#calamity frost

[lanabenikosdoormat]

collection of some of my worst w101 memes

[boxdstars]

the wizarding world multiverse

i always have to wonder how HL/HP wizards would fare meeting literally any other variant of the mage class, and with my favorite childhood mmo brainrot coming back tenfold, i dont have to wait for the answer

[kotalefanzu]

[worrywart-ish]

the way that despite everything that happened, despite the divorce and the arguing and the bitterness and the hurt, loquatius still keeps lying to the rest of the ring of brass, still keeps laerryn's secrets, still keeps protecting her

[calamity-talvi]

[anitalenia]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒆!𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒆!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. ₊ ⊹ ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ✧˚ ༘

— 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖘 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ 𝘥𝘤 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

˚☽˚｡⋆ 𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑. The silence was too loud and his room was too cold — his arms and torso were left bare to freeze thanks to you (he was too much of a gentleman to snatch the blanket off you anyway). The heavy rain smacked into his windows pointedly and purposefully; with every loud drop it made his lip twitch in annoyance.

The air was sharp and frosted, it burned his nose when he breathed in too deeply and it made him wonder if Alfred forgot to turn the heat on — better yet if you turned it off, knowing you hated to fall asleep too warm and Alfred was too meticulous and thorough to forget to turn it off at all.

It was dingy and dismal, dark and dreary just as Bruce preferred it to be, so little going on for him to be so awake and agitated but yet… maybe that was just it. The silence, the boredom, the macabre sense of monotony on an unfamiliarly quiet Saturday night — so little going on it was driving him mad.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling with his arms laid out on his shirtless stomach, restless but tired. His limbs were sore and heavy, his body bruised and battered, yet his dark eyes couldn’t help but flicker over to his window ever so often when he thought about what was on the other side of it — the source of his calamity.

He’d stare through the droplets of water at the blurred kaleidoscope of lights as they shone onto his floor, not eagerly per say just habitually; Bruce seldom ever saw a peaceful night in, so unaccustomed with the sweet domesticity of crawling under the covers at 10:30 pm and kissing your lover goodnight — he was usually so busy, for Gotham never slept and crime never seemed to stop.

No, Bruce couldn’t sleep; his thoughts a morbid mess of batman-esque obligation that made it impossible to close his eyes.

You were a different matter entirely as Bruce turned his head to look at you; snuggled up on your side of the large bed with his thick, black comforter surrounding you, breathing gently on the muscle of his shoulder and sleeping soundly, beautifully.

His pretty little wife.

His eyes looked over the sharp shadows of your sleeping beauty. From your wispy eyelashes, to your cute little nose, to your softly parted lips, a soft smile adorning the corner of his mouth as he did — he couldn’t help it.

Your hair was frizzy and tangled messily around your head, your soft breaths ever so often stuttered with an adorable snore but Bruce couldn’t help but think how beautiful you looked anyway as he raked his eyes over your face fondly.

As he did he realized how grateful he was that you didn’t need to worry yourself with the things that he did; you were too innocent for the cruelty of Gotham City, too pure and divine; an angel wrapped in wicked tapestry.

Even now, in your pale white pajamas on black silken sheets you looked too fragile for them, like they could wrap their shadowy arms around you and swallow you whole — just as the city could so easily do if he wasn’t there to protect you.

If Batman wasn’t there to save you.

I don’t care, Bruce. I love you anyway.

That’s what you’d always say when Bruce would settle down in bed beside you with a heavy sigh and whisper why do you stay?, on those long nights when he’d come home brutally battered and fatigued. After a night of being heavily reminded to the real dangers waiting just outside his door like a pack of feral dogs and how easily they could ensnare you in their jaws.

I don’t care. I love you.

He loved you too, he really very did.

With that final thought, Bruce was still caught staring at you with a soft look of love on his face when you gently fluttered your eyes open, your body sensing his awareness before your mind could.

He watched patiently as you groggily looked around before eventually meeting his gaze, his eyes getting even softer at the adorable look of confusion on your face.

Your eyes tiredly looked back up at him despite the darkness surrounding you two, able to see his frowned lips and dark eyes clearly, “Bruce? Why are you still awake?”

Your voice was raspy and tired, a small yawn following your statement that made pity tear at his heart for waking you up.

Bruce ran his hazel eyes over your face some more before he responded, unable to stop cherishing you.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He simply responded, voice low and intimate, words spoken in the bare space between his lips and yours.

You settled into your silken pillow with a small huff, eyes focused more on Bruce’s face now as the grogginess gradually melted away and your vision became clearer — the silence and rain thrumming calmly around you. It wasn’t a normal night in Gotham City without the rain.

“Well, did you try?” You teased just as quietly as he, smiling a little at the chuckle he gave you in response.

“Yes, of course I tried. It clearly didn’t go as planned.” Bruce mumbled back with a faint snicker, speaking just loud enough so you can hear him over the rain pattering on the windows, a small smile now quirked on his sharp lips.

You hummed in acknowledgment, eyes looking between his, knowing Bruce well enough to know when he was lying.

“I don’t really believe you. What’s keeping you awake?” You sighed with furrowed brows, resting your head right next to his bare shoulder to look up at him better — maybe if you pouted in that cute way he liked he’d tell you honestly.

Bruce faltered at that, looking down at you with a heavy heart; he couldn’t possibly tell you that he felt guilty laying in bed with you when he should’ve been out there, out there protecting those who needed him. But the fact of the matter, one he couldn’t argue with, was that you needed him as well.

He couldn’t possibly tell you how conflicted he really was but probably shouldn’t have been; two parts of him sharing the same mind and body but each with entirely different obligations — the irreconcilable duality that was he.

One part of him was Bruce Wayne; millionaire, orphan, husband, you needed that side of him, you deserved to have him for at least one night. But he was also Batman, and Gotham always needed him.

He was haunted with a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde but instead of one side lusting for murderous intent his alter ego longed for rightful justice in the grandest city of injustice. Batman was the only one who could live harmoniously in the dark, the only one capable of doing the things he did. It was an enervative dichotomous life of matrimonial duties and moral obligation.

There were two men sharing the same halves of the same soul and Bruce couldn’t decide which heart to listen to without making the other one feel guilty.

“Just work stuff, honey. It’s nothing you need to worry about, trust me.” Bruce dismissed after a short moment, shaking his head gently with a reassuring smile on his thin lips — like that could convince you of anything.

You narrowed your eyes at him slightly, registering the slight blue bags under his eyes and the crippled fault in his smile, all small clues of his devious, well-intentioned deception.

“Which work stuff?” You prodded carefully, raising a brow at him as suspicions already began to brew in the back of your mind as to what he was really referring.

Bruce chuckled again at that, loving your caring and inquisitive nature any day but wishing you’d just drop it already. He really couldn’t bear weighing any of the pressure he carried on your delicate shoulders, fearing you’d crumble under the weight of it.

“Really, it’s…” Bruce looked back up at the ceiling in indecision, searching for the right words, “it’s nothing I can’t handle, okay?” He looked back down at you with confidence, his voice firmer than before but still softly spoken to get his point across.

You narrowed your eyes at him with that, knowing it was a response you fully expected but were still annoyed to hear.

You were aware that he was lying to you but also aware that he wouldn’t tell you no matter how much you begged him; he never liked to tell you anything about his Batman related problems and it greatly frustrated you for some reason.

As his wife didn’t you deserve to know at least something? You were fully aware of what you were getting yourself into when you agreed to his long awaited proposal. After all, you didn’t just marry Bruce Wayne but you married Batman as well… you could handle the truth even if he didn’t seem to think so.

You sighed anyway, unable to mask your irritation towards him for keeping you in the dark. Your lack of sleep didn’t help the influx of annoyance either.

You took your head off his warm shoulder and went to turn around away from him, your fatigue easily irritating you more than usual.

Bruce licked his lips and sighed, having already disappointed you in an attempt to protect you; a small price to pay if it meant your pretty little head wasn’t clogged with constant, pained disquietude like his was.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” You muttered more to yourself than anything, fussing with the blanket you had wrapped yourself in during your slumber and now seemed to be stuck in.

Before you could fully turn around though Bruce laid a warm, consoling hand on your forearm that made you pause, “Hey, hey, wait.”

You lingered a moment at the feel of it before turning back around to face him, expression a little more sour than before — tired and impatient.

Bruce felt guilt swirl in his stomach at the look on your face, knowing he was disappointing you but also knowing it was for the best.

He kept the hand on your arm, leaning up and wrapping it around your back to bring you into his chest, his other arm going behind your neck and tucking you into his side like you were his most precious doll — you were of course.

You didn’t fight him even if you wanted to, enjoying the warmth he provided and the safety you subconsciously sought out snuck tight in between his arms.

“Bruce.” You grumbled anyway as you settled against him, his arm releasing you for a moment to pick the blanket up and over his waist so there was nothing separating you two from each other.

You felt hard plains of muscle underneath you when he did, a flustered pinkness appearing on your cheeks, then slowly crept in hot embarrassment at the fact that your husband’s carefully structured body that you’ve seen many many times still managed to make you shy.

You melted into his side, albeit a bit stiffly as you were still annoyed with him and wanted to blatantly show it, your arms stubbornly slotted against your chest to separate yourself from laying completely on his.

When Bruce was done adjusting the blanket, the bed moving as he did, he settled still and looked down at you with those kind eyes of his you loved so much, the ones that always flustered you when you stared back into them for too long.

The arm behind your neck pushed you closer to him while he took his right hand and wrapped it around your chin, his palm so warm and big against your jaw that you couldn’t help but sigh in submission.

Bruce gently forced you to look up at him, his eyes staring down at you softly but earnestly.

“Alright, hey, don’t be like that with me. If there was something I thought you really needed to know I’d tell you. Otherwise, it’s best I keep that side of myself as private from you as possible. I hate the thought of you being in danger because of me, because I exposed you to that side of myself you didn’t need to see.” Bruce whispered genuinely, minty breath fanning over your nose as you stared up at him, seemingly calm now and even just a little regretful for being so upset with him in the first place.

“Just give it a rest honey, alright? I promise you, it’s nothing you need to worry about. Do I ever go back on my promises, hmm?” He said sweetly, looking down at you with insistent but loving eyes in the expectation of you responding.

You paused for a moment as you registered his words, still curious to know what he was really thinking about because you just couldn’t help it. You worried for him, wished he’d be more open with you so you could help him in whatever way you could. However, you also didn’t want to stress him out any more than he already was either, your mind picturing all the purple bruises littering his beautiful body pitifully.

So, you just shook your head like a scolded child, “No… you don’t.” You’d have to bite your tongue for now, pouting up at him cutely — Bruce was just too sweet to argue with sometimes and he knew it.

Bruce gave you a charming smile, gray shadow washed over the angles of his straight nose and narrow cheeks. His brown hair was more unkempt than usual, wavy tendrils of it fallen around his face. He looked so handsome, more tranquil this way, as he leaned down and gave you a peck on the forehead, a sweet hum sounding in the back of his throat.

“That’s my girl.”

You sighed happily, giving in to him completely now and wrapping an arm around his chest so you could burrow against him; he wrapped his arm around you tighter instinctually, enjoying the feel of you against him as he looked up at the ceiling in content.

Nothing was better than being with you, so much so that Batman himself felt satiated from his lonely perch in the back of Bruce’s mind.

You stared out the large, arched window on his wall for a few quiet moments, watching as the rain quickly fell down the glass one by one as Bruce softly traced his textured fingertips along the spine of your back.

“It always rains, you ever notice that?” You murmured tiredly against his skin, in a daze from the tingling sensation on your skin as he caressed your back in gentle, loving touches.

Bruce looked away from you a moment when you spoke to spare the window a disinterested glance, “What? You don’t like the rain, Mrs. Wayne?” He teased you, his spirits higher than before as he looked back down at you even if you couldn’t see, his nose filled with the sweet smelling shampoo you used — coconut and vanilla.

You smiled a little — you loved when he called you that.

“Well of course you do. You’re Batman, you’re supposed to like depressing things.” You spoke with a smile, only teasing him as your eyes drifted shut from the comfort of his body against yours, muscles melting against the black sheets nestled between his own.

Bruce chucked at that, his hand ceasing its calming motion, “oh, is that right?”

You hummed with an amused smile on your lips, nodding your head, “mmhmm, yes sir.”

Bruce scoffed playfully at that, looking down at you with a fond playfulness in his eyes before gently taking his muscled arm out from underneath your head.

You lifted your head up curiously to look at him, wishing for the moment to not be disturbed, only to be gently rolled over so that Bruce was laid on top of you and you were now sunken into the inky black abyss of cushions beneath him. Your lips parted in a slight gasp, staring up at him with those beautiful eyes he loved so much in surprise.

“Now now, Mrs. Wayne, don’t go calling me that unless you plan on doing something about it, it’s in bad taste.”

You giggled at that, a joyous and twinkling sound that made Bruce tense up, his eyes darting towards your lips and his heart quickening in his chest. You always had such an effect on him even if you didn’t know it.

“How ‘bout you do something about it then?” You whispered up to him sensually, voice low and playful. You could feel the air surrounding the little bubble you two found yourselves in change heavily as you ran your hands softly over his midsection, his light skin cold and soft, muscles hard and firm as you traced your fingers delicately over each individual ab until Bruce was twitching at the feeling.

He glanced down at your hands hotly, already worked up from your minuscule touches alone, his skin tingling from the sensation as a familiar heat started to twirl in his lower tummy.

He looked back down at you, eyes more hooded now but just as eagerly as rain pounded on the windows somewhere in the background — you couldn’t focus on anything but the sound of his warm breaths and the gradual throbbing between your own legs.

“Yeah? Would you like if I did something about it, Mrs. Wayne?” Your husband mumbled huskily, a teasing smirk on his lips as he lowered down closer until his face was just above yours, his big arms pressed into the pillow on each side of your head so you were surrounded by him.

He could see the way you inhaled at the name, felt the way your nails dug into his skin for a subtle, fleeting moment. He always knew all the right ways to turn you on, knew all the right words to say to make you melt in his hands like warm syrup — you were certainly just as sweet.

You stared up at your husband with heavy breaths, mouth watering for a taste of him, eyes blown black with love and unabashed want as he sat in the reflection of your irises. Your skin felt hot and your thighs tightened around his waist, arms aimlessly tracing the ridges of muscle that coated Bruce’s front; it was in an innocently naive way now, so unaware of how badly it was affecting Bruce himself as your initial confidence dwindled down to need.

You impatiently waited for him to make a move, give into the desire you both so clearly felt as your eyes ran over his shirtless body and perfect face in the mean time. With every exhale of breath out of his mouth you found yourself inhaling it back in, breathing his air and smelling of Bruce’s aftershave, Bruce’s shampoo, it was all just Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

He had completely overwhelmed your senses with his smell, his presence, his very existence and it was making it hard to think clearly — only he plagued your thoughts so much it made your fingertips buzz to feel more of him.

It was in moments like these where the sheer size of Bruce was brought to your attention; he was much more muscular than you, all sharp edges and ridges of pure muscle and destruction that could destroy anything he put his hands on.

It was ironic to you, how those same hands that broke bones were the same hands that caressed your skin in the softest of touches, in the softest of ways, irrevocably incapable of breaking you.

Bruce believed he was all carnal ruination — hands made to break and fists made to destroy. He believed he had a dark side in him he couldn’t control, that Batman was the outlet for all the frustration he felt towards the injustices of the city and how easily it corrupted the lightest of souls. He believed he was made to hurt, to cause ruin — a reason why he never took a single human soul no matter how rotten it was.

But you believed he didn’t give himself enough credit, which is exactly why moments like these were so important to remind him.

You swallowed nervously now as you looked back into his eyes, your fingers faltering in their movement as they stilled on the angles of his hips, right outside the tight band of his black sweatpants.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne, that’s exactly what I want.” You whispered back up to him in a velvety soft tone, eyes looking at his pink lips and then flickering back up between his hazel irises lustfully; the look in them was too intense for you to handle but you sufficed, your heart thrumming passionately under your skin at the attention.

Bruce almost melted at the name, just as affected by the title as you were, lowering his face down until his nose was touching yours, his lips hovering right above your own.

“That’s my girl…” Bruce breathed thickly against your lips, his eyes flickering to your mouth as yours did the same to his, your mouth salivating for a taste of him.

A silent beat passed as you both just stayed in that position, locked into each other’s loving gazes and gentle touches, his lips just a whisper away from yours screaming to have you, to taste you. It was intimate and warm, quiet, your body feeling fuzzy and alight with something similar to deep admiration and not so far from a deep, shared love for each other.

There was no playfulness about it now.

It was then, when the tension had sizzled into flame did Bruce finally lean down and kiss you, his lips soft and cold, so contrasting from the warmth he sought in yours as the rain pattered on the windows and your angelic essence drowned him further into the depths of you.

You moaned softly, feeling relief flood through you as your hands gripped his hips for some sort of anchor off the clouds you seemed to be floating on. Bruce kissed you lovingly, a characteristic act of tenderness as he found his own needy noises hum in the back of his throat.

It was sweet and slow, lips careful and gentle against each other between delicate sighs and hums. He tasted of peppermint and the faint drawl of bourbon, his tongue damping your lips and your shared saliva wet on your mouths.

He seperated from you just for a short moment, your lips feeling the loss but not for too long before he was on you once more with a fervor, tongue molding between your lips forcefully and sucking yours into the warmth of his mouth.

You whined at the sudden confidence within him, lips barely moving against his as he took control of your movements and gave you no other option but to take what he gave you — his lips and his tongue tangling with yours messily as sensual rumbles sounded deep from within in his chest.

He brought a hand down from the pillow and intertwined it in your hair, tangling his thick fingers into your roots and pulling hard enough to arouse you further. It made your back arch and lips part in a salacious gasp.

Bruce found himself unable to part from your delectable taste for long, taking that moment to reconnect his damp lips to the skin between your chin and shoulder. He forced your head back as he kissed your neck, the cold air hitting every damp spot in a pleasurable tingling sensation that had your nails digging into his abs.

“Bruce…” You sighed oh so sweetly in a distracted state of mind, just wanting to say his name and have him hear how good he was making you feel with his simple kisses alone — a feat he always accomplished anytime he did.

The praise didn’t fall on deaf ears but he was too preoccupied with the sound of your heavy breaths and whines to really pay attention, too love drunk on the smoothness of your skin falling over his tongue as he licked his way down to your collarbone. He released his grip on your hair and his hands made idle work in caressing their way down your body to the hem of your white pajama top.

His hands were eager, so familiar on the curves of your body as they slid back up to your chest, hands big and desperate as they tightly gripped your bosom for a fleeting moment that had you moaning at the sting — he was handsy, unable to get enough of you and the way your body perfectly slotted between the strength and ridges of his hands.

His cock was already hard in his slacks, poking against your thigh absentmindedly as his hands dug into the center of your top and adamantly ripped it right down the middle. The buttons flew over the bed and your tits spilled out of the ripped material in a gorgeous ripple of flesh that had Bruce groaning at the sight.

“So beautiful, so gorgeous, just fucking perfect…” He mumbled in a lustful daze, more to himself as a factual observation, his hands now gripping your waist, eager mouth leaning down and making quick work to lap at your chest in the way he knew you liked.

You giggled dreamily at that, feeling fluttery and lightheaded at the praise, body warm and melting like a cube of butter on top of his silk bed sheets. He was always capable of making you melt with just a few loving words and caresses, another one of his talents.

Your hands had found their way into his thick hair, massaging at the loose strands when you decided it was impossible to stay still from the buzzing running through your pores.

Your pussy throbbed in your pajama shorts, painfully so, stomach in tight knots at the sparks shooting down to your core from his ministrations.

He found himself enthralled by the feeling of your tit in his mouth, fervently sucking on the skin there as his hands gripped into your waist so tight in a subconsciously possessive hold so you could never leave. Maybe it was the semblance of Batman himself leaking out from under tight fingertips, a degree of fierce protection in the way he held you underneath him, unable to be taken or destroyed by the same evil he fought almost every night.

You were here with him, with him and all of his burdens for the rest of your lives.

“So gorgeous…”

Bruce was lost in the pleasure you helplessly moaned in his ears, feeling his own mutual desire swirling in his tummy and thrumming through his skin that made every touch feel like fire, every kiss an ember from the flame until you and him were intertwined ash lost in the black smoke.

He loved you, his pretty wife, always so supportive and forgiving in the moments he definitely didn’t deserve it.

He picked his head up, panting and lips wet, your chest littered in pink marks and damp with his spit as Bruce licked his lips, hungry for more already.

You looked at him in all his glory, admiringly, just as enamored with him as he was with you as your warm hands slid down to his cheeks. Your own were flushed pink and feverish, breath warm and heavy as you lovingly ran your palm over his sharp cheekbone. His skin was soft, smooth and tepid under your dainty fingertips.

You gently caressed the faint purple of a bruise with your thumb, right in the hollow of his eye.

Bruce leaned into the tender action for a spared moment of comfort, his eyes hooded and twinkling in the dark as he breathed heavily against your lips. He kept finding himself absent in the presence of your beauty, staring at your face and your lips and being so thankful he had you at all.

“So beautiful…” He breathed gingerly, eyes looking over your face like he was seeing you for the first time — no, he was selfish in his blatant admiration of your magnificence, his heart throbbing almost painfully in his love for you as he watched the soft corners of your mouth twist into a shy smile at your devotees idolatrous attention.

He leaned down after a fond moment of your thumb tracing his cheekbone, after he was satisfied with his generous intake of your prettiness. He pecked an affectionate kiss on your smiling lips before dipping his head down and laying several kisses to your neck once more.

You bit your lip at the sensitive feeling, closing your eyes, lost in the feel of him, as he pampered you with doting kisses all the way down to your ribcage, his hands now playing with the hem of your shorts but not too boldly as to take them off quite yet.

“You’re everything, you know that? I could never imagine my life without you… you’re perfect, so perfect.” He rubbed your stomach adoringly, “Your body is perfect, so beautiful, I can’t believe you ever married me…” He mumbled in that rough voice of his, vulnerable in the night, in the moment when you couldn’t see him all the way clearly but he could see all of you just fine.

You could feel another smile playing on your lips — not that it had even left — the heavy sensation of happy tears casting a light sheen over your eyes. He was the perfect one, he was the gorgeous and beautiful counterpart of you that didn’t seem to realize his own value. You only wished you had the poetic spark in yourself that he had, then you’d be able to voice it properly. Still, his praise made your heart swell as he took your left hand and kissed the diamond ring on your finger amorously.

“Oh, Bruce…” You spoke in a hushed manner, voice wobbling from the overwhelming infatuation you had for the man, so thankful and grateful for such a man as wonderful as he. In your eyes the sudden romance had come out of nowhere, but it was still greatly appreciated as it caused your voice to thicken with the downpour of love it had spiked.

He looked into your eyes as he warmly kissed your palm, lips quirked slightly, eliciting another tender hearted smile from you. He then let you settle your hands back on his shoulders as he slotted himself between your hips, the affectionate moment lingering in the air as you pet his wide shoulders.

You were laid on your back, smooth thighs spread to accommodate his size between them, pajama top ripped down the middle in fragmented material hanging off your shoulders, your tits pooled on your chest and wet with his kisses. Your hair was tangled, fanned around your head, lips pink and plushy from all his salacious kisses, your eyes glittering erotically bright.

Despite that, you were not uncomfortable to be so exposed to him, exposed in a way you’d only ever be with him. You knew he would never judge you nor your body, that he loved you and all your freckles and scars and all the blemishes you considered imperfections — he loved them all. The only part of you not seen were covered by the shorts Bruce was already eager to take off.

You were beautiful to him, ethereal even, just as he said you were an angel, something divine and pure, a holy deity completely out of this world that transcended the mortal plane he was bound to, letting his lowly lips and hands cherish your merciful soul and body. Just oh so perfect.

“I love you…” You whispered, pathetically cute, down to him, a whisper wafting into his ears soft and fragile as if you were scared he wouldn’t say it back — he’d say it everyday for a thousand years if he had the blessing of living that long with you. Your nails dug into his shoulders, pulsing with need, as you smiled down at him sweetly.

“I love you more, Mrs. Wayne… I love you more…” He breathed hotly against your stomach, already leaning down and peppering sugarcoated kisses along your pelvis, so much closer to where you really needed him that the throbbing had become unbearably intense, wetness soaking your inner thighs and cream colored shorts. You felt your body shiver at the title once more.

You swallowed shakily as Bruce moved down, his daft fingers hooking into the band of your shorts and gently shoving them down to your knees as his longing lips reached the band of your lavender laced panties.

Your thighs tightened around his head as cool air hit your wet center, your body sensitive and pulsing heavy notes of desire straight into your pussy that made it hard to keep your head up and eyes open.

You just needed him, needed him and his expert mouth to bring you some sort of relief. Your toes were curled already, pussy clenching around nothing and spewing out clear juices that only damped your underwear further. You tangled your fingers into his hair heatedly, resisting the urge to shove his head down where you really wanted him.

Bruce swallowed hungrily, staring at your panty-clad pussy with dark eyes. He could smell your sweetness on his nose, the rain pattering on the windows still and the room still dark as sin but he could see his heaven clear as day, hypnotized by the patch of wetness in your panties, molded to the shape of your pussy lips and begging to be ripped apart.

His eyes flickered up to you, feeling your grabby fingers tangled in his hair as your thighs tensed back and forth around his neck.

Your head was barely held up, eyes hooded and sparkling with a form of lustful desperation as you stared down at him. Your chest bobbing up and down heavily and your skin radiant and smooth, the city lights from his window blurredly reflected in the fat of your cheeks. You already looked destroyed, like he had just fucked your brains out yet he really hadn’t done a thing.

“Bruce, come on…” You whined in a delicate plea when he made no movement further, hands barely pulling his hair but it was hard enough for his skin to prickle in pleasure, a hiss leaving his lips, just hard enough to get your message across.

He snickered at that, lips shiny and jaw chiseled, his face so sharp yet soft at the same time. His beauty greatly perplexed you for how could a mere mortal be so fucking handsome? He was though, he was strong and big and riddled with scars and imperfections yet the accumulation of all those little faults are what made him flawless.

Bruce himself felt the throbs of impatience nestled in his stomach, burrowed in his heart, buzzing at his fingertips, as he looked down at your pussy once more just inches from his mouth, both wet and watering for the other.

“Be patient, honey. I just wanna look at ‘cha first. You’re so pretty, dripping wet for me…” He had the audacity to murmur in that cocky voice of his, yet simultaneously genuine and stunned at the observation as his hands rubbed your thighs, being sure to heartily press into the tissue in that way he knew you liked.

You couldn’t help but pull his hair some more, bursting at the seams for some sort of pleasure you feared it would boil over and you’d explode. You felt frustration settle through your veins once more like molten lava, your skin tensing and thighs aching from their tight grip around his neck.

“Bruce, no more teasing, please? Just please…” You moaned and whined like a stubborn girl, voice thick with need and painful yearning that made his cock twitch in his pants. You almost sounded broken, voice fragmented with a certain torment only his mouth and fingers could appease.

He licked his lips, feeling desire swell in his lower tummy at the state of you — already so incapable of any thought but the memory of his cock inside you, the feeling of his fingers drilling into your tight hole as he spat and licked on your sensitive clit. It was all you could think about, all you could picture in your mind as your head laid back on the pillows and you scooted down the bed until your pussy was right in his face.

The blanket had long since been forgotten, bunched around his hips and aiding as a nice cushion for his abdomen hunched over the end of the bed.

Bruce felt himself chuckle huskily at your shameless neediness, his big hands stopping on your plush inner thighs as he settled down between your legs on the soft mattress, getting himself comfortable for you.

You breathed heavily, eyes closed as you laid back on the silken pillow with your face crumbled so cutely. He was such a tease even when he was meant to be sweet, even when he was insistent on being a good husband who doted on his wife whenever he could — you guessed growing up rich gave him that arrogant edge.

Your stomach was knotted so tight, your skin hot and shivering for some sort of touch as your fingers dug themselves into the roots of his damp, brown hair. You needed him so bad, but your pussy needed him worse.

You felt your thighs tickle as Bruce lightly traced the pads of his fingers down, down, down until he was at the crook of your inner thigh, his right hand digging into the flesh of your leg like he himself couldn’t hold back from you anymore.

Bruce didn’t bother voicing any teasing quips or dirty statements, knowing you were so out of it you wouldn’t listen to him anyway. Every fiber of your being was hooked on his touches, hyper aware of the spots his fingers trickled across, eager for some degree of pleasure that would make this painful waiting period worth it.

He swallowed down the salvia pooling in his throat, so hungry for a taste of you, starved almost. His index finger hooked into your panties and delicately pushed them out of the way until they were bunched in the crook of your thigh. His eyes were met with your soaking wet slit in all its glory.

White, creamy arousal stuck to your panties and dripped down your pulsing hole into the crack of your ass, sheer white beads of cum dribbled down your needy hole that would escape his tongue before he even got a proper taste of you yet.

The cool air made you whine behind closed lips, your voice high pitched and desperate now, your fingers tighter in his hair as your hips subtly bucked forward. The beautiful noises you were making made Bruce’s jaw clench.

You were glistening, shiny with arousal and the strings of impenitent want, evidence of your desire and love for him as he found himself inhaling the scent of you once more.

You smelt so good. He found himself groaning at the musky sweetness, his finger still hooked around the crotch of your panties as his other hand tightly gripped your thigh — you moaned softly at the pressure, sure that there would be the faint yellow bruises of his adoring fingerprints pressed into your skin tomorrow. A charming reminder of the evening when they blossomed.

You felt your core clench once more, thighs tensing up as wetness shone in his greedy irises.

Bruce was unable to wait any longer, his mouth salivating and his eyes blown black as he pressed his tongue into your wet hole and licked a bold stripe all the way up to your buzzing clit, the taste of your arousal pooled on his tongue and already dripping down the sharp corners of his mouth.

You couldn’t stop the loud moan from echoing in the room, euphoric sounding as sweet sparks went off all over your skin at the long awaited contact. Your fingers tightly anchored themselves in Bruce’s hair as his tongue went up and down your folds, gathering as much of your wetness in his mouth as he could.

His hands swiftly dug themselves into your hips to hold you down once you started writhing in his hold. His tongue forcefully circled your clit in sharp wet strokes, deep rumbled moans escaping his chest that vibrated the sensitivity of it and only made more wetness gush out of you and soak his chin.

You tasted so good, so fucking good; he wanted nothing more than to be drowned in your essence, choking on everything you gave him until his belly was full and even then he wouldn’t be satisfied, he’d never be satisfied. He was like a monster, chasing every little drop of cum that pebbled out of your clenching hole with a forked tongue, greedy and carnivorous like you were the only nectar he ever wanted to taste again.

His tongue lapped your pussy once more as you gasped, back arched and toes clenched as he thrusted his tongue into you over and over, wet and messily as your juices shimmered on his cheeks and lips.

No, he decided, the beast within him would never be tamed.

You bucked away from his mouth in a pathetic attempt to free yourself from the overwhelming pleasure, but Bruce held you down with his strong arms, staring up at you with furrowed brows of concentration as his lips molded over your puffy clit once more, swollen from need and his relentless licking.

He was nothing if not devoted, devoted to your elegance, to your holy figure and endless love as he lapped at you desperately, his tongue swirling your clit as the fabric of your panties tickled his nose. He couldn’t get enough, pushing deeper and harder until your wetness was messily smeared on his mouth and face, eating more and tasting more until his entire being was smothered with your cum inside and out.

“Bruce, o-oh my god!” You squealed wantonly, one hand now gripping the black sheets between tight fingers as your other hand remained in his hair, following the movements of his head as he went up and down, side to side until not an inch of you wasn’t covered in his salvia.

He breathed hotly against you, his eyes closed as he savored the feel of you in his mouth and trickling down his throat. He couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t listen to reason as all he could focus on was you and your cum, tasting you, licking you, having you in every sense of the word. No one could tear him away from you, not now, not when he was so close to having you cum in his mouth and reaching his final purpose.

You were so close, you could feel it in your tummy. Your hole clenching around his tongue as he went back and forth from your clit and your soaked hole, wanting to pleasure you but simultaneously wanting to taste you for his own pleasure.

Your toes curled, stomach tightened, hands gripping the sheets as your mouth flew open in sporadic moans and gasps, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as your thighs squeezed around Bruce so tight you’d fear he’d never surface from between your legs again.

He wouldn’t have a problem with that.

Bruce picked his head up only high enough to talk, lips dripping and almost incoherent as he mumbled deeply into the wet folds of your pussy like he couldn’t bear to part, “You gonna cum for me, baby? Come on, Mrs. Wayne, make me proud, cum in my mouth.” As he voiced this his one hand crept down and slyly inserted themselves into the tight confine of your warmth, his index and middle fingers pushing inside you, so long and so big it made you cry out.

It was wet and warm, your juices slapping against his knuckles as he circled his fingers inside you, pushing on the spot he knew he was supposed to as his mouth eagerly returned to your clit. He looked up at you, eyes dark and heavy as he stared at your tits jiggling with every thrash of your hips, every arch of your back and every gasp out of your pretty, dampened lips.

He groaned into you at the sight, feeling his cock achingly hard in his pants as he sucked your clit into the warmth of his mouth and refused to let go, tongue prodding the area skillfully and harshly. He wasn’t going to stop this time, not until you were creaming around his fingers and leaking down his neck.

The air was so thick and stuffy that you couldn’t help but pant fervently, your body prickled with pleasure and overwhelming sensations that made it hard to focus on anything but his fingers inside you, long and lithe, slipping in and out as the sounds of your wetness clouded your ears and muffled your moans.

Bruce himself was lost in you, tongue and lips a glistening mess as they lapped and circled and sucked every part of your pussy exposed to him, it felt so good it stung — he was groaning into you softly, pleasure building in his tummy and rumbling through his mouth to your already so sensitive clit.

It was then, just a few short moments after his fingers wormed their way inside your tight walls, just a few short moments after he sucked your clit into his mouth did you feel your stomach relax, thighs squeeze around his head so hard he felt himself go dizzy.

“Ahh, O-oh my god, Bruce!” You moaned so blissfully, so sweetly, as your juices squirted onto his chin and his fingers squelched inside you.

Bruce moaned at the feeling, fingers gently sliding out of your clenching hole so his tongue could catch all the cum pouring out. You whimpered at the feeling of his mouth still on you, lapping at your hole like a dehydrated villager kneeling at a prosperous fountain, your skin pasty and so so hot.

He lapped at your pussy a few more times, up and down, ensuring he got his fill for the evening as faint tremors wracked your body in the aftershocks of his giving nature. You were flat on the bed now, belly sore from the tightness it held for so long, legs limp and body spent as you panted gently, heart throbbing in your ears.

You managed to lazily caress his sweaty hair though as Bruce surfaced from between your legs, face glistening and lips sore and pink. He looked manic, hair pulled and tangled and messily scattered on his face yet he seemed to be glowing at the same time, like he had never felt so alive and it made you want to giggle.

He sniffled, looking up at you with an impish grin, the taste of you lingering in his mouth and staining his nose. His hands fondly massaged your shaking thighs, noting your wrecked appearance and tired eyes, your sweaty skin flushed and warm.

He couldn’t help it as he glanced down at the mess he made, your slippery wet folds and the large patch of wetness staining his sheets.

“Mrs. Wayne, pardon my brashness of course,” He said almost sarcastically, breathless and rugged, an amused smile quirked on his lips as he leaned forward and embraced your hand with his, “but you taste utterly divine.”

⋆˚࿔ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @little-miss-chaoss — I hope it’s okay I tagged you, you said you wanted to be tagged in everything 😭🙌🏻

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stricken 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, ostricization,and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you were scarred by a storm years ago and its bringer has come to upheave your life once more.

Characters: God of War!Thor

Note: I did this finally.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You always know when a storm's coming. The hairs on your arms stand and your skin burns hot. The smell of rain is tinted by another scent. That of burning flesh and ash. Your scars raze as if struck again and for a moment, you cannot hear or see. 

Slowly, the scent of rain returns to you and the noise of the patter, sometimes more a hammering, as if to remind you of its bearer. The thunder is his war cry. The lightning his wrath. You do wonder why then it should’ve come down on you. 

You keep your hood up, your chin low. Though you hide, the villagers know who you are, they know of your misfortune. The calamity wrought into your flesh in veined scars. Your face is marked with the storm, zigzagged with lines as your left eye is struck blind and white. 

Yet it isn’t your name they whisper as you stop at a stall to buy grain. It is his. The Prince of Asgard. The might God of Thunder. The monster who made you like this. 

The air is thick, roiling with unspent moisture, and the clouds threatening in a grey ripple. You should have come yesterday. You should not have waited so long.  

You trade your coin and move on, gathering the small rations you can afford. You’ll return to your hovel, gather what you can from the garden, and check the traps for rabbits. It should get you through, though the frost does eat away at your harvest.  

As you have it, between the chirping of your disfigurement, there is worse creeping from the north. The snows have fallen heavy and whole lakes have frozen to the silt. You do not believe all you hear but you know better than to disregard the nip in the air. 

Your basket remains like but you’ve spent your limit. Your cloak shifts with your movement and you shrink lower as you near the group of adolescents feigning at battle with sticks. Their audience glimpses your passing and you hear their voices mingle with laughter. 

“It’s that crone. The burnt one,” comes a bit louder than is meant. 

You don’t stop. You don’t show that you’ve heard it. There is nothing to be said.  

“Cursed, by Thor’s hammer,” another chortles, “it is said he was forging and struck the blade too hard. In his wrath, he sent a storm. A mongrel like her drew it upon herself, broken like the sword.” 

Certainly, that too is a story to be met with skepticism. One cannot guess at what the gods do in Asgard nor why they bring only misery and chaos to Midgard. You cannot disagree that the storm was no favour to you. A curse, certainly, though the meaning can never be known. 

You move along, leaving behind their whispers and their sneers. Off to your solace, to your safe. Out of the path of any wandering soul or any blowing storm.  

⛈

A storm rages without. Water swirls and batters your small abode, built against the wall of a cave on a carpet of peat. You cover your ears as the winds whistle and wail. You quake beneath your cloak, eyes locked shut as you cower away from the tempest so much as your own memories. 

The blinding white flash and the scalding hot pain. Your fingers creep up to your chin and feel the rigged scars. You can never forget, no matter how you try. You can never be as you were. You are marked, you are damaged, and as the villagers have it on their tongues, broken. 

Even your family would not have you. You remember your mother’s wail as your father drove you off like some beast. ‘The gods have smited you themselves. You cannot remain or you will wreck ruin upon us all.’ 

Days of walking and tears, like the very storm that scarred you, a haze through which you trod until you could go no more. Until your head would split and the burnt flesh began to weep. A woman found you on the forest floor, rotting away from the corruption spreading through you. 

You don’t remember much of her. Only her touch and how she healed you. She bid you off with the cloak you wear and some food for your travels. Then you were alone and thus you remain. Not even the thieves will steal from you, nor the criminals darken your door. A curse is worth no piece of gold, no drop of blood. 

The pounding of rain relents. A chill creeps beneath the slats of your door and seep into the walls. You fill the earth with what kindling you have, the clay chimney puffing smoke up through the center of the roof. You hold your hands out to warm but find little comfort. 

You settle on your side beneath your cloak and stare into the flames. You shiver. It’s cold. Very cold. Typically, the rain chases away the chill but this is different. You can feel it in the ground. You curl up tight, clinging to your warmth, let your eyes close. Sleep comes but for lack of and not peacefully. 

Your dreams are a maelstrom. There a flames and ice, one after the other, sometimes together. Sharp pointed shards frozen and hanging, then licking tendrils of heat from below. You are lost in the land of sleep, tortured by a world built of your own fears and follies. 

You wake stiff and frigid. The fire has gone out. Not even smoke remains in the pile of ash. You move carefully, bones aching, scars tingling. You touch the hard ridging along your cheek and your fingers pulse from the cold. You can see your breath. 

How can it be? It was sunny before the rain. You get your feet under you and stand with a groan. Near the door, a strange dusting of white powders around the door, flecking in from beneath and around the edges. Snow? 

Were the tales true after all? You wince as suddenly your scars singe and sting. Ow. You recoil and cover your face with your hands, hissing and wheezing through the pain. It hurts terribly. Worse than even the first strike.  

You pull your hands away as your eyes water and you blink through your tears. You can see, at least in your good eye. There is no lightning, it is only in your mind. You shakily turn and search around. You cry out again as the agony surges once more in your head. 

Why? 

Your legs quake. Something is amiss. The frost has come and this meagre hut cannot withstand it. You take your rucksack and put what you can carry into it. Your water skin is strung across your chest and your pack upon your back. You wrap your boots with rags and your hands too. You haven’t the clothing for the cold but you will need to find something. Perhaps skin a hare or two. 

The door blows inward almost as soon as you touch it, another gust nearly bowling you over. You sway with the wind and cling to the crooked doorframe. You shove yourself out, just as quickly flattened to the wall by a flurry of snow. It dusts your face coldly and you pull up your neck scarf over your nose and pull your hood into place. 

You set off, hunched, reaching with your arms as you lift your knees over the treacherous heaps. You keep close to the rock wall. The thought of turning back stops you but it seems as foolish an idea. The hovel cannot hold for much longer. You need to get to the mouth of the cave and chance a sleeping bear within. 

You sidle along, slowed by the snow and the wind, the former soaking through your clothing as the latter whips around your hood. Suddenly, a roll of thunder, like war drums, churns in the air. The word dims and the furor sounds again; louder, closer. 

You cry out and lift an arm to shield yourself instinctively. You curl your hand into the rockface and holler even louder, closing your eyes as your memory summons another storm. No, it cannot be. Not again.  

A deafening boom shakes the ground and knocks you to your knees. You crawl along, keeping low near the ragged stone, those hidden beneath the snow jabbing against your palms. You whimper and whine, blinded by the thickening curtain all around you. 

Yet you never heard of the god raining down snow upon the lands. Only the slaking rains and the hot violence of his bolts. Never this. What sword has he broken this time? Perhaps it was his very own hammer.

The thunder overhead continues its horrid thrum as more pulses in the earth. Boom, boom, boom. You feel it beneath your hands. Your knees come down clumsily as you scramble through the piling powder. You open your eyes and still cannot see. The world is smudge in gray white and black, the sky flashing and darkening from one moment to the next. 

You cry out again as your scars burn. You push yourself back on your heels and grasp your face as you shriek. It hurts! So bad! Your eyes well and flow over. Your body trembles and collapses. You writhe in the snow, contorting with the agony as your flesh feels as if it is splitting. 

Beneath the incessant pounding comes a rocky noise. Like laughter it curdles in the air and chases after you like the steady boom, boom, boom. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the earth quakes in tandem with the cacophony. 

“I’ve found another,” the deep voice scoffs and snickers, “ah, Heimdall, you must see this--” 

The craterous voice halts and the air still. The snow drifts but the wind stops and the thunder relents, the world seeming to hum. You scratch at your face as the flames grow unbearable. You must be alight. It can be the only reason for such pain. 

The large figure, a blurry silhouette in your skewed vision, looms like a mountain. He steps over you, sliding a foot between you and the cave wall and flips you onto your back. You stare up at the sky, rolling in sheets of grey and black, the dark figure standing above, blotting out the clouds. You sob and plead. 

“Make it stop!” You beg as your hood falls back, “kill me! Kill me! It hurts.” 

He bends as your eyes roll back and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. He pulls you half off the ground, not a single grunt for the effort. You feel whoever, whatever it is, looking down at you; upon you. A rattle rises in his gritty throat. 

“And what are you?” He breathes. 

You feel another surge and babble, reining in your wild eyes as you quiver uncontrollably. You make yourself look at him. You shudder and shake your head. Shaggy red hair, a braided beard, and eyes so blue they jolt you. Ink marks one side of his broad face as he wears fur upon his soldiers beneath emblems of the godly lands. 

“It hurts...” you rasp, “I am dying.” 

“You...” he grabs your chin, holding you by your shoulder. His thumb extends up your face to touch the scars and you let out a shrill howl as the agony piques. You latch onto his thick arm and thrash. 

“It buuuuuuuurrnssssssssss,” you scream as your spine arches. 

“Hmm,” he hums and throws you into the snow. You continue your desperate wriggling, the fire softening but not leaving you completely, “Heimdall!” He calls out like a war horn, “get your skinny ass over here!” 

There’s a tinkle of coy laughter and lighter footsteps that land on the boulder above. Your eyes drift over and you see another shadow, this one hazier but smaller. A dusting of snow flies up beside you as the other man lands beside you. No, not a man. 

Heimdall? Son of Odin. 

“Oh, Thor, what trouble have you found--” 

“Another one,” the other growls. Not the other, Thor. The God of Thunder. The beast who marked you. “Father says they all must come.” 

“This one?” Heimdall muses as his voice spikes with humour, “why look at her. Pathetic—wait a moment... brother, is this your handiwork?” He squats to see you closer and snickers again, “why how very peculiar.” 

“Bring her,” Thor barks and spins on his heel, swinging his hammer, “we haven’t time--” 

“You bring her, brother. As you say, you are so much stronger--” 

“Just do it!” Thor snarls and a peel of thunder breaks through the clouds. “I need ale.” 

[talesofesther]

sweet calamity | ch 9

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Series Summary: It was something people described as the sweetest pain, the feeling of when the soul that’s destined to find yours is closer to you. Wednesday saw it as a curse, promised herself she would hate whoever was chosen for her; but it’s easier said than done.

A/N: Softest Wednesday ever and I hope she's not too out of character lol (but cut her some slack, girl's in love c'mon). Was listening to this while writing. <3

Masterlist | Read ch 8 here

"So here's something interesting that happened last night," Enid started, teasing hinting at her tone.

You gripped a little tighter onto the straps of your backpack.

"I get back from my date with Ajax, and Wednesday greets me with a goodnight, even asking if my date was enjoyable."

You hummed at her words, kicking a pebble from the stone path you were walking on. Last night's snowfall left its mark on the gardens, white snowflakes were still clinging to some of the trees around you; there was frost on the grass; mist in the air. The scenery was worthy of a painting.

"Why is that interesting?" You eventually asked.

"She never asks me about my dates," Enid exclaimed, "like ever." Taking hold of both your arms, the werewolf stopped you in your tracks and came to stand before you, forcing you to look up at her.

"She looked happy. Unusually happy," Enid narrowed her eyes at you, wolfish grin on her lips, "did something happen while I was out?"

Sometimes, Enid was too smart for her own good. You wanted to share her enthusiasm, tell her all about last night — how hearing Wednesday play gave you goosebumps, how her lips left you breathless — yet you found yourself hesitating. Everything felt too fragile.

You chuckled humourlessly, squirming under her hold. You could feel your face heating up, "nothing happened, we just hung out for a while."

Enid audibly groaned as she rolled her eyes, "come on, I saw you two dancing at the Rave'n, didn't you finally admit your obvious love for each other?"

You frowned, lips hovering open as you connected the dots, feeling your stomach lurch with apprehension. You answered her question with another, that you felt you already knew the answer to; "was that your doing by any chance?"

"Of course," Enid told you animatedly, "Wednesday was giving me her usual 'I don't do feelings' speech and hurting both you and herself in the process, I had to talk some sense into her," she scrunched her brows, taking on a serious tone, "don't tell her I said that though."

"Oh," you breathed. You're not sure why it bothers you. To think Wednesday would do something against her will was foolish, at best; but the last thing you wanted was for her to feel like she has to be with you.

"So," Enid dragged the word, pink cheeks molded by her pinkier snood, "no special moments last night?"

"W-well, we-" you stumbled, "I mean, she-"

"Enid!"

You closed your eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief upon hearing Wednesday's voice. She walked up to you and Enid with haste, backpack held by one shoulder, scarf snug around her neck, and her black beanie pushing down her bangs. She looked worthy of a painting too.

"Wednesday," Enid turned to her best friend, bouncing on her heels with glee, "we were just talking about you."

"Thrilling," the Addams girl deadpanned, glancing between you and Enid before settling on the latter, "I'll need my partner back now."

To say Enid lit up like a damn Christmas tree would be an understatement. Your heartbeat skyrocketed at the words too, before you remembered what exactly she was talking about.

Enid emitted some kind of excited noise — undoubtedly already planning your wedding; "your partn-"

"We're partners in fencing," you cut her off before she could create a scene you probably wouldn't be able to escape too soon. After your little incident with Bianca, Wednesday made sure no one but she was partnered up with you in fencing. How she accomplished that, you preferred not to know. And if anyone as much as whispered about her going easy on you when sparring, they'd receive the complete opposite treatment.

"Yes, and class started two minutes ago," Wednesday said, pointedly raising an eyebrow at you and your lack of time management.

You mouthed a sorry to her, offering a soft smile.

"You guys are no fun," Enid mumbled to herself, hugging her sweater closer to her body.

Cold air bit at your fingertips and you stuffed your hands in your pockets. Part of you could sympathize with Enid's frustration, you and Wednesday have been dancing around each other for a while, and then she finally kisses you and… and now you find yourself holding back, afraid to let your guard down.

You're still not sure what to call what she is to you. It's not like you and Wednesday are the epitome of healthy communication.

It's almost like she feels your discomfort, "let's go, I don't like waiting," Wednesday grumbled, half extending her hand out for you, giving you the chance to choose whether to take it or not.

The way you were so quick to reach for her was second nature, softly taking her hand in yours. "See you later, Enid."

"Bye lovebirds," the werewolf sweetly said, starting to walk in the opposite direction, "don't forget what we talked about yesterday, Wednesday."

"How could I? You've hammered the idea into my brain," Wednesday huffed, but Enid was already out of earshot, which left only you to grin at her words.

It was new and fragile, but maybe also just the way it was supposed to be. Maybe it was simpler than your overthinking self made it out to be — you were focused on your feet, trusting Wednesday to lead your way with her hand securely around yours.

The comfortable silence stretched for a few moments, until you reached the end of the gardens and walked inside Nevermore's walls. It felt nice to feel normal for a change; two normal girls too shy and too in love to meet each other's eyes.

"Your hands are frigid," Wednesday broke the silence, absentmindedly brushing her thumb along your skin.

You chuckled under your breath, feeling the familiar swelling of your heart, "I keep forgetting my gloves."

You refrained from groaning when the doors to the fencing arena came into sight. Before you could push them open, Wednesday pulled you to a stop. You glanced up at her curiously; only to see her cheeks an unusual shade of pink, her jaw set tightly in place, eyes strangely a tad too wide. It's rare the times that you can visibly tell what she's feeling.

You curse the way your heart automatically expects the worst, and hold your breath.

"I was-" Wednesday tried, before averting her gaze from yours and inhaling deeply, "I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me this evening."

She spoke so quickly you almost didn't catch the words fully, but you did; and it sure felt that simple. "I'd love to."

Wednesday nodded stiffly at your answer and all but burst through the doors.

———

It takes some getting used to. Sometimes the turmoil of emotions that you make Wednesday feel gets her nauseous; she thinks she resembles a babbling idiot whenever she tries to mimic what she sees the other couples do — to say she's inexperienced in the area is a huge understatement; she's trying though, in her own way, but she is.

After a day of classes that kept her mostly away from you, Wednesday was making her way to the greenhouse, the place where she knows she'll find you. And she could feel that sensation — pumping through her body with each frantic beat of her heart the closer she gets to you — the tightness on her chest, the turning of her stomach. It's nearly painful. Dangerously addicting.

The evening sun had made its appearance, soft rays seeping through the glass walls as Wednesday pushed open the door. It was quiet, eerily so. No students were around, thankfully. She realized you liked your own dose of solitude too, it's not the first time she's found you hidden away all by yourself in the greenhouse.

Wednesday was quiet as she made her way inside, preserving your space.

You were standing in front of one of the tables when she found you, eyes focused solemnly on the flower pot in front of you as you hummed a song unknown to Wednesday. Blissfully unaware of her watchful gaze on you.

Your hands were delicate with their movements, making life bloom from your fingertips; there was a ray of sun casting over your cheek and lips — Wednesday envied the pesky thing.

You pushed back a strand of loose hair, smiling faintly when you got on your tip toes to put the flower back up on the shelf, a sea of green and gold around you.

Wednesday suddenly felt the back of her eyes burning faintly; because she refused to blink or something else, she was not sure.

But she's looking at you as if she just realized what love is.

And she could love you if she wanted to. If you allowed her to.

She thinks she already does anyway.

It's unlike anything she ever expected or wanted to feel — it's pain and bliss altogether — because she had the sudden need to be closer, to hold you, touch you; otherwise she'd spiral into madness.

And so she did.

You jumped when you felt two hands grasping at your waist, sharply turning around to see whoever thought had the right to touch you like that; yet any unkind words that were ready to leave your tongue disappeared when you were met with a pair of twin black braids you were all too familiar with.

Your skin is instantly littered with goosebumps. Wednesday's hands were firm on your waist, her thumbs barely sneaking under your shirt and grazing the skin there.

Before you could even try to speak, she was shutting you up with a searing kiss. It was different from last night; she pushed herself to you, desperate in the way her lips moved with yours — as if you hadn't seen each other in six years instead of six hours.

You took only a moment to recover, grasping at her blazer with your hands and embracing anything she'd be willing to give you.

Her lips were still as plush and warm as you remembered them, as you knew you'd never be able to forget.

Wednesday pulled back when air became an annoying necessity, all soft eyes and swollen lips. Her hands still gripping your waist, gaze darting to the mouth she'd just kissed only to see you gulp and look at your feet; away from her.

"Is this acceptable?" Wednesday found herself asking, voice raspier than usual, puffs of air coming out shallow and ragged as she regarded you with worry.

"Yeah," you were quick to breathe out, bringing one hand up and hesitating only a second before gingerly touching Wednesday's cheek, your thumb tracing the lines of her bottom lip. "More than acceptable."

"But?" The raven-haired girl raised a brow.

"I just-" you could feel your heartbeat, and wondered if she could feel it too, "I don't want to force you into anything, Wednesday." You gave her a melancholic smile, "I want to make sure you don't feel like you have to be doing this," you motioned with your hand between you and her, and she was so close you could barely breathe at all.

Wednesday's eyes shuttered with a sudden blankness and nothing could prepare you for the utterly adorable look of confusion on her face that followed; eyebrows pinching together and lips turned down at the corners as she pulled back only to look at you better.

"Never in my life would I do something I do not want to do," she said matter of factly.

You bit into your lip, one hand taking hold of Wednesday's braid so you had something to fidget with.

Straightening her posture, Wednesday gulped back her pride; "I'm not… good at this," she shook her head softly, her sudden fragility surprising you, "any of it."

And you finally see it; you see it in the way her eyes lose their sharp edges, how impossibly darker they are, shining under the fading sun; you see it in the way she insisted on holding your hand even when curious glances were thrown at you; you see it in the way she doesn't let anyone else spar with you in fencing or the way she always has an extra set of notes whenever you miss a class; you see it in the way she came after you and didn't give up even after you pushed her away. You see the way she's been loving you from day one, even if both of you didn't admit it.

"And I hate the fact that you make me want to try it anyway," Wednesday whispered, bringing you back to reality.

You huffed a chuckle, sliding your hands behind her neck to pull her closer, "you hate it?"

She rolled her eyes endearingly, "take the win," she said, before stealing another kiss from your lips.

Wednesday lingered close to you, her nose bumping yours. She didn't dare open her eyes when she asked the one thing she needed to hear you say; "so can I call you mine?" She choked out, upper lip grazing yours as she spoke.

There was a beat of silence and the Addams girl was almost already considering her early grave when you didn't answer right away.

Until you did, and she could feel your cheeky smile, "only if I can call you mine too."

Wednesday's lips twitched with the treat of a smile. It was an easy bargain.

With her hand in yours, Wednesday walked out of the greenhouse; her destination being the Weathervane, where she'd buy you a hot chocolate, and a coffee for herself and do whatever couples do together.

You wanted to stop by the quad first though.

The weight of Wednesday's hand was pleasant in yours. You took her to the middle of the quad, to where stood your finished project, at last; the big maple tree was the star in the center, surrounded by countless flowers with colors that complemented each other beautifully. Two stood out amongst them, a couple of black dahlias just by the foot of the tree, their dark color unmistakable.

"You remember I was renovating this flowerbed, right?" You asked softly, stealing a glance at your girl.

Wednesday hummed, "yes, I recall."

"I think it's finally done, what do you think?"

You watched as Wednesday's dark eyes skimmed over your work, they lingered a little longer on the black-colored flowers and your lips twitched with a smirk.

"It's nice, I'm sure Enid loved the multitude of colors," Wednesday commented, "the dahlias are a nice touch," she timidly admitted eventually.

"I thought you'd like them," your cheeks warmed up you raised both your joined hands to your lips, planting a kiss on the back of her hand before pulling her along to the main gates.

Before, you didn't understand why soulmates bring each other pain whenever they're near. But now, you can see there's something magical to it — it's the fact that, even with the pain, you won't abandon the one you love, and it's a kind of love that comes without warning, burns itself into your soul and marks your heart in the best possible way.

You admire the boldness of the universe; to create something so potentially tragic yet so delightful, so blissful.

Wednesday's shoulder bumped yours as you two walked, personal space forgotten. You could feel your heartbeats mingling.

Her hand warmed up yours.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 10 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I'd appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @milkiane @bookfrog242 @heelaechan @imagine-reblog @simp4wanda26 @sakurarukas @bluetreecloud20 @the-night-owl-blr @imlike-so-gaydude @user284747 @dreifhraniquo29 @emeraldevan @simp4nat @boobabietch @impossibleliv1031 @deadpool-in-a-snood @rainbow-love4ever @maria-403 @pompompuri @halleest @wandaromanova @marveloussimp @rainbow-hedgehog @left-and-right-up-and-down @get-the-fuck-outta-here @awolfcsworld @elduster @alexkolax @georgi-salva @imdumbhi @youralphawolf72 @reginassweetheart @justyourwritter69 @yangsroboarmm @8e-h-e8 @irish-piece-of-trash @femalehomosexual666 @wol-fica @wednesdays-woes

[zhongrin]

𒆙 ღ

part 8/8 of ⎡∞ / 𝟔 𝟎 𝟎 𝟎 ⁺⎦, a zhongli 2023 birthday event

© zhongrin | 2024  ✼  no repost・translations・plagiarism of any kind・ai data mining. rebloggers get a free cup of tea ♡

𖧷 tags ┈ selfship (zhongrin, small hint of zhongwrinth), 3rd person pov from zhongli's side, fluff, bittersweet (like almost all the other chapters are lol), slight soft yandere-ish, slight genshin's canon lore references

𖧷 a/n ┈ happy new year my dear patrons! starting off this year strong with some super indulgent selfship piece :> technically, it can be read as x fem!reader, but you'll find that it was not meant to be one. you'll find a lot of hidden selfship lores in this, and it's very very very self-indulgent and personal (which is why i don't have the usual x reader tags), so keep that in mind and be respectful, please 🙏🏻 you have been warned!

𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓊 ❬ masterlist ❭ 𐫱 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 ❬ taglist ❭

𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 was an intricacy he had been continuously studying over the course of more than six thousand years and counting now.

and still, with every year that passed, he realized there were many sides of love he had not discovered nor experienced himself. things like—

how the peals of someone’s laughter could be comparable to the most melodious bird’s singing, and in its contraposition, how the saddened frown from a beloved person when he forgot an important date due to the many anniversaries which had accumulated over the past few millennia, could cut deeper than the sharpest blades forged by the most proficient masters of the blacksmiths.

how, despite the many losses and reunions he had experienced, he would still have the same nightmare that had been regularly plaguing him from a few millennia back: the vision of her bloodied shell, the rage bubbling from the deepest of his heart. how the mountains tore and the seabed shifted, the anguish as cold as the lifeless body within his hold and as silent as her unmoving crimson-stained lips, the pain hundredfold as he buried her with his own hands in some desolate place ridden by war and placed a single yellow hibiscus as a meagre offering.

how the scent of the sea used to be relatively bearable despite the reflexive scrunch of his nose, and even so, he found himself increasingly becoming averse to them - especially when the scent paired with the minty frost of snezhnaya or the chalky, wintery air of dragonspine.

how, those old times ago, his closest friends had betted on the day he would use his proficiency and skills in the advanced adepti arts to do menial tasks out of love, and though at that time, morax had scoffed and laughed right in front of their face... look at him now, gladly using the ability to maintain adeptal realms to expand his beloved’s teashop or facilitate her travels between the nations of teyvat.

𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒… such an infinitely complex and neverending, yet beautiful affair.

“happy birthday, rex lapis.”

“happy birthday, morax.”

“happy birthday, zhongli.”

“happy birthday, xiànɡ ɡonɡ!”

love tasted like a sweet kiss with a touch of fragrant osmanthus and the bitterness of coffee. love took the form of a bashful and imperfect smile in full bloom against rosy cheeks. love was the way her silken hair felt against his calloused fingers as he tied his treasured golden hair clip around the midnight-colored strands, following her 'coincidental' oversight to bring her own. love was heard in fond wishes and silent gratitudes whispered into the seas of stars, amongst the soft rolls of waves caressing the shores of the harbor of their retirement home.

perhaps his darling won’t be by his side next year. perhaps she would, in a different form than what she was now. perhaps…. he would not survive this year.

but what did it matter?

for even as calamity befell aria, sonnet, and canon, the corpse of a moon still continued its sovereignty in a fixed orbit to encircle teyvat, unchanging — and so he believed the two lovers’ fates would intertwine once again; for she was destined to be his, for he oathed to be bound to her beyond a mortal expiry;

until their souls reunited in a place not even the heavenly principles could reach,

until no more engraved rings could fit in her fingers,

until teyvat's bedrock crumbled into dust.

“the day the rite of parting is recompensed, wife of mine… i promise our 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 will be sealed eternal.”

a contract sealed in souls, befitting of his goetic namesake. this might as well be the most selfish contract he has ever sealed with his blood — yet could one still call him a devil when his victim was most willing?

𖧷 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 ❬ taglist ❭ ┈ @abyssmal-skies | @hamdehlesmis | @depressivecomforts | @sunnshineflxwer | @yuutasbabe | @queen-belial | @stygianoir | @silentmoths | @niktwazny303 | @dustofthedailylife | @marina-and-the-memes | @mixed-kester | @lordbugs | @anonymousficreader | @shizunxie | @ansy-tea | @irethepotato | @sassy-cat-in-town | @syrenkitsune | @smokipoki | @cakeboxie | @crystalflygeo | @ciexuvia | @illaasya | @celestewritestoomuch | @pams-comfortzone | @spidermanluvr444 | @ourstrawberryclouds | @ryuryuryuyurboat

[linkedspirit-fanartfunart]

[Image Description: 6 colored drawings of Linked Spirit AU's Links in either underwear or otherwise mostly uncovered to showcase their scars, arrows pointing to each one with a label. 1st: Hope looks down at himself with a smile, exclaiming "oh Sweet new scar!" Hope has a burn scar on his left side from "Malice Ache", a chin scar by "Princess smacking him w/ ring on" two scars on his right shoulder and forearm from "Lynel" A burn on his right leg from "Gleeock" and a burn on his left calf from "Fire-Shield Surfing" 2nd: Rinku sits on a bed looking to the side, back to a broken mirror, which reflects Ravio. Rinku's hair is labeled "white hair 'outline' Mural Magic", a starbust shaped scar on her left cheek is labeled "Yuga" A scar over her lip and their chest is labeled "alttp Ganon" a long scar across their right side is labeled "alttp Knight" A burn on her right knee and leg "distracted by Rosa- Tripped into Lava" Ravio only shows two scars, one on his shoulder labeled "Yuga" and one on his arm labeled "Knight" 3rd: Glider stands with his hands on his hips, asking "Proof Enough?" He has "Old Guardian Beam" burns on the center of his chest, left hip, left arm, and calf. He has a goron brother tattoo on his left arm. His ear cut is from "Frost bite" and he has "Perma Lazer 'sun' burns" on his shoulders and cheeks. Their cheek scar "Fell off apple tree" and has "wolf bite" scars on his right arm. They have a cut on their left arm from a "Lynel" and one on his left foot from a "Lizalfo". A scar on his thigh is labeled "Fell off a cliff" and one on his knee is only labeled "No clue." A back view drawing has a long scar across their back that is labeled from "Calamity Ganon" 4th: Sky sits looking at his right hand. The lightning scar and large slash across his chest is labeled "Demise" He has a cut on his stomach from "Lizalfos". on his upper lip a "Remlit" scratch. On the left side of his chest is a diamond slash labeled from "Ghirahim". On his shoulder, a mark reads "Rolled into a Rock" and a burn on his left arm is from "Scaldara" A suction mark scar on his right leg is labeled "Tentalus". Slashes on his left leg is from "Koloktos" and a burn on his foot is labeled "Stepped in lava" 5th: Hero's Spirit's Link sits with their arms folded over one knee. They have a small scar on their right arm from a "Training accident" a pair of scars on their leg from "Wolfos" and a small scar on their thigh "Fell off train" A back view shows a "Dagger" scar in the center of their back, with a light outline of the Hero Spirit's flower pattern. 6th: Engineer on her back, groaning "I hate these exercises" she has one barely visible scar on her right arm "bit by bunny" Two slashes on her right side is from "Byrne" and scars on her left side and leg are from "Train crash" She has a scar on her left shoulder from "Maladus" and on her hand from "Engine burn" End ID]

Scars! Part 1! because otherwise the ID would be stupid long.

-Part 2

I think Sky & Glider win "most scars"

[lanabenikosdoormat]

soloing azteca and khrysalis as an ice type beat

[valkyriepirate]

Newt Scamander x Reader One Shot- Sweet Calamity

Summary: You’re a Fifth Year at Hogwarts, peacefully reading in your common room one night. The peace is disturbed when a strange creature begins wreaking havoc, accompanied by one Newt Scamander. 

Warnings: none- just fluff! :)

Word count: 2.9k words

A/N: House neutral; (Y/H) = Your house; it’s somewhat implied that Newt and the reader aren’t in the same house, so apologies to all you lovely Hufflepuffs out there!

#2- Sweet Calamity

A cool wind ruffled the pages of your book, sending a ripple of goosebumps across the bare skin of your legs. You were so deeply enmeshed in the story that you hardly noticed it, but you curled up tighter, knees pressed to your chest. Autumn had arrived at Hogwarts, and it seemed as if the ancient stone walls soaked up the chill in the air and stubbornly refused to warm. Even in your house common room where you were now, sitting by the crackling fireplace, you could feel the cold emanating off the glass windowpanes.  

The (Y/H) common room was strangely vacant for a Sunday night. Usually by this time everyone had come back from their weekend Hogsmeade trips to get ready for bed. Curfew was two hours prior midnight, and no one wanted to be caught outside the dorms after then- at least, not if they wanted to avoid the embarrassment of a deduction to their house points. Yet tonight there were none of your fellow house members about finishing homework or practicing spells. It was just you and your book, and you reveled in the blissful quiet.  

The wind fluttered the pages of your book again, stronger this time. Briefly you wondered if the (Y/H) ghost was teasing you. When another impellent gust caused you to lose your place in the book, you looked up, bewildered. One of the windowpanes high on the wall behind you was cracked open, swinging on frosted hinges.  

Sighing, you pulled out your wand and whispered, “Colloportus.” The window squeaked shut, sealing out the pestering wind that threatened to further interrupt your reading. You settled back into the story, letting the words bring your imagination rushing over you like the first snowfall of winter, irenic and picturesque. That is, until something hard and heavy fell on top of your head and scared the gulping galleons out of you.  

You yelped and tumbled off the couch. You blinked at the object, startled. It was a large, leather-bound tome- one of the O.W.L study textbooks. You gaped up at the bookshelf behind the couch, puzzled and perhaps the slightest bit afraid. You’d never encountered one of the Hogwarts ghosts face-to-face, and you weren’t entirely sure what the proper reaction to one would be.  

Gripping your wand in one hand and your book in the other, you said in the most commanding voice possible, “Whatever prank you’re trying to pull on me, it isn’t funny, so cut it out.”

Your voice echoed through the common room only to be met with silence. After a minute or two you tentatively sat down on the couch again. You had hardly reopened your book when another tome hit you directly on the shoulder.  

“Ow! What the-?!” You glanced above to see a small creature rummaging about the bookshelves. It had a pinkish pallor to its skin, and your first thought was that it was one of those hairless rats. But Hogwarts was far too magical to have ordinary creatures like rats running around.  

The creature pushed book after book off the shelves, sending them plummeting to the couch. You were contemplating whether you should wait for one of your house mates to capture it when the door to the common room cracked open and a boy with a ruddy mop of hair peeked in.  

He noticed you first. Instantly you felt heat creep across your cheeks. It was Newt Scamander, the Hufflepuff boy from your Potions class. He had been in your class since Second Year, but you had only spoken to him a couple of times. Yet even so you had built up a tiny crush on him over the years. Everyone knew him for his affinity for magical creatures and his desire to study magizoology, and suddenly his appearance made the presence of the rat creature make much more sense.  

“Hey,” you called. “Um- there’s a creature in here, I-I don’t know if it’s yours?”

He didn’t speak for a minute, just stood there like a deer frozen in headlights as if he were trapped in the threshold of the door. Finally he said in a quiet voice, “I’m not really supposed to be here.”  

The creature squeaked and chucked off the final book. It toppled sideways and knocked over one of the antique lamps, which plunged off the bookshelf and shattered with a CRASH!  

You cringed, hoping the hallway prefect hadn’t been nearby to hear. “For the record, I don’t think this thing is supposed to be here either.”

Newt, seeming to nullify his indecision, stepped into the common room and shut the door behind him. His yellow-and-black striped Hufflepuff House scarf was thrown askew across his shoulders, as if he’d been running and it had come undone. “It’s a Murtlap.”

“Oh.” You watched as the creature scurried along the shelves and hopped on top of the fireplace, sniffing the bricks. In this light you could see the anemone-like growth on its back, giving it the appearance of a porcupine and a naked hamster rolled into one. “Is it yours?”

“I’ve been doing research on his species. He was wounded on the shores of the Great Lake.” The Murtlap let loose a shrill scream like a battle cry and began trying to tear the (Y/H) crest from where it hung above the fireplace.

“He doesn’t seem wounded now,” you noted.

“Oh no.” Newt moved towards the fireplace, holding out his hand. “Come on now Murry, you sour rodent.”

Murry the Murtlap continued to gnaw the crest more viciously, ignoring Newt Scamander.

“I don’t think he liked that,” you said.  

Newt propped his foot on the fire grate and hoisted himself onto the ledge. He reached out and snatched the Murtlap, tugging him away from the crest. But the fabric was obdurately ensnared in the creature’s teeth, and you could hear it begin to tear. Before you could shout for Newt to stop, he pulled on the Murtlap again and the (Y/H) House crest ripped free of the wall. Newt, the Murtlap, and the crest all came tumbling to the floor.  

“Newt!” you cried, pushing the crest off him. As soon as you did, the Murtlap sprang free and lunged directly for your face, a whirlwind of snapping teeth and prickly claws. You shrieked and attempted to grab it, but it was scrambling over your head and shoulders, around your torso, down to your knees, and up again. Newt leaped up from the floor and came to save you, snatching at the Murtlap to no avail. At last it pounced on him and, taking his scarf in its teeth, ran down his leg and bolted across the floor.  

“How did he get loose?” you demanded as you and Newt raced after it.  

“Um, well, he’s a slippery one, as you can see,” he paused at the foot of another bookcase, craning his head up as the Murtlap hastily climbed to the top, Newt’s scarf in tow. “I was doing abstract drawings and he grew tired of sitting still.”

You waved your wand. “Can’t we use any spells?”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Newt said. “Or destroy any more of your common room.”  

“What about potions? One of the non-combative ones Professor Wenlock taught us?”

Newt glanced at you, then immediately downcast his eyes. “I didn’t realize you knew we were in the same class.”  

“Of course.” We’ve been in the same class together for three years, you thought, but added nothing. Suddenly something was tossed by your head and you ducked. You looked down in horror to see the clay model of Hogwarts that your house leader had won points for was splintered at your feet.  

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” you bent down, gathering the pieces. You quickly used a repairo spell to put it back together, but there was no disguising the hairline cracks that ran along the towers.  

“Murry, that’s it. No fish for two weeks!” Newt scolded.  

You carefully placed the model on a nearby table, shaking your head in dismay. Your house leader would murder you if they ever found out about this.  

When you turned around again, Newt was attempting to scale the bookshelves, his feet balancing precariously on the wooden boards.

“What are you doing?” you said incredulously.  

“It’s all right, I’ve almost got him...” He was a good six feet off the ground but still too far to reach the Murtlap, which had stopped to admire his ascent.  

“That’s not a good idea, Newt,” you cautioned, moving closer lest he fell.  

He didn’t reply. His focus was intense, but not quite enough, for when he stepped up to the next shelf, the pressure on the board caved in and it snapped.  

You screamed as Newt fell, breaking every bone in his body upon impact with the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was dead, dead, dead-

“(Y/N)?” His voice led you to pry open your eyes, shaking off the image. You hadn’t realized you’d squeezed them shut. You sighed in relief when you saw Newt dangling from the bookshelf, still intact. Then you started. Newt was dangling from the bookshelf!

Fervently, your gaze swept the room for something you could use to help him. At the far end of the common room, you spotted the rolling ladder students used to reach the top shelves. You wanted to smack your face in frustration.  

“Hold on!” You ran to the end of the room and swung onto the ladder. With one foot, you gave a strong push off the shelf and went flying. You and your house mates had done this countless times in a competitive game where you tried to grab as many books of a certain color off the shelves as possible. Yet tonight it was more like a game of Catch the Murtlap.

You corralled the wood panels to slow your speed and held out your hand to Newt. “Grab my hand!”

He looked over, eyes wide, and took your hand. Releasing the board made him swing and he collided with you on the ladder. His momentum sent it rolling, leaving you two clutching at each other to keep from falling. When it stopped, you realized you were gripping his arms hard enough to be painful.  

“Are you okay?” you asked, breathless.  

“Yes,” he mumbled, his ears turning red. He wouldn’t look you in the eye, but his stare had found its way to your lips instead. “Yes. Are-are you?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

An awkward silence ensued. You were suddenly aware of how close you two were- your knees touching, your arms pressed against each other’s. Your heart was smattering in your chest; if it was deafening to you, you quailed at what Newt could hear. This close, you could see the hazel flecks in his green eyes, like the light of sunset seeping through a forest canopy.  

A strange noise ripped through the air. You and Newt looked up. Murry had torn one of the metal wheels from the ladder and spat it down at you. You tucked in your head at the same time as Newt and you bonked your skull on his.  

“Ow,” you groaned, rubbing your forehead.

“Sorry,” Newt blushed deeper.  

Murry was making rapid work on the other wheel, gnawing at it with surprisingly robust teeth. Your stomach dipped when you realized what would happen if he tore it off. You raised your wand. “Newt, he’s-”

POP!  

The ladder wobbled, no longer attached to the top rim of the shelf. The wheels on the bottom legs bucked. The ladder tilted.

“Oh no,” you muttered.

And you fell.  

You squeezed your eyes shut, anticipating the force of your impact. But none came. You opened your eyes again to see that you were hovering three feet from the floor. You’d hooked one arm around the rung and the other around Newt, who had his wand in hand, aimed at the ground.  

A relieved breath escaped your lungs. Cautiously, you stepped off the ladder and untangled yourself from Newt, holding up the rungs so he could do the same.  

“That was magnificent!” you breathed.  

Newt smiled at his feet. “It’s a Hover Charm. Simple, really.”

“Well, thank you for saving my life.”

“You saved mine.” It didn’t seem possible for Newt to get any redder, and yet he pulled it off. It was unbearably cute. You had an urge to tug him closer, to fall into his arms again. Being that close to him had spiked a fuzzy feeling in your veins and you liked it.  

But before you could do anything ridiculous, Murry was on the move once more. He darted up the rope chord along the curtain and hurdled onto one of the window ledges. You tracked his path and gasped.

“Newt, he’s going for the dorms!” you cried.

“Merlin’s beard,” Newt cursed under his breath.  

“We have to use a spell. He’ll get away.”

He nodded grudgingly. Then he lifted his wand, pensively fixed his sight on the Murry, and said, “Accio Murtlap.”

The creature came reeling back. Newt had to lunge and grab him, but he was squealing like a newly-weaned piglet and wriggling like one too. "Quick, something to contain him!”

You searched the common room but saw nothing that could help. Then your eyes landed on the mug you’d left by the fireside.

“Hold on, I have an idea!” You darted over. You pointed your wand at the mug and whispered, “Capacious extremis!” Then you snatched it up and ran back to Newt. “Try this.”

He gave you a dubious look.  

“Trust me,” you ordered.  

Without argument, Newt shoved Murry into the mug. The Murtlap was about half a foot long and your mug was half the size of him, but the creature disappeared into its depths without conflict, screeching and thrashing in irritation. Swiftly, you grabbed one of the books Murry had discarded and placed it over the mug’s rim, effectively sealing him in.  

“Brilliant,” Newt said.  He set the mug on a table and crouched down to examine it. The Murtlap’s shrieks were audible but muffled, and the mug rattled with the force of its contents, but otherwise the uncontrollable creature was trapped. “An expanding spell. I’ll have to use that in the future.”

“I’d still be careful. There’s no telling what other havoc he’s capable of.”

Newt stood and surveyed the common room. Books were strewn about, the bookshelf was broken, the (Y/H) crest was in a heap near the fire, the ladder was draped on the floor, and shards of green glass were scattered across the carpet.  Newt glanced at you briefly and you shared a look. In silent agreement, both of you went to work, using repairo spells for the broken objects and manually rearranging what you could. Neither of you could properly reattach the ladder’s top wheels, so you shoved it back to the far corner and laid the wheels on the floor next to it.  

Amidst the cleaning process you found something underneath the table. “Newt?” you called.  

He looked over from where he was sliding the books back onto the shelves. When you said nothing more, he set the books down and came over.

You stood. “I believe this belongs to you.” Gently, you reached out and wrapped Newt’s Hufflepuff scarf around his neck. He froze as your fingers brushed his shoulder, his cheeks once again flushing bright red.  

He opened his mouth like he was about to thank you, but instead he just smiled. You felt yourself smiling back.

“I should be going,” he said to your feet. “I-I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It was fun.”

He furrowed his brow in astonishment. “Fun?”

“Sure. I mean, my common room nearly got destroyed, but who’s to know? It’ll be our secret.”

Newt blinked at you. “So you won’t tell anyone about-about Murry?”

You shook your head. “I won’t tell anyone about Murry.”

Newt shifted his feet and it seemed like he wanted to say something. He picked up Murry’s mug and paused. You held your breath.  

“(Y/N)?”

“Yes?”

He waited a beat. That fuzzy feeling was bubbling from your stomach again, making your skin tingle.  

He took a deep breath and said in a rush, “If you’d like, would you be my Potions partner? It’s okay if you don’t, I was just wondering if it’s something you-”

You stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Yes.”

He looked at you in shock as if you’d agreed to brush the teeth of a fire-breathing dragon with him. “You-you would?”

You laughed and nodded. “Yes.”

A bashful grin crept up his face and he clutched the mug closer. “I suppose I’ll see you in Potions then?”

“You will.”

Still grinning, he made his way back to the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob. “Good night.”

“Good night, Newt.”  

He stood there awkwardly for another moment. Then he bobbed his head once, opened the door, and disappeared into the hall, leaving you alone in the common room.  

You sighed giddily, flopping onto the couch. You thought about Newt Scamander for the rest of the night, long after your house mates returned and you retired to the dorms. Every time you closed your eyes you saw him smiling at you. You blushed when you remembered how close you’d been on the ladder, how you’d both clung to each other like a lifeline. In the darkness of your dorm, you snuggled deeper underneath your blankets.  

Potions couldn’t come soon enough.  

Masterlist

[voidsentprinces]

Coerthas Western Highlands is such a tragic area. The Central Highlands definitely feel like a triumph of Ishgard. They have a couple crumbling vigils but they are entrenched and mostly untested. The Western Highlands though? It all use to be warm green fields, wind mill farms, and the brightness of the Dusk Vigil along with Ishgard's arm to look over it. But when we arrive after the Seventh Umbral Calamity? Hay stacks frost bitten, wind mills frozen to a stop, a ship wrecked in the middle of a now frozen lake, the Dusk Vigil forced into cannibalism and the hauntings of the Holy See's corruption, and whats more, dragon and elezen corpses line the roads and the cliff sides.

[genshin-impact-updates]

Version 3.5 Event Wishes Notice - Phase II

Travelers, stock up on weapons and characters in the event wish to make your party stronger in combat!

Event Wish "The Transcendent One Returns" - Boosted Drop Rate for "Lonesome Transcendence" Shenhe (Cryo)!

〓Event Wish Duration〓

2023/3/21 18:00

—

2023/4/11 14:59

〓Event Wish Details〓

● During this event wish, the event-exclusive 5-star character "Lonesome Transcendence" Shenhe (Cryo) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During the event wish, the 4-star characters "Coordinates of Clear Frost" Mika (Cryo), "Harmless Sweetie" Sucrose (Anemo), and "Kätzlein Cocktail" Diona (Cryo) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● After this event wish ends, the 4-star character "Coordinates of Clear Frost" Mika (Cryo) will be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation" in the next Version.

※ Of the above characters, the event-exclusive character will not be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation."

※ This is for "Character Event Wish." The wish guarantee count for "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2" is shared, and is accumulated between both "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2." This wish guarantee count is independent of the guarantee counts of other types of wishes.

※ The "Test Run" trial event will be open during this event wish. Travelers may use fixed lineups containing the selected trial characters to enter specific stages and test them out. Travelers that complete the challenges will receive the corresponding rewards!

※ For more information, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

Event Wish "The Heron's Court" - Boosted Drop Rate for "Frostflake Heron" Kamisato Ayaka (Cryo)!

〓Event Wish Duration〓

2023/3/21 18:00

—

2023/4/11 14:59

〓Event Wish Details〓

● During this event wish, the event-exclusive 5-star character "Frostflake Heron" Kamisato Ayaka (Cryo) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During the event wish, the 4-star characters "Coordinates of Clear Frost" Mika (Cryo), "Harmless Sweetie" Sucrose (Anemo), and "Kätzlein Cocktail" Diona (Cryo) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● After this event wish ends, the 4-star character "Coordinates of Clear Frost" Mika (Cryo) will be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation" in the next Version.

※ Of the above characters, the event-exclusive character will not be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation."

※ This is for "Character Event Wish-2." The wish guarantee count for "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2" is shared, and is accumulated between both "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2." This wish guarantee count is independent of the guarantee counts of other types of wishes.

※ The "Test Run" trial event will be open during this event wish. Travelers may use fixed lineups containing the selected trial characters to enter specific stages and test them out. Travelers that complete the challenges will receive the corresponding rewards!

※ For more information, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

Event Wish "Epitome Invocation" - Boosted Drop Rate for Calamity Queller (Polearm) and Mistsplitter Reforged (Sword)!

〓Event Wish Duration〓

2023/3/21 18:00

—

2023/4/11 14:59

〓Event Wish Details〓

● During the event, the event-exclusive 5-star weapons Calamity Queller (Polearm) and Mistsplitter Reforged (Sword) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During the event, the event-exclusive 4-star weapon Wine and Song (Catalyst) , as well as 4-star weapons Sacrificial Sword (Sword), The Bell (Claymore), Favonius Lance (Polearm), and Favonius Warbow (Bow) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During the event wish, use Epitomized Path to chart a course towards a 5-star weapon, such as Calamity Queller (Polearm) or Mistsplitter Reforged (Sword). For more information on Epitomized Path, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

※ Of the above weapons, the event-exclusive weapons will not be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation."

※ For more information, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

[calamity-talvi]

[smallestapplin]

A hero’s journey

Note : this was written by @bellafragolina who asked me to post it here, so please direct all love to her!

Cw : angst, blood, major death. No spoilers.

-

-

-

Link can see memories in your eyes. The tears that stream down your face each have a moment captured in their sparkling reflection.

He sees you, sat next to the fire with the old man, a guitar splayed across your lap. Your face was smooth and curious, and you understood his confused signing. You translated for him, and at the behest of the old man, followed him around as he discovered the plateau and worked through the shrines.

You marveled at the abilities of his Sheikah Slate always made him smile. The powers of the runes were magnificent, but Link didn’t feel the same wonder as you. Which is what made you so interesting to him. You weren’t from Hyrule, you had explained. His amnesia paired with your foreignness made you both a strange pair, but Link liked you. And you liked him, just him, even after discovering who he was from the old man.

Link sees your face scrunched in concentration. He’s pressed against you, teaching you to hunt. You weren’t the best with a bow or a sword, but Link was patient, and you were determined to learn. And you let him get close, let him discover how to touch someone again, how to pinch strangely rounded ears and grab hands. And you showed him how to be touched. Your fingers in his hair, legs pressed against his whenever you sat, your body near his for warmth through chilly nights.

You let him lie upon your chest. Link fell in love with your heart around the same time he fell in love with you. The weight of the world rested on his shoulders, but you lifted it with ease, letting him find peace and relaxation and true rest in your arms.

Link’s arms tremble, struggling to hold you upright. His hands are sweating, and shaking. They’re red, stained by you, staring at him with those eyes full of every moment you’ve ever had with him.

You’re only still standing thanks to the sword still glowing within your chest, perfectly piercing. Link can’t find it in himself to move, to look away from your face as the darkness, the Calamity flakes away like dried blood in the water he’ll desperately scrub his arms clean in.

Your eyes carry each night spent tangled together. Each battle is spent back to back, you shooting while he fights with sword and shield. They hold the unveiling of the Master Sword, how you held him after the sword nearly killed him.

Your pride, your kindness, your love, all of it pours from you, onto Link.

The moment everything is clear, the moment you are you again, Link pulls the sword back. It makes a horrible, wet noise as it slides out of your chest. You collapse to the ground like a rag doll. Link tosses the Master Sword aside without a care, racing to kneel at your side.

A pool of blood immediately forms beneath you. Link is digging bottle after bottle from his Sheikah Slate inventory. Fairies spill out into the air, their pink dust frosting over your scrunched face. You’re gasping for air, choking on the potions Link pours down your throat.

But the wound won’t heal.

Link cradles the back of your neck, another bottle at your lips. He doesn’t remember feeling so scared before, so helpless, hopeless.

“Sor-ry.” His raw throat grinds out, desperate for you to know that this isn’t what he wanted. He wanted his house in Hateno to be filled with your dumb jokes and laughter. He wanted roughhousing and kisses and love. You taught him about those things.

Kisses in the dark, comforting and new and scary and good. Hugs and bodies intertwined, no expectations but to stay and to hold. He wanted a wedding like Bolson’s, eventually. He wanted to confirm to you that yes, he loves you. He has all this time, and he wants to love you properly now.

So many plans, so many dreams.

And now you lay bleeding out on the ground because he couldn’t protect you.

Promises of ‘together’ fall away, slipping out of his grasp as you spit up blood and potion, red red red all over.

You must be suffering, his failures weighing heavier on you than anyone. You, who shouldn’t even be here, who was dragged here because of him. Link whimpers your name as you smile.

You smile, and Link loves you desperately.

But love is not enough this time. And even as Zelda places a hand on his back, body still warm from heavenly power, Link feels devoid. All is gone.

All he cared about, anyway.