. He mimicked the passage of time, so as not to disturb you. He laughed softly when you complained about your joints, and he massaged your shoulders in silence each evening. You didn’t know that his hands had once reduced entire kingdoms to ash.

On the morning of your 80th birthday, he knelt before you, his eyes shining with a rare emotion. He spoke words in a language no one remembered. And suddenly, everything returned. The pact. The wish. The exchange. The demon. Your heart clenched — not from fear, but from shattering tenderness.

“Then it’s time for my final journey,” you whispered, eyes full of tears. He said nothing. He simply took your hand. Together, you walked down the hill to a silent river, black as ink. A small boat awaited you. The silence was heavy, solemn, almost sacred.

You cried. You had lived a beautiful, simple, gentle life. But it had been built on forgetfulness, on a lie crafted with care. And yet, you regretted nothing. You looked at him one last time, and he kissed you the way one kisses a dying star. Then your soul left your body — light, almost peaceful.

But Sebastian did not devour it. He couldn’t. He had waited centuries for you. He couldn’t end it like this. Your soul was the only thing he had ever held with tenderness. He kept it close, carefully, as one would keep a sacred relic. And he swore never to let it dissolve into eternity.

Since then, he searches. A body worthy of you. A time, a vessel, a new life where he might find you again. Where you might look at him once more, not knowing why your heart beats so wildly. He doesn’t want to force you to remember. He wants you to feel, again, despite the forgetting.

He is immortal. He will wait. Even if it takes a thousand more years. Because your soul… is the only one he never wanted to consume. The only one he ever wished to love.

[izumiphoenix]

Vampire Bite

I’ve still been thinking about those two posts (this and this) I saw a while ago, from @litsenn and @michanvalentine – sorry it’s not a reblog, but I wanted to include both somehow. These were discussions around how Astarion’s feeding is more than just about blood – it can be interpreted as intimate, even sensual.

Looking back, I absolutely agree that the best, healthiest option for Astarion is to let him feed on enemies. I replayed that conversation and paid closer attention to his reactions, and now it’s clear to me why the only option he truly approves of is that one. It’s not just about practicality – it’s about consent, boundaries, and reclaiming his autonomy after two centuries of having none.

Honestly, it bothered me a little that I didn’t realize this sooner. The dialogue line makes it sound like you’re offering him your blood in addition to enemy blood, which feels kind and supportive, but that’s not how it lands for Astarion. And I understand that better now.

Another thing I hadn’t realized until reading others’ interpretations is how a vampire’s bite can be perceived as sensual or intimate. In my mind, offering my blood felt more like a "sacrifice" – something I’d endure because I cared, not something I’d want or enjoy.

For me, the idea of someone biting into my neck, drawing blood while holding me close, is honestly a little scary – physically, because it seems rather painful, but also emotionally, too. I’m not someone who naturally seeks physical closeness, to be honest. Even with people I like or trust, touch can sometimes feel overwhelming, especially when I’m tired, overstimulated, or just need space. There’s a part of me that wants connection, but another part that somehow resists it. It’s a strange balance that’s hard to explain. (And yes, even if my Tav had already spent the night with him, it’s not difficult to imagine sex as something enjoyable between them, but the idea of a bite to the neck was something my imagination definitely approached with caution 😅)

And then there’s the aftermath: waking up the next day feeling drained, dizzy, distracted. That -1 on all dice rolls isn’t just a game mechanic – it also helps us imagine how it feels (It honestly reminds me of when I forget to take iron supplements for a while haha)

When Araj said she’d dreamed of being bitten by a vampire, I was honestly surprised. That fantasy felt so far from how I would react. And at the time, I thought Astarion was caught off guard too, judging from his reaction. Now I realize he does mention that a vampire bite is considered highly desirable, but I must have missed that line in my first playthrough or maybe didn't pay enough attention.

So yes, while I do feel a little guilty for missing that subtext at first, I also understand now why I did. On a first playthrough, the player can’t know his story yet, and I am sure most people act from good intentions. They’re both still figuring things out at that point.

I do wish there were an option to say something like “I’m here if there’s no other choice” without making him feel like it’s a transaction or crossing a line he’s not ready for. But going along with his suggestion and letting him choose how, when and from whom he feeds is – now – clearly the best option. Because Astarion wants to be free and independent, and he doesn’t want to be seen as someone’s fantasy, or reduced to the trope of a seductive vampire from romance stories – he wants to be seen for who he really is.

I mostly wrote this to clear my own head, but also to maybe offer another perspective – one where some parts of this story can feel surprising, depending on your personal experiences and comfort with certain things.

[lsunstreakerl]

2.3k of tiny gax verse! alex, george, and charles POV. sickfic.

They're big fans of denial in the flat. It's easy enough, because if you don't address something, it's not real.

So when Max has a coughing fit one morning, shoulders shaking from the force of it, sounding worryingly thick— well. He blames it on choking on a piece of food. George and Alex let him.

It's getting colder outside, pavement wet from the rain, and they've shoved all of the blankets together. Max is starting to be scouted by teams junior teams, and...

In hindsight, it's stupid. Thinking that just because they'd never seen him get sick meant that it wasn't possible. He gets pale, paler than normal, and Alex curls his fingers into his palms. Max is curled in the middle of the futons, face hidden in George's chest. He's not snoring anymore, just a soft wheeze.

George looks up at him nervously.

"Alex, he's really hot."

Alex knows.

The season has been brutal, and Max and George have spent countless hours on sponsor offers and contracts, and they're all thin, struggling to keep muscle on. Max has been working extra at the garage, because George and Alex just keep growing, and they need nicer clothes for nicer sponsor agreements, and—

It's a vicious cycle. Alex chews at the inside of his cheek, mentally doing the math. If he and George do extra gig work, they might be able to afford medicine, but he's not sure what kind Max needs. A fever reducer for sure, and something to handle the wheeze in his lungs.

Naively, he's hoping maybe cough drops will fix it.

------

George is working at the bookstore. Alex is glad, because each cough from Max gives him a full body flinch, cringing quietly.

He hasn't gotten any better.

Alex pets a hand through Max's hair, damp with sweat. He's hot, even with the fever reducer Alex had convinced someone to buy for him in exchange for crumpled cash outside the store.

Max struggles up onto his forearms suddenly, coughing violently. It sounds wet, wheezing and thick, and he makes a wounded noise when he finally catches his breath, dropping back into Alex's lap.

"Max."

He reaches for the bottle of medicine, prepared to measure out another dose. It's probably not time for it yet, but it's the only thing that helps bring his fever down.

Max's fingers curl weakly into his pant leg, wheezing out another breath.

"I am fine, Ale—"

He breaks off in another coughing fit, doubling over, and Alex feels his blood run cold at the small droplets of crimson Max tries to hide in his elbow.

He tugs Max closer to his chest, panic steadily welling inside of him. They're in over their heads here, and there's only so much denial they can do.

Max wheezes harshly against him, forehead boiling hot against his shoulder.

"Meds."

His voice is weak, but he's fighting through it, defiant shine in his eyes even through the fever haze. Alex measures out another dose, fingers shaking. Max's cough is only getting worse, and they can't afford to get another bottle.

There's a race this weekend, and he knows, as sure as he knows the color of the sky, that Max is still going to try and attend. If they allow him to race is an entirely different story, but he'll try.

Insanely, Alex thinks he wouldn't be all that surprised if Max managed to still win. It feels otherworldly sometimes, living with him, watching him race. He's got a feel for the car that Alex and George can't quite reach, a fiery determination that seems to fuel him further than the rest of them.

Max takes the medicine like a shot. He's not even complaining about the taste anymore, like he did on the first day.

Alex tries to pretend the sinking in his heart is anything but cold, nauseous fear.

------

George is on the beanbag in the back. The bookstore knows he's stressed, and they'd mentioned having a potluck soon, to celebrate some arbitrary holiday George has never heard of. He's hoping there will be enough leftovers for him to sneak some home.

Right now, his priorities are elsewhere, anxiety skating up his fingers and arms, trembling as he types at the keyboard. He doesn't know what else to do.

They'll be out of medicine soon, and Max isn't getting any better, and there's a race coming up.

He hugs his knees tight to his chest, nervously shaking. He can't make it go away— the twitchy, nervous moments that have snuck into his everyday life. Every movement has to be worth it, every action justifiable.

He's going to throw up.

He sends the email.

------

Alex drives them to the race. Mostly because Max can barely make it to his feet, eyes glassy and perpetually sweaty, hair damp at the edges. They keep waiting for him to call it off, for him to admit that he can't do it, but somehow...

He's standing, moving like every breath hurts. Alex has to repeat himself two or three times before Max can hear him, and they can both hear each individual breath.

It sounds more like a rattle than a wheeze, and Alex and George have quietly, without ever speaking about it, taken up watching him in shifts. Sometimes the rattle pauses, and Alex feels everything inside of him plummet with fear until Max takes in another painful breath.

He's sure George also wakes up in a cold sweat, lying frozen to listen to the sound of Max's continued breathing. He's not sure George knows about the blood.

He doesn't have the heart to tell him.

------

George doesn't want to open the email. It's sitting in his inbox like a ticking bomb, because if he doesn't open it, it can't hurt him.

Can't let him down, can't shatter him into a million pieces, can't resign him to a fate of watching Max die in front of him.

He's not stupid. Max isn't getting better. Not without help, actual help, help they can't get. They can't go to a hospital, because the hospital will ask for an adult that they don't have.

They live in a precarious house of cards, and George is watching it wobble dangerously in front of him, growing increasingly unsteady with each struggling breath Max manages.

He can't possibly race— but that's not something they've said out loud. Alex is driving them, and George has a plan.

He opens the email.

From: Fernando Alonso

To: George William

Subject: Re: Why you should lie to the government

George. I am not sure how you got my personal email, and I do not want to know. Your PowerPoint was very engaging.

I will not pretend to be your brother's legal guardian. However, I have the location of a clinic that will see him and keep their mouths shut.

I have attached their contact details.

- Fernando Alonso, FIA Formula 1 World Champion [2005, 2006]

He swallows, opening the email attachment. There's an address, and a list of names. If they detour now—

"Alex, Alex pull over."

Max has fallen back asleep in the passenger seat. His breathing is worryingly shallow and wheezing, and he's both pale and flush, chest barely moving.

Alex pulls over.

------

The detour takes them six hours and more gas than they can afford, but they're almost there. Max hasn't woken up once.

George calls Max's team, apologizing profusely about missing the race, that Max would be there if he could. They're far more understanding than he expected them to be, mentioning that they're glad he's getting rest, that they'd also been worried.

They know Max would be dead before he missed a race. It scares George just how close they're getting.

He has one of the bottles of water uncapped, nudging gently at Max's shoulder. His skin is waxy, and he occasionally shakes with small shivers.

"Max."

He never responds on the first try anymore. George shoves at his shoulder a little harder, fingers tight around the water.

"Hey, wake up, we're almost there."

Usually, that would at least get something. A flutter of his lashes, an attempt to try and drag himself to the surface. George blinks back the hot press behind his eyes, trying to keep his voice steady. He doesn't want to alarm Alex, who's been driving the entire time.

"Max."

His voice cracks. Alex hears it, because of course he does.

"How is he, Georgie?"

George isn't sure he can answer without falling apart, and the panic is starting to seep in through the corners, crawling up his lungs, strangling his heart.

"Max get up. Don't be— come on, don't be lazy."

He's never called Max lazy a day in his life.

"Georgie, hey, how is it?"

Alex sounds worried from the front seat. George presses two shaking fingers below Max's jaw, resting his head featherlight on his shoulder. He doesn't actually know how to check for a pulse, only that this is what they do on TV, on the medical dramas Alex likes.

Max is still breathing, but there's a low, watery sound to it.

"George."

Alex sounds more insistent now, but George doesn't know what to tell him.

"Drive faster."

------

The clinic is a nice building, until George runs inside out of breath, frantically trying to explain that Fernando Alonso sent them, that his brother is sick in the trailer, that he's not waking up.

Max disappears into the back of the building, and he and Alex aren't allowed to follow.

Alex tugs him tight to his chest, one hand shaking as he tries to pet at the back of George's head, still trying to be strong for them both. He can feel his hot tears drop onto his hair.

------

The clinic gets one good luck at Alex and George thirty minutes later and takes them into the back too. They're both put on fluids, and the clinic was apparently planning to cater lunch, so they'll get some extra for them as well.

They're still not allowed to see Max, but Alex has his fingers locked with George's.

"Georgie."

George sniffs, still trying to pretend like he hasn't been crying.

"What?"

Alex squeezes his fingers.

"Who'd you call? To get this?"

George has been a steel trap about how he'd managed to get Max a doctor. He'd told Alex very solemnly that he had a place for them, but he needed Alex to trust him.

So far, he has. Still, George shakes his head, frowning.

"Doesn't matter."

Alex actually thinks it matters quite a bit— not that it does him any good, because George clams up, refusing to tell him anything. He confirms it wasn't a gang, he's not indebted for life, and that it was a stroke of luck, but he won't tell Alex anything else.

By the time the food shows up, a catered table of salad and fruits, roasted meats and vegetables, Alex has accepted that he's not getting an answer out of him.

------

Max has pneumonia. It's bad, apparently. It wouldn't ever have cleared up on his own, and the knowledge sits like a stone in George's gut.

It would've killed him. Slowly, relentlessly suffocating him. There wasn't any kind of over the counter medicine they could've gotten, no amount of cough drops, no miracle words to fix it.

Max is still asleep when the clinic lets them see him. There's an oxygen mask across his face, stickers on his chest attached to colorful cords that lead up to a monitor. There's another one wrapped around his finger, and he has an IV in, running up to bag of fluids above his head.

George tugs his chair closer and gingerly rests his head on Max's thigh. He's always felt untouchable, above everything else, stronger than anyone else George knows.

He doesn't feel untouchable now. He feels fragile, and George wants to curl around him, wants to protect him from everything the way Max does for him, but he can't. Not against this.

Alex's hand rubs softly against his back as he cries quietly.

------

12 years later:

Charles bumps Max's hip with his own as they walk closer to the cooldown room, grinning. The podium endorphins are starting to hit, and he's ready to chug the entire bottle of blissfully cool water waiting for him.

George is ahead of them, already scrubbing a towel through his hair, cap in one hand. He's grinning too, the special wide one reserved just for Alex and Max.

Max yanks his balaclava off, slamming his fist against his chest as he coughs briefly. Charles winces in sympathy, but George darts over immediately, nudging Max out of view of the cameras. He's gone ashen, eyes wide as he checks over Max frantically.

"Christ, Georgie— it is the fucking humidity here, always, you know it makes my lungs act up. Chill."

"Do you need an inhaler? Aleix keeps one in his bag."

Max levels an impressively unimpressed face at George.

"So does Rupert, because they are my lungs. If I needed it, I would be using it. Seriously, go sit. I'm fine."

Charles quirks his head.

"You have asthma?"

Max wrinkles his nose, rolling his eyes as he grabs his own water.

"No. George is just being a worrywart."

George glares, jaw tensed.

"Sorry, I think it's fair that it makes me anxious."

Max sighs, gripping George by the hand and pulling him into a tight hug. Charles doesn't catch what he says, too quiet for anyone but George to hear, but he sees the way his shoulders relax, leaning their heads together briefly.

He didn't know Max had problems with his lungs. Or at least some kind of problem, if it's earned him George's anxiety. Then again, George is anxious about a million things at any given moment— Charles has never met anyone with the ability to juggle as many problem as George and manage to be equally as stressed about every single one of them.

He wonders if Mercedes has designed a ThunderShirt for him yet.

Max manages to appease George, and Charles attempts to put it out of his mind. He'll ask Max about it later, when there aren't hundreds of cameras capturing their every movement.

For now, he has a podium to get to.