#his face just emerges from the texture and shadows

[muletia]

Soemthing about Opitmus' holoform and him just following you around doing domestic things just because

domestic fluff?? in this economy? hell yeah

cw: fluff, pinch of angst

word count: 710

Optimus longs to experience normalcy. Immersed in war, surrounded by the scent of spilled energon and the wails of wounded comrades... after so many years, such a cruel and unjust daily reality is bound to leave a mark, shift priorities, and force him into thinking always of others and never of himself. And so, even for a brief moment, he wishes to allow himself to be selfish. To focus on doing something that brings him joy. And it just so happens that his joy lies in being in your presence, getting to know you, spending time together on activities that, from a Cybertronian perspective, might seem trivial. Carefree. Yet he has distanced himself from such views.

He delights in discovering the hidden sides of you, the parts you don’t reveal at the base. They only emerge at home, in your sanctuary, where you show him another version of yourself. The first time he asked to accompany you home, you were surprised. You enjoyed spending time with him too and treasured your shared moments, but you weren’t sure if he was ready for the boredom that came with it. That saddened him, because he sincerely wanted to know your boredom, to see you from an angle unfamiliar to him. To understand humanity on a more intimate level. To experience what humanity truly is, stripped of philosophy, disengaged from the rat race, living in the moment. In its simplest form. The archivist who no longer existed stirred within him, curious, inquisitive, and hungry for knowledge of the unknown. For a fleeting moment, Optimus allowed him back into his spark.

And so, you let him. You invite him into your home and unveil yourself to him, shedding layer after layer. The first time, he is agitated, not stressed, but uneasy; afraid every movement might damage the furniture or the trinkets on the shelves. After all, he wouldn’t be able to repair them. Even while "being human," he betrays his true essence, unaccustomed to his new, smaller form. His title manifests even through the holoform. You have to take his hand and guide him to get him to move at all, for which he is deeply grateful.

He observes human boredom: washing dishes, doing laundry, preparing fuel (a meal, as you explained to him). You insist it’s dull, almost unworthy of his presence, but he is unwavering on this matter. He craves it. Wants to taste humanity, to see through your optics, even if just for a moment. Because he loves you and hungers to know everything about you, the good and the bad. The mundane and the thrilling. The most trivial and the profound. He needs honesty and openness. To know you trust him, for only then can he truly function.

You show him humanity through dancing, listening to music, and reading books. You let him season the meal, even though he doesn’t understand the purpose of the action. Allow him to water the plants while you share fascinating tidbits about each species. He never leaves your side, desperate for knowledge of your daily life. Becomes your shadow, intent on learning everything, who you truly are.

When you ask if he could read a book to you because you enjoy his voice, he agrees without hesitation, as he’s physically incapable of refusing you. Begins reading, and you rest your head on his lap, smiling as he tenses, trying to suppress his emotions. The words blur together as you start playing with the synthetic skin of his face, exploring with curiosity the false human that feels too real. You tell him you prefer his true form, his true self, and for the first time in his life, Optimus doesn’t know what to say, as no amount of experience could have prepared him for such raw honesty.

But this time, you allow him more. Let him feel the texture of your wet, freshly washed hair, touch damp skin, and dry your head with a towel. He sees you in your pajamas, even though the essence of fashion and clothing is largely unknown to him. Let him cuddle into you, to learn the sensation of closeness from a smaller perspective. And when you ask if he is satisfied with the human mundane, his answer remains unchanged.

[ceilidho]

fear of god

prompt: There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 3 masterlist

-

You don’t know exactly what you’re waiting for, but it doesn’t happen.

The man doesn’t appear again. No one knocks on any windows or appears on any scans though you run another one not twelve hours later. It’s not enough to convince you that it was all in your head, but it’s enough for you to start the process of putting it out of mind. 

You just can’t shake the unease following you, a shadow extending out from your feet. Your skin feels tight against your face, clinging to the muscle and bone; months under artificial light will do that to a person, sap them of something essential that can’t be replenished with just vitamins capsules and supplement injections. The human body isn’t meant for space travel. It longs for the sun and the earth under its feet. 

And now you have something new to worry about. 

Much to your relief, Hadir doesn’t bring up your earlier encounter at dinner. Though part of you wonders whether he mentioned it to anyone else, he doesn’t outwardly treat you any differently. Amiable as ever. It goes a long way towards assuring you that he must have put your earlier encounter out of his mind already. You should too. 

It’s just that—

You’re the person the crew goes to when they need fixing. Abrasions, lesions, migraines, broken bones, aches and pains. Though your training is in emergency medicine and space physiology, years of clinical rotations and field research have equipped you with an extensive medical background. Not the least of which includes psychological and neurological health. You’re the de facto psychologist on board should any of the crew suffer a mental health crisis.

And if there’s something wrong with you, who’s going to fix it?

You sit with that thought for entirely too long, but then one day passes into the next and nothing happens. When you look out the window, you only see the throughline of the universe, its heart tipped over and the milk spilling out. The ambient light in the station keeps you from seeing it as clearly as you’d like, but it’s there when you look out the window, ever-present. 

Still, you can’t help thinking about an astronaut somewhere out there, slipping into the darkness like a cold lake dragging a body down into its depths and holding it tight to its breast. 

You shake off the thought. Scrub a hand down your face. 

When your stomach rumbles, you ping the crew to let them know you won’t be in the medbay should they need you and head out to grab a bite to eat. Nikolai is already eating at the counter in the galley when you come in to make yourself supper. 

No crew dinner tonight. Though you eat together for the most part, there are days where work tasks keep everyone’s schedules from lining up. You know from the morning briefing that Alex and Graves will be busy until well into the evening working on celestial navigation and dead reckoning.

He looks up from where he stands hunched over the steel tray of food in front of him, a mix of rehydrated rajma, rice, and raita, and waves his fork in a silent greeting. 

“Is that what’s on the menu tonight?” you ask.

The big man nods, pointing towards the pantry with his fork. “New week. No more Hamburger Helper,” he says with no small amount of derision towards the aforementioned meal. 

You smile. “Looks good.”

Though the new ownership thankfully didn’t skimp on food rations, most of the crew’s daily meals were determined months ago, long before the ship’s departure back on Earth. There’s a laminated week by week menu tucked away at the back of the pantry listing each day’s repast from departure until arrival, but you haven’t given it so much as a glance since you boarded. Better to have something to look forward to every day. 

The food packet from the pantry goes into the rehydrator for the requisite amount of time and then into the crisper to add the texture back to it. Space food is never quite as satisfying as the food back on Earth, but you’ve grown fond of it in recent years, even enough to crave it back home. No matter the dish, you can always taste the faint peppery, slightly bitter undertaste, like fresh watercress. 

You’d been planning on eating by yourself back in your quarters or at a table in the mess, but you feel weird just leaving Nikolai to his own devices after exchanging a few pleasant words, so you join him at the island counter. 

“Did you have a lot on your plate today?”

“My plate?” Nikolai asks, looking down at his food. “Нет, not so much—I had big lunch at around four o’clock.”

You bite your lip to suppress your smile. “No, I meant, did you have a lot of work?”

“Ah, why didn’t you just say that? Yes, lots done today, lots more to do tomorrow. Farah and I are still working on finding the root cause for the issue with the cruise control.”

“It’s a tricky fix?”

“Yes. Complex,” he grunts, talking around the food in his mouth. After weeks of eating with him and longer working around cut open bodies and exposed organs, you’ve long learned to suppress any sign of disgust on your face. “The pilot augmentation system isn’t controlled by this ship’s AI, so it’s not an easy software fix. We thought it was component degradation from the asteroid the other day at first, but Farah had a look at it today and all seems good, so not so sure now. Maybe gyroscope malfunction. Maybe GPS receiver is having issues. Hard to say. Lots of work still to do.”

You nod as if you understand. Most of it goes over your head apart from the obvious frustration in his voice. 

“Would be easier problem to fix if we had specialist, but—” Nikolai shrugs, a rueful look on his face “—little budget, small crew. Better we have doctor for wrist sprain than specialist to fix pilot augmentation system.”

Though his tone isn’t necessarily bitter, you can’t help but prickle at the light sarcasm. Your impulse is to go on the defense. It isn’t your fault medics are mandatory. Certainly not your fault that the original twelve crew member allowance was slashed to only six. 

“Farah and you make a good team,” you say instead, ever the diplomat. Magnanimous despite the way your teeth ache in your gums. 

“Smart girl, that one. Would clone her if I could.”

His praise makes you look away only because you wish it could be aimed at you. You crave it these days. Not necessarily from Nikolai, but from anyone. The downside of these longhaul missions is that you go months without interacting with family or friends; it’s why space crews bond so strongly with one another, the only reprieve from the claustrophobic sense of isolation out in space. It’s also why you’ve felt as lonely as you have these past few months, emotionally out of sync with this crew. 

“Let me know if there’s any way I can out,” you offer as he finishes up the last of his supper, putting his tray away into the dishwasher.

Nikolai nods. Hums. “Could do with another pair of hands.”

You smile, relieved.

He starts heading towards the door, throwing a hand up behind him to wave goodbye. “Will let you know when I find some way you can be useful.”

The smile slips off your face. The doors slide shut behind him, silence filling the room. 

You don’t have it in you to eat much more. Most of your meal goes straight into the compost, along with the empty packet, and then you leave the galley as well. The last couple of hours of your day are spent sitting aimlessly at your desk in the medical unit until it’s time to head back to your quarters to shower and sleep. 

And then to bed you go. 

In the middle of the night—though the meaning of ‘night’ seems boundless out in space, like a word without a cognate—a deep sense of unease throbs in your chest. 

Sleep sloughs off you gradually and then all at once. One minute you’re twisting in the web of a nightmare and the next, your eyes are open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. 

You sit up in bed with the dull ache in your chest growing worse. The duvet slips off you and piles around your waist, the sheets under you damp with sweat. It hurts like heartburn. 

It’s too early for breakfast and you don’t have to pee. You’re not entirely sure what woke you up actually, your last dream already fading away, the threads of it unraveling when you reach out to try and pull it back in. It’s too far away to recall any of it. Propping yourself up on one arm, you twist to the side, hoping to let the sight of the stars guide you back to sleep. 

Out of your window, like a lone buoy in the middle of the ocean, an astronaut floats in the middle of space. 

For a moment, it doesn’t register. Likely just a dream that you haven’t woken up from yet. It’s remarkably vivid for a dream though. Your room is a cool dark blue, the band of dim artificial lights encircling the window beside your cot giving your quarters the distinct feel of a night back home on Earth. It’s only when you pinch your bare thigh and wince from the sharp, accompanying sting that you grasp that you’re awake. 

You are awake and there is a man floating away from the ship. 

The light from the ship glints off his suit, illuminating the shape of him. You stare out at him with increasing concern and dread. Not consciously grasping the gravity of the situation, but aware that you need to do something. He’s farther away this time, so distant that though his white spacesuit is stark against the dark field behind him, the visor of his helmet is impenetrable. Dark as obsidian. 

He drifts aimlessly in space, his body so still that you wonder if he’s even alive. With a jolt, you wonder if, in your haste to find help the other day, he did run out of oxygen and simply floated away. Occam's razor. You did not imagine a man speaking to you from outside the ship only for him to vanish from existence; he simply passed out while you were gone and drifted off before you could save him. 

“Oh shit,” you hiss, scrambling out of bed, nearly getting tangled in your sheets on the way out. You don’t even bother changing into more appropriate clothes, slamming the button to your door and squeezing through the gap between the door and the wall as soon as it opens for you. 

The corridor outside your room runs from stern to bridge, and is dimly lit at this time of night. The ship oscillates through Earth-tethered day and night cycles, the lights only at their brightest at a certain point aligning with morning back on Earth to simulate the distant sun. A slight chill to the air as well, to mirror night. Artificial photic and nonphotic zeitgebers to ensure the body maintains its circadian rhythm. Necessary to prevent sleep deprivation and keep the crew from going mad.

Now though, it makes you feel prey-like. Small. Darting from your room to the cockpit like a mouse scurrying across the savanna under the cloak of darkness and moonlight. 

Your bare feet smack against the metal floor as you run, the sound following you down the main corridor towards the cockpit. You pass another porthole but don’t bother glancing out of it, too intent on reaching the main viewing deck. You’ve got to—

Get the body help him save him I’m so sorry I left you out there—

Alex and Graves’s heads snap up as you barge into the cockpit panting and drenched in sweat. You don’t bother to explain yourself, heading straight for the flight deck window instead and leaning over the dashboard. The edge of the panel digs into your pelvis as you lean into the window. 

You crane your neck to look left and right, scanning as far as your eye can see. The astronaut you saw off in the distance from your bedroom window is gone. Only stars and dust shine from lightyears away. 

It doesn’t make sense. You saw him with your own two eyes drifting out there. You couldn’t have mistook him for anything else—not with the shape of his body, the helmet obelisk black. But there’s nothing out there. Nothing at all. 

“Doctor?” Alex asks tentatively from behind you, standing up from his chair. 

When you glance over your shoulder at him, wide-eyed, reality finally begins to seep back into you. The two of them stare at you from the other side of the cockpit, their concern and wariness evident in the tension in their shoulders. 

“Um—sorry. I…”

You don’t really know what to say. There’s no excuse that seems appropriate, no way of explaining the state of you, panicked and out of breath. For all intents and purposes, it’s the middle of the night. No reason for you to be out of your quarters and so disheveled. Panting like something chased you out of bed. 

You wonder what they would see if they cut you open; if they’d find your intercostal muscles bruised from the heavy beat of your heart. 

“Somethin’ you wanna share with us, doctor?” Graves asks. His tone is far less charitable, verging on suspicious.  

You swallow on a dry throat. “No, I’m—…it was nothing. I just…I had a bad dream.”

From the way they look at you, you can tell that neither of them believe you. It's flimsy, as far as excuses go. But there’s little else they can do but take you at your word. The rules are different out here, more tolerated than back on Earth. Everyone goes a little stir crazy; you just have to know how to manage it. 

“I should go back to my room,” you whisper when neither says anything. 

You move towards the door on cautious feet, suddenly aware of how cold it is in the cockpit. Goosebumps ripple down your arms and legs, nipples beading under your shirt. Alex politely averts his eyes when he notices. If you were less distressed, you’d be humiliated. 

“Get some sleep,” Graves says, eyes following you until the doors close behind you. 

You walk back to your quarters slowly, pausing to glance out one of the portholes just to confirm that you haven’t made a huge mistake. 

A minute or an hour goes by. You see nothing out in the distance.

Back in your room, you shut off the automatic light that comes on when you enter and collapse into bed. You avoid looking out the window for your own sanity, instead turning over onto your side. Wide awake now. Nothing to do but wait for sleep to sneak up on you again, if you haven’t scared it off entirely. All you can do is think about the look on Alex and Graves’ faces and cringe, pulling the blanket up over your head. 

Sleep almost finds you again when something knocks twice on the wall beside your head. 

Your breath catches in your throat. Fear scuttles across the floor beneath your bed. Just don’t look. Don’t look at it. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for it to go away. 

Whatever it is knocks again. The window this time. 

It takes an age to work up the nerve to roll back over. When you look up at the window, a face stares back at you, so close now that you can make out dimples and thick lips turned up at the corners. A close-shaved beard.

He smiles down at you, heedless of the horrified look on your face. “Hello again, love. Care to let me in now?”

[fear-is-truth]

six years together, three of them married—you know how your husband wakes up. how he rubs at his eyes but doesn’t reach for his glasses right away, content to let the world stay blurred. how he fumbles for you first, before anything else.

harry’s face is still slack with sleep, his lashes casting tiny shadows over his cheekbones, soft in a way that doesn’t quite match the rough stubble dusting his jaw. it leaves his face uneven in texture, smooth in some places, coarse in others. his hair is a mess, flattened on one side, the rest sticking up in unruly tufts. he smells clean—soap, faintly citrus, sun-dried laundry. the same scent you first inhaled in slughorn’s class, hovering over a cauldron of amortentia. his eyes snap open, bleary and still unfocused. they catch the early morning light filtering through the curtains, shifting between liquid shades of green you don’t have names for but love all the same.

you kiss him, just because you can.

his lips part under yours instantaneously, warm and a bit dry. a soft noise emerges from the back his throat—surprised but pleased. when you pull back, he licks his lips. swallows. (was it a trick of the light? you don’t think so,) harry’s eyes are darker now, black pupils eating into green.

“you don’t mind?” concern. you know what he means by that. he’s worried about morning breath. you feel a slight pang in your chest.

“ask again, and i’ll bite you.”

a quiet chuckle, then he leans in and kisses you properly.

six years, three of them married. you know how this goes.

[quillsandcravats]

Reign

Summary: Benedict, devoted and submissive, reveres you as his Queen and seeks to bring you ultimate pleasure. Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Rated: Explicit, MDNI, 18+ only Word Count: 2k Warnings: d/s, femdom, dirty talk, light bondage, both praise and degradation, pet names, drool/spit, oral (f receiving), queening/face sitting, light breathplay Requested: Yes/No

You sit on the plush chaise in the drawing room, your eyes scanning the latest copy of Lady Whistledown's Society Papers. The crackle of the fire in the hearth is complemented by the patter of London rain tapping against the large, ornate windows. With a rustle, you flip to the next page and reach for your porcelain teacup on the side table. The warmth of the tea spreads through you as you take a long, satisfying sip.

The faintest of whimpers drifts through the room, pulling your focus from your task. A small, condescending smile tugs at the corners of your lips, a mix of amusement and superiority evident in the slight upward curve. Benedict is down on his knees, the intricate patterns of the Persian rug beneath him, its rich reds and blues intertwining. The flickering firelight bathes him in a soft, amber hue, accentuating the contours of his face and casting shadows that dance across his smooth, pale skin. His entire body is stripped, leaving every inch of his complexion exposed to the cool air of the room. A navy blue silk cravat is tightly knotted around his mouth, muffling his voice so that his whimpers and gasps emerge as soft, unintelligible sounds.

Your lover's eyes glisten like sapphires, hidden by the fringe of his lashes that tremble subtly. A faint line forms between his brows, a silent plea for your approval. With a sharp tongue click, you let the teacup drop to the table with a jarring clatter. "Do I sense impatience?" you query.

Benedict's brow furrows as he jerks his head from side to side, his messy brunette hair moving briskly. "Mmph-mph. Unh, unh,"

You rise to your feet and make your way toward him. God, Benedict looks at you like you hang the moon. In front of the Ton, he leads you with all of the decorum and masculinity expected of a gentleman. But privately, he needs you to guide, lead, and love him in every way you can. He needs to submit to you, to your every desire and whim. Here, you reign as Benedict's queen; he would surrender himself entirely for you, willing to do anything to earn your adoration.

You run gentle fingers through his hair as you crouch beside him, feeling its texture against your fingertips. You glide a single finger down his stomach. With each gentle stroke, you can feel the slight twitch under your touch , a subtle reaction to your caress. A laugh escapes your lips as you marvel at how his body responds to the gentlest brush of your fingertips. His cock stands erect, demanding your focus.

Artfully, you reach out, grazing the precum with your fingertips, feeling its warm slickness. You dance a line along the underside of his cockhead with your finger, softly arousing the sensitive cluster of nerves at his frenulum. Benedict's hips buck immediately in response, and a low, guttural moan escapes him, muffled by his gag.

"You are so messy," you coo, using his wetness to lubricate your hand and stroke him. "Merely from being exposed, unclothed before me, watching me peruse that scandalous gossip from Lady Whistledown?"

He whines, his eyes flitting shut, head tipping back in pleasure. This is how you treasure him most - all filthy and compliant, just for you. With a gentle tug, you slide the knot loose, feeling the fabric of the cravat slip through your fingers as you unwind it from his head. The fabric unfurls, releasing his mouth from its restraint.

"Shall we put that pretty mouth to better use?"

Benedict acknowledges his lack of permission to voice his desires. So he simply nods, his eyes filled with an intense yearning as you rise, your movements enticing as you walk back to the chaise. You lower yourself down, smoothing your dress as you cross one leg over the other.

"You may speak, pet."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

You remember the first time Benedict referred to you with that title. It happened during a conversation about how things would proceed, discussing mutual desires, aversions, and what you wished to experience. You discussed names and safe words together — and he inquired whether he could call you His Queen. Benedict longed to surrender himself entirely to your will, cherishing the idea of you having absolute dominion over him.

"Crawl to me."

Benedict lowers himself to his hands and knees, slinking toward you with the grace of a feline. His eyes shimmer with adoration, a hungry desperation etched across his features. As he crawls nearer, his mouth parts with eager anticipation. You gaze at his pouty, pink lips, shimmering with a ravenous desire. You imagine those lips exploring you ... every inch of you. Lust blossoms in your core, your pussy pulsating as he draws nearer. With a gentle yet commanding gesture of your pointer finger, you guide Benedict before you on the floor.

"Lie on your back, gazing up."

He sinks to the floor, his back pressing into the rug's softness. His eyes lock onto yours, a delectable mix of curiosity and intensity as if awaiting your next step in a dance. You crouch beside him on the floor. Your hand, gentle and deliberate, traces the contours of his face, your palm gliding softly over the curve of his cheek, savouring the texture of his skin and the bit of stubble there. He is breathtakingly handsome, each feature enchanting, even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes mesmerize you. This man is your universe - someone you adore with a passion that surpasses the boundaries of societal norms: the profound love of a domme for her devoted submissive.

You slide your pointer and middle fingers between Benedict's parted lips, and he begins to suckle with a rhythmic hunger. The moist warmth of his tongue sends a spark of pleasure coursing through your fingertips, electric and vivid. His shoulders slacken as he eases into the sensation, allowing you to press deeper, past a second knuckle, then a third, until his saliva pools and spills around your fingers. You allow yourself to fuck his mouth with your fingers for a while, teasingly playing with the slickness of his spit, creating a mess as you smear it across his lips. You slide your fingers deeper, deeper, deeper until you sense his breath hitch and hear him gasp, a cascade of spit escaping his mouth in response.

"Such a good boy, taking Your Majesty's fingers so perfectly," You commend, observing the proud smile of accomplishment that spreads across his lips and the delightful pink blush that colors his cheeks. The sight, the feel of his mouth, drool, and tongue sends shivers down your spine, igniting a heat that pulses in your clit. The ache in your core grows sharp-set, desperate for his face to be buried in your pussy, lapping at you with want.

Abruptly, you slide your fingers from his mouth, feeling the slick warmth disappear from your skin. You surge to your feet in a swift, fluid motion. His eyes track you, a soft squeak of disappointment escaping his throat.

Your face contorts into a parody of empathy, eyebrows arching delicately, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. You push your lower lip into an exaggerated pout, tilting your head with calculated grace. This teasing mimicry echoes one of his iconic expressions—an intimate, playful jab at him.

"Aw, poor thing," you murmur, your voice thick with feigned sincerity.

You move forward, standing with one foot on either side of his face, the cool wooden floor steady beneath your feet. His breaths are shallow and rhythmic, barely audible, but you can sense the anticipation in their pattern. Slowly, you gather the muslin of your dress in your hands, pulling it up to reveal yourself fully to him, feeling the night air brush against your skin. Benedict moans softly as you do so, his hips rising with yearning, his shaft pulsing at the mesmerizing view of your cunt, partially veiled by a soft, delicate tuft of hair.

"Where does a Queen sit?"

"O-on her throne, Your Majesty," Benedict breathes. His voice was sweet and innocent, like warm honey drizzling your skin.

"And what, pray tell, is my throne?"

"My face, Your Majesty…my face is your throne."

"Well done, pet."

You gently descend onto his face, the warmth of his breath mingling with your heat. His nose grazes your skin, drawing in your distinctive fragrance, while his lips linger just below, parted and trembling. Benedict closes his eyes, savoring the moment before he indulges in what he craves most—the intoxicating essence of his queen, his Dominant.

Your breath hitches, a shiver cascading over your skin as his lips descend upon your cunt. A tantalizing mix of tingling and tickling elicits a soft gasp from you, settling into the sensation as you sink deeper into a seated position, your heels tucked behind your ass, knees nearly on the ground. You can feel the warm moisture of his mouth on your pussy, kissing and suckling with his entire mouth. He holds nothing back, letting himself go entirely as he tastes your sweetness. The wet sounds of his kisses and suckles on your folds only make you more aroused. A filthy symphony fills the drawing room, consuming you both.

"What an obedient slut you are," You offer a keening praise, undulating your hips in a circle. Your hands glide upward, exploring the contours beneath your dress until they reach the soft swell of your breasts. With a gentle yet deliberate touch, your thumb and forefinger tease your nipples, rolling and squeezing them in a rhythm that matches the subtle sway of your pelvis.

Benedict's fingers gently tap against your thigh, pleading for a moment of reprieve. As you rise up, he takes in a deep gasp of air, his body trembling with anticipation as you lower yourself back down onto him. He struggles to control his breathing as you move in a rhythm that allows him just enough oxygen to continue servicing you. A satisfied smile curves your lips as you hear his muffled groan and feel his skilled mouth latch onto your clit, knowing that this intense sensation will push you over the edge. As his lips suction your swollen clit, the pleasure takes you to a new height.

A simmering warmth gathers deep within your belly like a slow-burning fire, its fury growing as it wells through your center. Your body responds with animalistic instinct. The sweltering urges you on; your hips respond, pressing fervently against him.

"Yes, yes, my good boy!" You toss your head back, letting a carnal moan fall from your lips. "Fuck! Oh, Benedict, darling, fuck."

You feel nothing but pure pleasure as your orgasm rockets through you, your thighs squeezing and clamping around Benedict's head. White hot waves break through your body, the darkness blooming behind your closed eyes, your head tipped back in rapture. Your muscles contract and release, involuntarily squeezing and clamping around him as you ride it out. Benedict's skilled mouth sends waves of pleasure through your body until it's overwhelming. A groan comes from him as he feels you come on his face. He pushes upward, yearning to reach himself, but restrains, aware that he hasn't been granted permission, at least, not yet.

Benedict's tongue continues to tease at your throbbing and sensitive clit, his arms holding you tightly against him. He knows exactly how to keep you on the edge of ecstasy, knowing that the slightest change in pressure or speed will send you over the edge. And so he holds on, allowing himself to lessen his suckling just slightly, not wanting to overwhelm your sensitive nub. A second orgasm rages through you, even more intense than the first. Your body bucks, your hands grasping at his hair as you cry out his name, lost in a haze. You do not care who can hear your cries - not the maids, not the damned people on the street, not the entire world - the pleasure is too overwhelming to worry about discretion.

You need a few moments to stop your legs from trembling, so you inhale deeply and exhale slowly to steady yourself. Carefully, you shift your position, sliding off Benedict and settling beside him. He turns his head toward you, his face glistening, hair mussed like a madman. A soft giggle escapes your lips as you lean in, closing the gap to plant a kiss on him, the familiar taste of your own essence lingering on his skin.

"I do believe my good boy deserves a treat," you coquette. "Might you want Your Queen to return the favor?"

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED, COPIED, OR TRANSLATED WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT CONSENT. Taglist: @whatcjdidnext @i-do-not-care-bear @monaskydancer @enchantedbytomandhenry

[ryomenslvr]

you again

satoru gojo x fem!reader

synopsis: when satoru gojo breaks up with you, youre left heartbroken. until someone named “sukuna” messages you.

content warnings: slight angst?, good ending, kind of messy and rushed <\3

The coffee was cold. You didn’t remember how long you’d been sitting there. Long enough for the ice to melt, long enough for the sun to shift in the sky, throwing longer shadows across the café window. The condensation on the cup had dried, leaving behind faint rings on the table like little ghosts of time passing. Still, you brought it to your lips, sipping out of habit rather than want. It tasted watery, bitter, and empty.

Gojo’s voice still echoed in your ears, stubborn and sharp despite how softly he had said it.

“This isn’t working.”

You had looked up then, instinctively, as if his words hadn’t fully made sense until you saw his face. Those impossibly bright blue eyes, always gleaming, always daring the world to challenge him, looked… tired. Not just physically. Something deeper. Like he had finally come to terms with a truth he didn’t want to accept.

“You deserve someone who pays attention.”

Your chest had ached, not with surprise, but with recognition. You had known. You’d been knowing, for weeks, maybe months. The space between you had been growing, slow and invisible at first, like a crack in glass that only becomes noticeable when it splinters all at once.

You flinched, but not at his words. You flinched at how much they sounded like your own thoughts, the ones you had whispered to yourself at 3 a.m. when he hadn’t come home, or when he had, but hadn’t really been there.

His world had always revolved around Satoru Gojo. Brilliant, untouchable, adored. His work, his students, the weight of the title he carried. You had tried not to resent it. You really had. But even gravity has its limits.

You sipped the coffee again, just to do something with your hands.

“I agree,” you had said, and your voice hadn’t cracked. That surprised you. It came out flat, clean, practiced. Like you’d been rehearsing this moment without knowing it.

Not because you didn’t care. You did. God, you did. But you had already grieved it. Quietly. Slowly. Alone.

The breakup wasn’t explosive. No raised voices. No thrown glasses or last-minute pleas. Just… sad. Like watching a balloon drift upward until it was a dot in the sky. No bang. No snap. Just the weightless letting go.

You remember how he had nodded, just once. Like he respected you more in that moment than he ever had before. And maybe he did. Maybe, for a second, you weren’t the person orbiting his world. Maybe you were your own sun, burning just as bright. Even if he couldn’t look at you without squinting.

Now, in the quiet hum of the café, you traced your finger along the rim of the cup, grounding yourself in the texture of it. The seat across from you was empty, but you didn’t rush to fill it.

Some losses didn’t leave gaping wounds. Some just left silence. And sometimes, silence was the first breath of something new.

Weeks passed. You tried to move on, or at least pretended to.

You redownloaded dating apps with the same enthusiasm as someone forcing down cough syrup. You told yourself it was healthy. Normal. The thing people did after breakups. Swipe, match, chat, meet. Rinse and repeat.

The first guy had dark black hair and green eyes. He talked about crypto the entire dinner, comparing emotional investment to Ethereum trends. You nodded politely, internally debating if you could fake a phone call emergency without being obvious.

The second date had brown hair tied into two cute pigtails above his head. He opened with a Donald Duck impression and closed with him pouting because you didn’t laugh. “It’s, like, a perfect impression,” he’d muttered, genuinely wounded. You’d offered him a strained smile and left early under the excuse of “a migraine” which was only half a lie.

You kept trying. You gave normal people chances. But every conversation felt like dragging your feet through wet cement. Every laugh felt forced. Every kiss, if it got that far, felt cold and mechanical.

What you missed wasn’t the drama or the distance. Not even Gojo’s beauty, which was effortless and unfair. You missed ease. The casual magnetism. The way he could say the dumbest thing and still make it sound like the most brilliant idea in the world. He was frustrating. He was selfish. But with him, you never had to fake a laugh.

And then… there it was. A new message request. You almost ignored it. The username was strange.

Name: Ryomen. No mutuals. No last name. No bio. Just a single profile picture.

You tapped it out of curiosity, and immediately stilled.

The photo looked like it had been taken in low lighting, shadows curling around his jawline like smoke. His eyes were dark and sharp, the kind that didn’t just look at you, but through you. A face like it was carved from stone, all angles and tension, handsome in a way that made your pulse quicken for the wrong reasons.

Tattooed forearms rested on his knees, strong and relaxed like he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t smiling. Not really. His mouth was tilted in a smirk that felt like a dare. Like he knew things he shouldn’t. Like he’d burn you just to see what you’d do.

Everything about the profile felt… off. Intense. Like someone who didn’t belong in your filtered, polished digital world.

You should’ve blocked him. Or ignored it. Or at least Googled the name first. But your finger hovered.

You hesitated.

Then tapped Accept.

A second later, the message came through.

“Hey.”

That was it. No emoji. No awkward pick-up line. No “how’s your day?” Just one word. Direct. Confident.

You stared at it longer than you meant to.

Then your thumbs moved, almost on their own.

“Hey.”

You didn’t expect much. Not from someone with no bio, no mutual friends, no visible ties to your world. At most, you thought Ryomen might be a brief distraction. A few flirty texts, a momentary escape, something to fill the quiet space Gojo left behind.

But Sukuna, the name he told you he’d prefer to go by, was different.

He never flooded you with compliments or heart emojis. No love-bombing, no desperate attempts to impress. Instead, he was deliberate. Focused. He asked about your day, not just in the way people do to be polite, but like he actually wanted to know. He remembered the small things you didn’t even realize you were sharing.

Like how you always drank tea late at night, when the world was quiet and still.

Or how you hummed absentmindedly when you were working, your mind drifting into rhythm without you noticing.

Or how you absolutely couldn’t stand the sound of people chewing with their mouths open.

“You like that weird floral tea, right?” he asked one evening.

You blinked at the message, your fingers pausing mid-scroll. Your heart thudded.

“How’d you know that?”

His response came a second later.

“Just a guess,” he wrote. “You seem like the floral type.”

You stared at the screen. Smiled. Bit your lip. It was such a small thing. But it stuck with you. The way he noticed. The way he saw you.

Gojo, for all his charm, never paid attention like that. He used to wrinkle his nose when he caught a whiff of your tea. Called it “leaf water” and joked that it tasted like someone boiled a garden. You’d laugh it off, but some part of you always shrank under it, like your preferences were quirks he barely tolerated.

But Sukuna noticed. Remembered. Noticed without being prompted. And never made you feel ridiculous for it.

You started looking forward to his messages. His dry wit. His blunt honesty that somehow never came across as cold. He had a way of saying things that cut through the fluff without being cruel. And when you vented about your day, no matter how mundane, he always had the perfect one-liner to snap you out of your spiral. He never tried to fix things, he just listened. He got it.

He never overshared. Never really talked about himself. His replies, while thoughtful, kept a certain distance. You learned to read between the lines. A comment here, a half-joke there. You pieced together fragments like a puzzle: he didn’t sleep much, he preferred silence to noise, and he wasn’t particularly fond of people.

But you didn’t mind the mystery. You didn’t mind that you were the one talking more. Because with him, even silence felt like connection.

Your late-night chats became a ritual. Lying in bed in the dark, screen lighting up your face, his name at the top of your screen. A private thread of something intimate and unspoken. You caught yourself smiling at your phone more than you had in months, smiling without guilt, without trying to justify it.

It wasn’t just a distraction anymore. It felt like the beginning of something real. Something unexpected. Something dangerous, maybe, but real.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet voice whispered: Be careful.

But for now, you let yourself ignore it.

One night, tucked under your blankets with the blue glow of your phone illuminating the room, you found yourself sharing something you usually kept buried. An old college memory, the kind that still made you wince when you thought about it.

You typed slowly, unsure why you were even telling him.

“Okay, embarrassing story time. I once tripped during a group presentation and accidentally spilled my entire iced coffee on my professor’s laptop.”

You paused, then added:

“Right in front of thirty people. He had to cancel the class. The IT guy said the damage was ‘catastrophic.’”

It was the kind of thing Gojo had never let you live down. He’d teased you about it for weeks. Called it “the laptop massacre” like it was a moment of historical significance. You remembered the way he’d wheezed with laughter every time he brought it up. You’d roll your eyes, pretend it was annoying—but deep down, you’d laughed too. Back then, things were good. Back then, he was good.

The typing dots appeared instantly on Ryomen’s side.

“Ah yes. The laptop massacre. A classic.”

You stared at your screen.

Your breath caught.

No one else called it that.

Not your friends, not your classmates, not even you. That phrase, that specific phrasing, had belonged to one person.

Gojo.

You sat up, heart hammering, the phone suddenly heavy in your hand. Your room felt smaller. Stifling. Like the walls were inching closer with every breath.

You reread the message.

Nothing changed. The message was the same as it was when you first read it.

Your hands trembled.

Your mind raced through possibilities, desperate to rationalize.

Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe you mentioned that detail and forgot. Maybe he’s joking, just playing along.

But you knew better.

Ryomen wasn’t the type to “just play along.” He was precise. Every word he typed had weight.

And this? This wasn’t an accident.

You swallowed hard, fingers hovering above the keyboard, heart in your throat. The silence of your room roared louder than ever.

Then you typed:

“We need to meet. Tomorrow. Shibuya Crossing. 3 PM.”

There was no emoji. No hesitation. Just urgency. Raw and exposed.

You watched the screen, chest tight. The reply came almost immediately.

“Can’t wait.”

That was all.

You stared at the words for a long time, the weight of them pressing against your chest.

You’d spent weeks thinking this was something new. Something separate. But now, the threads tangled. Familiarity in the unfamiliar. Gojo’s voice in someone else’s mouth.

Was this a coincidence? A game? Or something far more deliberate?

You set your phone down and looked around your room. Everything was where it had always been, untouched and familiar. And yet, nothing felt the same anymore.

Tomorrow, you’d find out the truth.

One way or another.

The next day, Shibuya Crossing pulsed with its usual chaotic rhythm. Pedestrians surged in every direction, businessmen brushing past tourists, flashing lights bouncing off glass buildings, the sound of street performers lost beneath the mechanical voice of the crosswalk timer. The air smelled like asphalt, sweet crepes, and too many people in one place.

You stood near the Hachiko statue, fingers curled around your phone, thumb absently hovering over the screen. Your eyes scanned the crowd, tracing over every tall silhouette, every dark jacket, every pair of tattooed arms.

But he wasn’t there.

No shadowed eyes. No quiet menace. No Sukuna.

Your chest tightened. Maybe it had all been a joke. Or worse, maybe someone had been using you. Some anonymous stranger hiding behind intensity and pretty lies.

Then your phone buzzed in your hand. One word.

“Look.”

You turned.

And everything stopped. Gojo stood a few feet away.

He looked nothing like Ryomen. No tattoos, no curated shadows. Just him, messy white hair slightly flattened under the hood of a black sweatshirt, jaw unshaven, eye bags dark and heavy under those once bright eyes. His phone was still in his hand, screen lit with your message thread.

You stared at him like he was a ghost. No. Not a ghost. A lie, one that had taken on skin.

Your breath caught. Your lips parted. No sound came out.

His mouth moved first.

“I—”

“You,” you whispered. And then louder, voice sharp, cracking. “You absolute idiot!”

He flinched. The sound hit him like a slap.

“I can explain,” he said quickly, words tumbling. There was no grin. No sarcasm. Just a man unraveling in real time, stripped of the charm he always used as armor.

“Explain what, Gojo?” Your voice shook, but it didn’t break. “That you catfished me? Pretended to be Sukuna? Used some stranger’s face like a costume?”

The betrayal burned. It wasn’t just anger. It was humiliation. You’d opened up. You’d trusted. And he’d been behind the mask the whole time.

He rubbed his face, fingers pressed hard into his temples. “I know. I know. It’s insane. I messed up. I messed up bad.”

He looked up, and in that moment, he didn’t look like the strongest sorcerer in the world. He looked tired. Small. Wrecked.

“I missed you,” he said quietly. “But I knew you wouldn’t answer if it was me. I figured… maybe if I was someone else. Someone you’d actually want.”

“You used Sukuna’s face.”

He winced. “I found those photos on some old forum. They were just anonymous images, no name. I didn’t know he was some guy you’d… get attached to. I just thought… he looked like the kind of man you might choose. Someone more grounded. More serious. Less… me.”

You stared at him.

“All that time,” you murmured. “The conversations. The way you listened. Remembered the smallest things. That was you?”

He nodded, ashamed. “Yeah. Every bit of it. I didn’t make any of that up. I just, tried to show up as the person I should’ve been when I had the chance.”

Silence fell between you. Around you, the crossing lights changed again. The city pulsed on. But for a moment, it was like everything had narrowed down to just this: you, and him, and the enormous, stupid lie he’d wrapped in longing.

You crossed your arms, staring hard. “You’re such a disaster.”

“I know,” he said, eyes holding yours, vulnerable. “But I’m your disaster. Or… I want to be. Again.”

It wasn’t just his words. It was how he looked at you. Not with cocky expectation, but with something raw. Something real. Like he was afraid to hope, but doing it anyway.

You exhaled, your breath fogging faintly in the air. The betrayal still stung. But behind it, under it, was something else.

The way he’d remembered your tea. The way he’d listened when no one else had. The quiet patience in those late-night messages.

And now, here he was. Not behind a screen. Not behind a mask. Just Gojo.

A laugh escaped you, bitter, involuntary. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He blinked, then let out a soft, relieved breath. “So… you’re not leaving?”

You paused.

“Not today,” you sighed.

His shoulders dropped, the tension leaking from him all at once like a balloon with a pinprick. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t reach for you. Just stood there, hands loose at his sides, letting you set the distance.

Then, gently: “What do you want, Gojo?”

He stepped forward a fraction. “You. Us. A do-over. No tricks this time. No masks. Just me, mess and all.”

You looked at him. At his chapped lips. His shaking hands. The desperation softening into something quieter. Braver.

“I can’t promise I won’t screw up again,” he said, voice rough. “But I can promise I’ll never forget your tea. Or your stories. Or the way you hum when you’re deep in thought.”

You swallowed hard.

“This is going to take time.”

“I’ll wait,” he said immediately. “I don’t care how long.”

You looked around, at the endless waves of people brushing past, the shimmer of traffic lights on wet pavement, the world rushing by like it always had. But somehow, here in the noise, you felt a stillness. A flicker of something fragile and real.

“Alright,” you said. “Let’s talk. Properly. Just us. No personas. No pretending.”

His face cracked open into a smile, relieved, warm, and just a little shy. “Thank you,” he whispered.

He didn’t reach for your hand. Didn’t pull you into a hug. He just stood beside you, close enough to feel, far enough to be careful.

And maybe, just maybe, the worst idea he’d ever had was also the one that finally made him human.

And gave you both the start you’d never had the first time.

dividers by @/dollywons <3

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath

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TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), tension, kidnapping, helplessness, coercion, lecherous behavior, predatory behavior, angst.

Part 42

Dead Weight - Part 43

The sheets were softer than you remembered. That was your first conscious thought as you slowly emerged from sleep, consciousness returning in fragments. There was warmth beside you, an arm draped across your waist.

The nightmare felt too real—Negan, the lineup, Abraham's blood. But it was over now. You were safe, back in your bed with Daryl beside you.

You turned over carefully, not wanting to wake him, and snuggled closer to the warm body beside you. Your face pressed against the chest you were laying on, breathing in what should have been Daryl's familiar scent— something uniquely him that always made you feel safe.

But something was wrong. The smell was different—expensive cologne and something sharper, more clinical. Your hand moved instinctively upward, seeking the familiar texture of Daryl's long hair to curl your fingers through, to remind yourself you where home.

Your fingers found nothing but short, slicked-back hair. Confusion clouded your drowsy mind as you tried to process this discrepancy. Where were the longer strands you loved ? Where was the slightly greasy texture that meant Daryl hadn't had a chance to wash it after getting back late from a run ?

The familiar comfort of being held should have made the last vestiges of the terrible dream fade away, but instead, wrongness was creeping in at the edges of your consciousness.

You feel the weight shift next to you on the bed. Solid. Heavy. Familiar, maybe.

Then—fingertips brush your cheek. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

You smile, not fully awake, that's the answer your not awake yet, that must be it.

Of course it's Daryl, it's always Daryl.

"Could you do the tapping thing, please ? Helps me drift off…” you whispered sleepily against what you thought was Daryl's chest, your voice barely audible. The words came out automatically.

There’s a beat of silence.

A low, amused voice—gravel wrapped in sleaze—replies. That voice is wrong. Completely wrong. Deep and smooth where it should have been gravelly and soft. The next thing you noticed was how bright the room was—not the gentle morning light that filtered through the attic window, but harsh fluorescent brightness.

“Darlin’, I don’t know what the hell that means, but I’m intrigued as shit.”

Your eyes snap open.

Negan.

He’s beside you, bare chest partially covered by the sheet, stubble coarse and shadowed. His smirk stretches slow and amused, as if he’s watching a movie scene unfold just for him.

“Kinda hopin’ thats a name for somethin’ real dirty,” he purrs.

Your throat dries.

These weren't your sheets.

This wasn't your room.

This wasn't your life.

This wasn't Daryl.

Panic shot through you like ice water as the memories came flooding back. The lineup. Abraham's blood pooling in the dirt. Your desperate bargain with this monster. The ride to the Sanctuary in the back of a truck, Negan's hand possessive on your knee as he explained the "rules" of being one of his wives.

The way he'd shown you to this room like it was some kind of gift, told you to "get comfortable" because this was your home now.

"Easy there, sweetheart," Negan's voice was amused as he felt you tense. "Just catching up on some beauty sleep. Though I gotta say, you're even prettier when you're all sleepy and confused like this."

The nightgown clinging to your skin is expensive and delicate and nothing you would ever choose to wear.

Your breath catches in your chest, shoulders slowly curling in on yourself as if you could disappear beneath the sheet. You try to shuffle back without thinking, eyes wide with horror, But his arm tightens around your waist, keeping you pressed against his side with casual, terrifying strength.

Negan watches with that same infuriating calm, entirely leisurely, an arm resting behind his head like he owns the world—and you with it.

“You thought I was him, didn’t you? Damn.”

He laughs—low, mocking.

“Now that is heartbreaking. I mean, I know the dude’s got a rugged thing goin’ on, but I didn’t think he was strokin’ you to sleep like a damn lullaby.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re trying to keep the tears at bay, gripping the sheet like a lifeline, teeth pressed together so hard it hurts. A single tear slips free.

“Aw, don’t cry, sweetheart. I was being gentle, wasn’t I?”

He leans in, voice dropping, almost like he’s trying to coo. “Thought you might even like wakin’ up next to someone who didn’t stink of hillbilly sweat.”

He turns to look at you, face unreadable for a split second.

“Y’know… you keep dreaming about that redneck, he’s gonna get himself dead. You wanna protect him?” He pauses. “You might wanna stop making me so jealous in your sleep.”

You tried to pull away,

"Now what did you want me to do?" he asked, and you could hear the grin in his voice mixed with something darker. "This 'tapping' you mentioned? I'm all ears, and I do aim to please my wives. Especially the new ones."

Rage flooded you as you realized what he was implying, how your innocent request had sounded to his ears.

"It's not—it wasn't—"

"Hey, hey," Negan chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest in a way that made your skin crawl. "No judgment here. I'm a patient man, but I like to know what gets my girls going. Makes the honeymoon phase so much more fun."

You pressed your hands against his chest, trying to create some distance, but it was like pushing against a wall. "We haven't—I mean, you didn't—"

"Relax, Nothing happened. Scout's honor." His grin was visible even in your peripheral vision, predatory and amused. "I don't fuck unconscious women—where's the fun in that?."

The crudeness of his words made you flinch, and he seemed to enjoy your discomfort.

"Too much too fast?" He pulled you closer despite your resistance, your head ending up back on his shoulder in a mockery of the intimate mornings you'd shared with Daryl.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We've got all the time in the world to get acquainted. I'm thinking we'll start slow—maybe a nice dinner tonight, let you get used to your new surroundings. Then tomorrow, I want to show you off to the rest of the Sanctuary. Let everyone see what a lucky son of a bitch I am."

The possessive way he spoke about you made your stomach turn. "Daryl," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Where is he? You promised—"

"He's alive. Fed and watered, just like I promised." Negan's voice took on a crueler edge. "Though I gotta say, he's not taking your absence very well. Heard he's not eating much. Not sleeping either. Funny how a man can just fall apart when you take away the thing he cares about most."

Tears burned your eyes as the full weight of your situation crashed over you. Daryl was suffering, probably blaming himself for everything, and you were trapped here in this monster's bed, being talked about like a prize he'd won.

An hour later, you're standing in a room that feels like a twisted version of a boutique dressing room, surrounded by women in identical black dresses who look at you with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. Negan had delivered you here with a possessive hand at the back of your neck, his fingers splayed wide against your skin in a gesture that probably looked intimate from the outside but felt like a cruel leash.

The other wives are nothing like what you expected.

"This is Sherry," he'd said, indicating a woman with tired eyes, "and Amber, and Tanya. They'll get you sorted out. Ladies, this is my newest wife. Treat her real nice."

The door had closed behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded like a cell door slamming shut.

"It gets easier," Sherry says quietly, holding up a black dress that looks identical to the one she's wearing. "The first few days are the worst."

Amber, who can't be more than twenty, nods eagerly. "He doesn't... he doesn't force anything. Not really. As long as you don't fight him."

The dress is beautiful, you suppose, if you could ignore what it represents. The material is soft and expensive, cut to flatter, and you hate it on sight. When you pull it on, it fits perfectly, and that somehow makes it worse.

Sherry moves with the careful grace of someone who's learned to make herself small, but there's steel in her spine when she looks at you. "You're the one who made the deal," she says, not unkindly.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"That was brave," says Amber, younger than the rest, her hands shaking as she pours tea. "And stupid. But brave."

They tell you their stories in careful, quiet voices. Sherry's husband Dwight, burned and broken for trying to run.

Amber's mother, sick and needing medicine.

Tanya's family, protected as long as she plays her part. Each black dress bought with blood and sacrifice, each smile a mask over survival.

"The trick," Sherry explains as she helps you into your own black dress – the fabric feels like mourning – "is to give him just enough to keep him interested, but never everything. He likes the chase. The conquest. Once he has all of you..." She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.

"How long have you guys been here?" you ask them, while helping you with the dress.

"Two years," she says simply. "My husband owed points. Negan said he'd forgive the debt if I became a wife. David's still alive, still has his face. Small mercies."

The casual way she says it makes your heart ache. These women aren't evil; they're survivors, just like you. They've all made impossible choices to protect the people they love, and now they're trapped in this strange, luxurious prison.

"What about you?" Sherry asks gently. "What did you trade?"

You shake your head, you cant say it out loud, saying it out loud will make it all feel to real.

The women exchange glances, and you can see the recognition in their eyes. They know what it's like to watch someone you love face death and make the choice to save them at any cost.

"We look out for each other here," Sherry says finally. "It's the only way to survive."

Negan's hand settles on the back of your neck as he leads you through the Sanctuary, his fingers spanning the delicate bones there with casual possessiveness. To anyone watching, it might look intimate – a gentle touch between lovers. But you feel the control in it, the threat. One wrong move and those fingers could tighten, could twist, could break.

"This here's the factory floor," he says, his voice carrying the pride of ownership as he shows off the kneeling workers. "Everything runs smooth as silk because everyone knows their place."

His thumb brushes against your nape, a mockery of tenderness. Several of the workers glance up, and you see the mixture of fear and pity in their eyes.

They know what you are now.

What you represent.

"The gardens are Sherry's domain – she's got a real green thumb. But I think you might be more suited to other... indoor activities." His laugh makes your skin crawl.

"Indoor activities like the kitchen, inventory management," he continues, his tone deliberately innocent now. "Though from that look on your face, I'm guessing your mind went somewhere else entirely. Sweetheart, you've got a dirtier imagination than I gave you credit for."

You want to tell him that's not what you were thinking, that the crawling sensation under your skin has nothing to do with misunderstanding and everything to do with the way he deliberately chose his words.

But you know that's exactly the reaction he was hoping for—the flustered confusion, the embarrassment that makes you feel smaller and more vulnerable.

"The wives help with the day-to-day operations," he explains, and now his voice is back to that practiced charm, as if the moment of calculated cruelty never happened.

"Administrative work, meal planning. You'd be surprised how much goes into keeping a place like this running smoothly. Everyone contributes according to their abilities."

What you represent hits you like a physical blow. You're not just a wives—your symbols. Living proof that Negan can take whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. That he can reach into communities that consider themselves safe and pull out their most precious things.

That he can turn their loved ones into willing participants in their own psychological destruction.

Every person who sees you in this dress, walking beside him with his hand on your neck, will know exactly what it means. They'll know that somewhere in this place, Daryl is paying the price for you, and that you're paying the price for his supposed defiance.

You focus on breathing.

On staying upright.

On not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

The tour continues through common areas and workshops, Negan's voice a constant drone of self-congratulation while his hand never leaves your neck. You're a prize being displayed, a new acquisition to be shown off.

You notice how the workers' eyes follow him, how they hurry to get out of his path, how they duck their heads when he looks their way. It's not respect—it's fear, and you wonder if he knows the difference or if he's convinced himself that they're the same thing.

"Ah, Dwighty-boy!" Negan calls out as you approach a man with a scarred face and dead eyes. "Just the man I wanted to see. How's our guest doing? Settling in nicely?"

Your heart stops. Dwight is wearing Daryl's vest—the angel-winged vest that's been part of him for as long as you've known him.

The leather looks wrong on someone else's shoulders, and you feel bile climb your throat.

The sight of Daryl's vest—on Dwight's shoulders breaks something inside you. You remember the night Daryl had told you about it, his voice quiet and rough in the darkness of your soft bedding in the attic.

How it had been Merle's first, he'd taken ownership of it when Merle joined the army, how Daryl had carefully sewn those wings onto the back himself with unsteady hands and fierce determination.

"Wanted somethin' that made it mine," he'd whispered. "Somethin' that meant somethin'."

Now it's draped across the shoulders of the man who's helping to torture him, and the injustice of it burns in your chest like acid.

"Take it off." The words tear from your throat before you can stop them, raw and furious. "Take it off right now, you prick. That's not yours!"

Dwight's eyes widen slightly, but before he can respond, Negan's hand jerks you backward with enough force to make you stumble. His fingers dig into the sensitive skin at the base of your skull, and when he leans down to whisper in your ear, his voice is deadly quiet.

"Behave ... or I will have to send Rick pieces of your little boyfriend."

The words are simple, but the threat behind them is crystal clear. You're not just one of Negan's wives—you're a symbol of Daryl's submission, a living reminder of what happens when someone defies him.

Your pain is Daryl's pain, your humiliation is his defeat, and any act of rebellion on your part will be paid for in his blood.

Your hands shake with the effort of keeping them at your sides instead of clawing at Dwight's face, instead of tearing that precious vest away from someone who has no right to wear it.

But Negan's grip on your neck is a leash, and you're forced to stand there and watch as Dwight shifts uncomfortably, the angel wings seeming to mock you from across his shoulders.

"Now," Negan says, his voice returning to its usual jovial tone as if nothing happened, "where were we?"

"He's... adjusting," Dwight says carefully, not quite meeting your eyes.

"Good, good. You know, I think it's important for my wives to understand the full scope of what I do here. The hard choices I have to make to keep everyone safe." Negan's fingers tighten slightly on your neck. "Daryl's learning that lesson right now. Learning that all actions have consequences, and sometimes the people we love are the ones who pay the price."

The casual cruelty in his voice makes you feel sick. This is psychological warfare, and you're the weapon he's using against Daryl. Every day you're here, every night you sleep in Negan's bed, every time you appear at his side in that black dress—it's all designed to break him.

The corridor is empty at this hour, most of the Sanctuary's residents either working or sleeping. Sherry leans against the wall, cigarette between her fingers, the smoke curling up toward the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. She's been waiting here for twenty minutes, knowing Dwight's patrol route by heart after all these years.

When his footsteps echo down the hallway, she doesn't look up immediately. They've perfected this dance—the careful choreography of two people who once loved each other, now reduced to stolen moments and cigarette breaks in empty corridors.

"You're early," she says, offering him the pack.

Dwight takes one without comment, his scarred face impassive as he lights it. They smoke in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them like the haze of tobacco smoke.

"She's not eating," Sherry says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Who?"

"You know who. The new girl. She picks at her food, moves it around her plate. Negan's starting to notice."

Dwight takes a long drag, exhales slowly. "Not my problem."

"Isn't it?" Sherry's eyes find his, searching for something that might still be there beneath the carefully constructed walls. "She's not like us, D."

The muscle in Dwight's jaw twitches, the only sign that her words have hit their mark.

"You know what that's like," Sherry continues, her voice soft but insistent. "Loving someone enough to destroy yourself for them."

They both know she's not just talking about you anymore. The cigarette burns down between Dwight's fingers, forgotten, as the past rises up between them like a ghost.

"I can't—" he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

"You can't what? Help her? Or help yourself?"

Sherry reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small piece of paper. She'd watched you write it that morning, hunched over in the wives' common room with a pen you'd begged Amber to find for you. Two words, written in your careful handwriting, folded until it was small enough to hide.

"She asked me to give this to him," Sherry says smoothly, holding out the note.

Dwight stares at the paper like it might bite him. "Sherry..."

"She's dying in there, piece by piece. Just like I did. Just like you did." Her voice cracks slightly, the first real emotion she's shown. "Maybe... maybe some people deserve a chance to hold onto something real."

Dwight's hand closes around the note, his fingers trembling slightly. For a moment, Sherry sees a glimpse of the man she used to know—the one who would have moved heaven and earth for the people he loved.

"If they catch me..."

"They won't," Sherry says with more confidence than she feels. "You know the blind spots better than anyone."

Dwight stubs out his cigarette against the wall, the small paper feels like its burning in his palm like a coal. "This doesn't change anything."

"I know."

"We're not... this isn't..."

"I know," Sherry repeats, softer this time.

He walks away without another word, but Sherry notices he doesn't throw the note away.

The basement level of the Sanctuary is always cold, always damp, always filled with the sound of machinery humming in the distance. Dwight's footsteps echo off the concrete walls as he makes his way through the familiar maze of corridors, past storage rooms and maintenance areas, down to the row of rooms they use as cells housing the Sanctuary's special guests.

He's made this walk dozens of times in the past few days, bringing meals, delivering Negan's psychological torments, watching a good man slowly break under the weight of captivity and loss. Each time, Daryl looks at him with those pale blue eyes full of hate, and each time, Dwight tells himself he doesn't care.

But tonight feels different. The note in his pocket seems to pulse with its own heartbeat, and he can't shake the image of Sherry's face when she handed it to him—the desperate hope mixed with resignation, like she was throwing a message in a bottle into a vast, uncaring ocean.

The cell comes into view, the music has been turned off for the night—even Negan's cruelty has its limits—and the silence feels heavier somehow than the constant noise.

Dwight approaches slowly, his keys jangling softly as he unlocks the door. Daryl doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge his presence, but Dwight knows he's listening. Always listening, always watching, always waiting for an opportunity that may never come.

For a long moment, Dwight just stands there, staring at the door. He thinks about Sherry's words, about choices and consequences, about the weight of loving someone enough to destroy yourself for them.

"Your girl," he says finally, his voice rough and heavy from thinking to much. "She's..."

Daryl's head snaps up, eyes blazing with a fury that makes Dwight take an involuntary step back.

"Don't," Daryl growls, his voice like gravel. "Don't you dare talk about her."

"She's stronger than most" Dwight continues, ignoring the warning.

He pulls the note from his pocket, his hand shaking slightly as he unfolds it. Two words, written in ink that's slightly smudged, letters that curve and flow with feminine grace. He reads them once, twice, feeling something crack open in his chest.

Without another word, he crouches down and slides the paper across the floor.

Daryl stares at it like it might be a trap, like touching it might make it disappear. But slowly, carefully, he reaches out and picks it up, bringing it close enough to read in the dim light.

Still Yours

The words hit him like a physical blow, and for a moment, he can't breathe. Your handwriting, your words, reaching across the impossible distance between you. He traces the letters with his fingertip, memorizing every curve and line, proof that you're still you, still his, despite everything Negan has tried to take away.

He looks up as the room is plunged into darkness. Dwight is gone, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the faint scent of cigarette smoke. But the note remains, solid and real in his hands, and for the first time since this nightmare began, Daryl allows himself to hope.

He tears the paper into tiny pieces and swallows them, destroying the evidence but keeping the message burned into his memory. Then he closes his eyes and lets himself remember the sound of your soft voice asking him to "Stay ... five more minutes" that last morning.

[libingan]

—beneath the mask.

summary: in your love, simon finds the strength to shed his ghostly mask, becoming a man once more—a man who dares to feel and hopes to heal.

a/n: im out of horny juice. im so drained. sometimes i forget this blog exists, but im back yall!!!! have some soft simon moments

the first time you saw him, the sight of him—a figure swathed in black, his eyes cold and impassive behind a mask—was like meeting a living shadow. ghost was more than just a soldier; he was a specter of war, a manifestation of relentless duty and unyielding resolve. his presence was imposing, his movements precise and calculated, embodying the essence of a machine built to fulfill its purpose with ruthless efficiency. in every battle, ghost was a legend—an entity to be feared, his name spoken in hushed tones, evoking a mixture of awe and dread.

but as you ventured into his world, you discovered the layers beneath the imposing exterior. it was through the quiet moments between chaos that you began to see the man behind the mask—the fragile human who had long been overshadowed by the ghost he had become. your love was a beacon that cut through the relentless darkness, illuminating the parts of him that had been buried under years of combat and emotional suppression.

your touch was the first sign of his transformation. each caress was like a soothing balm to his battle-worn soul. when your fingers traced the contours of his face, feeling the rough texture of scars and the tense lines of his jaw, it was as if you were mapping a landscape of pain and resilience. the warmth of your skin against his was a stark contrast to the coldness of his soldier’s facade. he could feel the gradual melting of his defenses, the rigid walls of ghost beginning to crumble under the gentle pressure of your affection. with each touch, he felt a flicker of something he had thought was lost—hope, tenderness, the possibility of healing.

every kiss you shared was a sacred exchange, a promise that even in his darkest moments, he was still capable of feeling deeply. your lips, soft and yielding, pressed against his with a reverence that spoke volumes. the way you kissed him—slowly, deliberately, with a tenderness that seemed to erase the harshness of his past—was a revelation. each kiss was a quiet rebellion against the ghost’s indifference, a testament to the warmth and love that could still exist within him. these moments of intimacy became sanctuaries where he could shed his armor, where he could allow himself to be vulnerable, to simply be simon.

your words were a lifeline, a gentle stream flowing through the arid landscape of his emotions. each whispered reassurance, each tender declaration of love, was a lifeline that reached into the darkest recesses of his heart. you spoke with a softness that cut through the noise of his inner battles, finding the places he had buried under layers of stoicism and grief. your voice, rich with understanding and compassion, was a melody that drew him out of his shell, inviting him to share the quiet spaces where his true self could emerge. you spoke of futures he had only dared to dream about, of a life beyond the battlefield, and each word was a seed of hope planted in the fertile soil of his heart.

when you looked at him, your gaze was a tender invitation to step away from the shadows that had long defined him. your eyes, filled with warmth and unspoken promises, offered him a vision of a life where he could be more than just a ghost. in your gaze, he saw the possibility of redemption, of a future where he could be loved not for his legend but for who he truly was. your eyes reflected a future where he could be seen, valued, and cherished—something he had thought was beyond his reach. through your gaze, he learned to see himself not as a weapon of war but as a man deserving of love and affection.

you became adept at recognizing the subtle shifts between the two facets of him. there were moments when the cold, unfeeling ghost would recede, and in his place, you would find simon—the man who could be softened by your touch, who could be moved by your kiss, who could find solace in your words. there was a depth to his gaze then, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to express. you could feel the weight of his past lifting with each embrace, each moment of connection. when he held you close, there was an intensity in his touch that spoke of a longing to be more than just a shadow, a desire to be fully present in the warmth of your love.

ghost was a soldier, a figure forged in the crucible of war, who could take lives with a cold, detached efficiency. but simon riley was the man you loved—a man who had endured unimaginable hardships and emerged on the other side, still standing, still fighting for a sense of normalcy and connection. with you, he could let go of the ghost, if only for a moment. he could find solace in the sanctuary of your embrace, where the world’s harshness faded, and he could simply be simon.

in the quiet moments you shared, when the chaos of the world outside seemed to dissipate, you would find him surrendering to the peace you offered. he would bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breaths steadying as the rhythm of your heartbeat became a lullaby that soothed the restlessness within him. in those precious seconds, he was no longer the ghostly figure of war, but a man deeply entwined in the present, finding peace and comfort in your arms.

with you, simon riley could be vulnerable. he could drop the pretense, lay down his weapons, and allow himself to be loved. you provided him with something no battlefield ever could—a place of refuge, a space where he could heal and hope. you were the light that pierced through the darkness threatening to engulf him, the one who saw through the mask and loved the man beneath it all.

and in return, simon gave you everything he had left to give. it wasn’t always easy; the ghosts of his past often tried to reclaim him, and the weight of his history would press down heavily, making it difficult to breathe. but even then, even in those moments of darkness, he would find his way back to you, drawn by the promise of something more, something better.

with you, he could be simon riley, and for a man who had spent so long being nothing more than a ghost, that was everything.

[writing-the-stars]

Moonlight Miracles

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

Summary: On the night of your escape, you lose the love of your life. Or so you thought.

Warnings: Angst (Nothing's changed), Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy Ending, Typical Vampire Diaries Violence, Death. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: I have been working on this story for TWO YEARS!!! I'm honestly just relieved to have it finished finally. The title admittedly sucks, but I believe the story makes up for it. Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy. Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

The fabric of your underdress billows at your feet as the crisp night air washes over you. You cling closer to the trunk of the towering White Pine– the rough bark tugging at the fabric of your garment. You hope to shroud away in the depth of the forest, hiding from the unwanted gaze of your village in the shadows of the looming trees. Your hair wafts gently in the breeze and a shudder travels down your spine as the chill of the night seeps into your bones. 

You wait, patiently, for your betrothed in the same location you met him every night for the past four full moons, hiding in secret as you exchanged solemn vows and acts of romance– planning for this day to arrive. Your deerskin bag rests at your feet, filled with the goods you plan on bartering for your passage into your new life. Away from the cruelties of Elijah’s father and the prohibitory life your father has arranged for you. Away from the danger of the men who turn into beasts who have taken so much already. You have lived through 20 winters– it is time you take your life into your own hands. 

“Hello, my love.”

The silence that encapsulated you is suddenly broken– a sharp gasp breaking through your lips. You turn swiftly, finding your beloved with an endearing smile gracing his lips– looming in the shadows of the trees. A smile adorns your face at the sight of him. 

“Elijah, you frightened me.”

He emerges from the shadows– the pale moonlight illuminating his porcelain skin. The unobstructed view of your betrothed robs the smile from your lips– something was wrong. While he appeared to be the same man, there was a chilling air of danger around him– one that was never there before. 

“I’m sorry,” the brunet apologizes, gliding over to you, “I did not mean to alarm you.” 

His hand is frigid as he places it against the downy surface of your cheek– the alarming contrast of temperature making you flinch away from the very touch you used to crave. 

“Elijah, your hands are freezing,” you proclaim to the Mikaelson, attempting to gather his large hands into yours to provide them some warmth. You are confused to find the usual rough texture of his calloused hands has now been made smooth as if he had never labored a day in his life. 

Elijah’s laughter pulls you from your musing and the warm familiarity of it eases your concern. You would never grow tired of the sound of his joy– it is a sound that has comforted you through many sorrowful evenings. It is a sound that reminds you, despite the struggles the two of you face, everything will be okay. 

“What?” you inquire, curious of the moment’s motivation for your favorite sound, but he simply shakes his head, knowing how useless your endeavor is. His body will never be able to emit warmth again. 

The Mikaelson looks down at you with his keen eyes, studying all the details he was unable to perceive before. The unique blend of color swirling your eyes, the distinctive pattern of strands that design your hair's texture, and the subtle lines and contours that create the structure of your face. A chill creeps up your spine as he examines you– the pools of chocolate brown shine with an intensity, a darkness lurking within their depths. It unsettles you. Your hands, instinctively, retract from his, your feet placing a small amount of distance between you. A frown draws on Elijah’s lips at your sudden shift in attitude. 

“Y/N, beloved, what’s the matter?”

There is a sharpness to his voice– one that holds a lurking threat, sending shivers down your spine. You are conflicted about your next course of action. All of your body is on high alert, telling you to run from the danger before you, but your heart urges you to stay– only seeing the man that you love so dearly. Elijah takes a step toward you, attempting to close the distance you have subconsciously put between you, but you continue to add more to that distance. The Mikaelson grows frustrated with your newfound prudence of him– the darkness within growing stronger. 

You watch, fearfully, the animalistic nature in which he moves toward you– a predator stalking its prey– as you finally come to a disturbing conclusion. The man before you is not the man you fell in love with many moons ago. There is a dark evil living inside of him now, consuming every fiber of the man you knew before. Adrenaline courses through your body, tears painting your cheeks, as you realize the danger that you are in. You run. As far and as fast as you can– desperate to escape the creature taking over your betrothed’s body. 

You run to your home– the same place you were desperate to flee mere hours ago– only to be stopped by Elijah’s sinister figure, suddenly in front of you again. Eyes widened, you come to a halt, astounded by his swiftness. You step back, in an effort to get away from him; however, your foot catches the skirt of your underdress and you stumble back, landing on your rear.

Elijah approaches you menacingly– eyes blood-red, shining in the moonlight while tiny black veins dance underneath. A gasp of horror escapes you at the sight. In all of your winters, you have never seen anything as terrorizing as the display before you– whatever your beloved is now, it certainly is not human. 

“W-what are you?”

Something breaks within the Mikaelson, seeing you tremble in utter fear at his feet. It pains him to watch you, the great love of his life, be absolutely petrified of him. 

The monster subsides, retreating back into the depth of his soul and, for a moment, you see the man you fell in love with break through the darkness. Your heart softens as you stare into the tender umber eyes that stole your heart moons ago. You slowly reach out to him– frightened that if you move too swiftly, your beloved will disappear and that creature will resume its place. 

Your hand never meets him as a guttural cry tears from his lips– face contorted in the most grisly display of abject agony. Elijah falls to his knees, the blood-soaked tip of a blade piercing through his chest. You scream for him as if that will somehow undo the act that has been done.

“What did you do,” you cry out in horror as you look to your sister who stands horrified– hands shaking feverishly. 

“Y-you weren’t in the room when I woke, so I-I grabbed Father’s blade for protection and went to look for you. When I found you, y-you seemed frightened, so I thought he was attacking you. I-I did not…,” your sister stutters through her tears, realizing the gravity of what she has done. Her first reaction to your danger was to stop the thing that was hurting you; however, she did not want to kill the Mikaelson boy.

A sob rips through your throat as you cradle his pallor face in your hands. His blood seeps into the garments of your dress, horrifyingly warming your body from the crisp chill of the night air. 

“I am sorry,” your sister cries, bile rising in her throat, “I thought I was protecting you.”

Another sob wracks through your body as you clutch his lifeless body to yours, willing life back into him. You know it’s a useless endeavor, but you have to try anyway.

“Leave,” you command your sister, unable to stand her presence any longer. She took the love of your life away from you and had the audacity to grieve. 

“Y/N, I-”

The sickening sound of your father’s blade tearing through Elijah’s body once again as you pull it from his chest leaves your sister silent. The action makes your stomach churn as you shove the hilt into her chest, “Just go.”

Your voice is dark– heavy with the hatred you now hold for her. Because, in spite of the creature Elijah had become, you still loved him with every fiber of your being. To you, he was still the same man whose winsome smile charmed you the moment he wielded it on you. The same man who always strived to make the impossible happen for you just to see you smile. The man who was willing to leave the family that he loved and the life that he knew just to be with you. He was absolutely devoted to you and you were to him, willing to give him everything you have, everything he could ask of you. Now he is lost to you forever– the hole in your heart being the only remnant left of the love you shared. 

-*-

You stand in front of the Mikaelson home, unaware of how you came to be before the residence. You are certain you walked the distance, but you have no recollection of leaving the forest. Nor are you aware how long you have been standing in front of the wooden dwelling.

“Y/N,” a voice calls to you, luring you from the dazed state you found yourself in. The figure of a man appears before you, one you soon recognize to be Klaus. Concern is etched into the features of his face at your disheveled state. The tear stains blemishing your face and your soiled, bloody garments not signifying a good thing. 

“He’s gone,” the words push past your lips, your voice dry and void. A numbness courses through your veins robbing you of feeling anything else. You believe it to be a blessing from the gods above. The nothingness is preferable to the torment of mourning him.  

“Who?” Klaus inquires, hands grasping your shoulders in an attempt to keep you steady. You appear seconds away from crumbling, only adding to his unease.

The silence intensifies as you struggle to force your mouth to shape those dreaded words.As the silence grows heavier, the more indefinite the Mikaelson’s worry for you grows. He knows of the secret love affair you have with his brother. Initially, he was adamantly opposed to it; with your families being rivals, he knew the fury his father would unleash if he discovered the betrayal. But as he observed you, his perspective began to shift. Witnessing the gentle way you treated his older brother—the tenderness, the unwavering care, and the joy you brought into his life—Klaus realized that you were the best thing for his brother. He came to cherish you as he does Rebekah, and seeing you in such profound despair deeply unsettled him.

You can only shake your head, paralyzed by the weight of the unspeakable truth that clings to your tongue, refusing to be voiced. The fear of solidifying such a grotesque reality makes you hesitate. The blond gazes past you into the darkness, his eyes searching for some trace, some hint of what has transpired. 

“Y/N, where is Elijah? Did he meet with you?” Klaus questions once he has confirmed there is nothing hidden beyond you. 

Your lip starts to quiver as the dam holding your emotion begins to break. With a shuddering breath, you manage to utter, “He’s dead.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and your knees collapse beneath you, unable to bear the crushing weight of your sorrow.

“Elijah. He’s dead.”

You sob as the second coming of your grief crashes over you with a force even more devastating than the first. A raw, piercing pain tears through your chest, shattering your heart with the finality of the truth. The sobs that wrack your body are deep and relentless, leaving you utterly inconsolable. Lost to the world around you, you are entirely engulfed by the consuming abyss of your sorrow. 

The third eldest Mikaelson son stands in disbelief. His mind struggles to comprehend the meaning of your words. How could his brother be gone? That shouldn’t be possible. It defies all reason, especially given the curse that should protect them. Yet, the raw, palpable intensity of your grief casts a shadow of reality over the implausibility of the situation.

Klaus gathers your trembling form into his chest, his heart aching with each ragged breath you take. He desperately wishes he could offer you an explanation, something to ease the unbearable pain that clutches at your soul, but he's unsure if he can. Unsure of the nature of vampirism– doubtful of its functionality altogether, given the depth of your sorrow. The Mikaelson is at a loss for how to comfort you, grappling with the profound helplessness of the moment. However, he is certain of one thing. If his father were to see you weeping in his arms, his wrath would be uncontrollable. So, Klaus carries you back into the woods where he lets you sob until every tear is spent and you have nothing left to give. As he holds you, he scans the shadows of the towering pines, almost expecting his elder brother to emerge with one of his infuriatingly calm reassurances. But the forest remains silent, offering no solace beyond the embrace of the darkened woods.

Until. 

“Y/N.”

The achingly familiar voice pierces through the suffocating silence, cutting straight to your heart and freezing you in place. You hold your breath, paralyzed by the fear that this fleeting sound might be an illusion—your mind’s desperate attempt to soothe the unbearable ache constricting your chest. Yet, despite the gnawing doubt, your ears strain with desperate hope, yearning for any sign, any hint of the voice’s reality, clinging to the faintest possibility that it might be real. 

“Y/N, my love.”

You release the breath you have been holding— eyes drifting to the blond Mikaelson, seeking confirmation of the impossible. When you find Klaus’s gaze fixed beyond you, you know that this must be real. That he must be real. 

You turn to face the man you lost mere hours ago, stunned by the miraculous sight before you. There, bathed in the gentle glow of the moonlight, Elijah stands as impeccably whole as he did before the night's horrors unfolded. His chest, the place where your father’s blade had torn through him, now unmarred. His eyes, which had once struck fear into your heart with their cold, sinister gleam, now hold a profound, unwavering love.

Klaus releases you gently, allowing you to approach his brother. 

“Elijah?” you call for your beloved— voice barely a whisper. You fear anything louder may cause him to disappear. 

He takes a step towards you, the movement graceful and deliberate, “It’s me,” he replies, his voice steady and reassuring.

You reach out tentatively, still uncertain if this is merely an apparition. But as he draws nearer, his hands grazing your skin— his cool touch leaving a wake of sensation in its path— the sheer reality of his presence overwhelms you. A sob of profound relief and unspoken hope bursts from your chest as you envelop him in a desperate embrace, clinging to the tangible warmth of your beloved.

“You’re here,” you cry out, pressing Elijah as close to you as physically possible, uncaring of the discomfort of the fabric digging into your skin. You cling to him with an unwavering grip, anchoring yourself to the Mikaelson and vowing not to let him slip away from you once more.

“I thought you were gone,” you cry into his chest, your voice muffled by the fabric of his tunic, “I thought I lost you forever.”

Elijah's arms encircle you with a tenderness that matches your own desperation, holding you just as tightly. “I’m here, my love. I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your shattered heart.

You pull back just enough to gaze up into his umber eyes, your voice trembling with disbelief, “How—how is this possible?”

Elijah's lips curl into a gentle smile as he brushes a strand of wind-swept hair from your face, relishing the chance to hold you close once more.

“I am stronger than you know,” he says softly.

You stare at him, your mind a whirlwind of confusion as you struggle to reconcile the living, breathing Elijah before you with the haunting image of his lifeless body. Your fingers roam over his face, his hands, every part of him within reach, desperately seeking the tangible reassurance that he is truly real.

“Elijah, I… I saw you… You were dead,” you stammer, your voice quivering with confusion, “How can you be here?”

His expression is one of gentle understanding, “I know, my love. I am not entirely sure myself, but I promise you, I am here. I will always come back to you.”

Klaus observes the reunion silently, a rare smile touching his lips. “It seems the universe isn’t ready to part you two just yet,” he says softly, his eyes reflecting a depth of unspoken emotions.

Elijah turns his gaze towards his brother, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you for looking after her, Niklaus.”

Klaus nods, stepping back to grant you both some much-needed space. “Just make sure to keep her safe, Elijah. Father won’t be pleased to learn of this.”

Elijah’s eyes return to you, his resolve unshaken. “I will,” he promises with unwavering certainty. “We will find a way to be together, my love. No matter what it takes.”

You feel the warmth of his words seep into your bones, dispelling the lingering chill of the night. You rest your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart reassuring you that this is real, that he is real. You allow yourself to fully embrace the reality of the moment, embracing the hope and love that Elijah’s return has rekindled within you.

Taglist: @catmikaelson20 @jennyamanda8 @tsukilover11 @gamarancianne @hazgold @devotedlycrookeddonut

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[pomegranatelifethis]

Smut

Draft

The rain battered Gotham’s streets, a relentless shroud of gray that blurred the line between night and nightmare. You stood in the shadowed alley, breath hitching as the silhouette of the Red Hood emerged from the mist. Jason Todd—leather jacket slick with rain, crimson helmet glinting under the faint streetlight, a man forged in death and defiance. He was danger incarnate, and yet, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled, voice distorted through the modulator, but you knew him too well. Beneath the mask was the man who’d once held you close, before the darkness claimed him fully.

“I don’t care,” you whispered, stepping closer, the damp chill seeping into your skin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

His gloved hand shot out, gripping your wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to warn. “You should be.” He tilted his head, the helmet’s white eyes boring into you. “I’m not the guy you remember.”

“Then show me who you are now,” you challenged, voice trembling with a mix of fear and need. You’d always been drawn to the jagged edges of him, the ones that cut deep and left you bleeding in ways you couldn’t explain.

A low, guttural sound escaped him, and in one fluid motion, he ripped the helmet off, tossing it aside. His face was a map of scars and shadows, black hair plastered to his forehead, green eyes blazing with something feral. He pulled you against him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cold rain. “You’re asking for trouble,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear.

“Then give it to me,” you breathed, and that was all it took.

His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and unyielding, tasting of whiskey and violence. You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as if you could meld your broken pieces together. He shoved you against the brick wall, the rough texture biting into your back, but you didn’t care. His hands roamed your body, possessive and desperate, sliding under your soaked shirt to grip your hips.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. You arched into him, a moan slipping free as he bit down, marking you as his.

“Good,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his jacket, needing more. He smirked against your skin, a dark promise in the curve of his lips, and then his hands were at your waistband, deftly undoing it with a predator’s precision.

The rain masked the sounds—your ragged breaths, the slick slide of fabric as he pushed your pants down just enough, the low groan he let out when he felt how ready you were. “All this for me?” he teased, voice dripping with smug satisfaction as his fingers dipped between your thighs, stroking with maddening slowness.

“Jason—” His name was a plea, a curse, and he silenced you with another bruising kiss, his fingers slipping inside you, curling just right. Your head fell back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure coiled tight in your core.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice rough with command. You obeyed, locking eyes with him as he worked you closer to the edge, his thumb circling that sensitive spot until you were trembling. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me see you fall apart.”

And you did—shattering under his touch with a cry that the rain swallowed, your body clenching around him as waves of heat surged through you. He didn’t stop, drawing it out until you were a shaking mess, clinging to him like he was your only anchor.

When you finally caught your breath, he pulled his hand away, licking his fingers clean with a wicked grin that made your knees weak. “We’re not done,” he said, voice low and dangerous as he undid his belt, the metallic clink echoing in the alley. “You wanted the real me. You’re gonna get it.”

He lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, heart pounding as he pressed himself against you. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but the burn only fueled the fire between you. He thrust hard, unrelenting, each movement a claim, a confession, a collision of everything he couldn’t say.

“Mine,” he growled into your ear, pace brutal and perfect, driving you both toward oblivion. You dug your nails into his shoulders, matching his rhythm, lost in the raw, chaotic connection that defined you two.

When you came again, it was with his name on your lips, and he followed moments later, a broken moan spilling from him as he buried himself deep, holding you like he’d never let go. The rain washed away the evidence, but not the truth: you were his, and he was yours, tangled in a dark romance neither of you could escape.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, a rare softness flickering in his eyes. “You’re still crazy,” he muttered, but there was no venom in it—just a quiet, reluctant awe.

“And you love it,” you shot back, a tired smile tugging at your lips.

He didn’t deny it.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.24

Hii guyss, if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 23, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

A throbbing pain pulsed through your skull as you slowly regained consciousness. The world around you was a blur, your limbs sluggish and unresponsive. A sharp chill ran down your spine as you realized you couldn’t move—your wrists and ankles were bound, the rough texture of the restraints biting into your skin.

Your breathing quickened, panic creeping in as you forced yourself to take in your surroundings. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the unfamiliar room. It smelled faintly of something sterile, yet there was an underlying scent of cologne that struck you with an eerie sense of familiarity.

Footsteps.

Your body tensed as the sound grew closer, slow and deliberate, each step echoing like a warning.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Arthur.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your breath catching in your throat. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something terrifyingly unhinged, something you had never seen before.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was eerily calm, almost gentle. “Does your head hurt?”

Tears welled in your eyes as reality crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your best friend had done this. Arthur had done this.

“Arthur…” your voice broke as you tried to move, the restraints tightening painfully against your skin. “What—what are you doing? Please—”

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly, as if your reaction pained him. “I didn’t want it to come to this.” His fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening. “But you left me no choice.”

You shook your head violently, tears slipping down your cheeks. “No. No, Arthur, you don’t have to do this. Please—just let me go. This isn’t you.”

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t understand, but in time, you will. I had to do this because you need me. You need my help, and I can’t just sit by and watch you ruin your life.”

Your chest ached at the sheer delusion in his words. “Arthur, listen to me—you’re my best friend, I love you, but not like that. This isn’t the way—”

He cut you off with a sharp glare. “No.” His voice was suddenly colder, more forceful. “You don’t see it yet, but you will. Charles has blinded you. He’s manipulated you into thinking that what you feel for him is real, but it’s not. It can’t be.”

Your breath hitched as he crouched in front of you, his hands reaching out to cradle your face. You flinched, but he didn’t let go, his grip firm yet oddly tender.

“I can’t live without you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I tried to stop this. I tried to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life, but you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t see what was right in front of you.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with disbelief. “Arthur… what did you do?”

His lips twitched into something resembling a smile, but it was laced with something twisted. “It was surprisingly easy,” he mused, as if he were proud of himself. “I asked one of Charles’ engineers if I could borrow his phone. Told him Charles needed something and couldn’t step away. He handed it over without a second thought.”

Your stomach churned.

Arthur leaned in slightly, as if savoring the moment. “And the hotel? That was even easier. There was this woman at the front desk, so eager to be helpful. I told her Charles needed a copy of his key card and—voilà.” He smirked. “People are so trusting when they think they’re helping someone important.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, your chest tightening with fear. “Arthur… please,” you tried again, your voice raw with desperation. “The Arthur I know would never hurt me.”

Something dark flickered in his gaze, his grip on your face tightening for a moment before he finally pulled back. He let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I know you’re scared,” he murmured, almost sympathetically. “But I promise, you’ll thank me for this one day.”

Terror clawed at your throat.

Because for the first time, you realized—he truly believed that.

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Charles would look for you—you knew he would. He would tear the entire city apart if he had to. But would he be fast enough? You had no idea where you were, no idea how much time had passed since Arthur took you.

You needed to stall.

Swallowing your fear, you forced your voice to stay steady. “What… what are you planning?”

Arthur’s lips curled into a small smile, as if he was pleased you were finally willing to listen. He crouched in front of you again, his hands resting on his knees. “Tonight, we’re leaving,” he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I have everything ready. A safe house, somewhere no one will find us. It’s just you and me now, the way it was always supposed to be.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“I’d rather you be cooperative,” he continued, reaching out to brush a stray tear from your cheek. “But if you fight me, I won’t have a choice. I can’t let you go, chérie. Not when we’re so close.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

Arthur tilted his head slightly, studying you with unnerving adoration. “And when you finally understand that this is the right choice for you, we’ll get married.” His voice was sickeningly tender, as if he was talking about a dream. “We’ll start a family. A real family. Not like the one I have now.” His expression darkened. “A bunch of traitors, all of them. Charles, my mother… they never really cared about me. Not like you do.”

You wanted to scream, to cry, to fight. But you knew that wouldn’t help you now.

You had to play along.

You took a slow, shaky breath, nodding. “Okay,” you whispered, lowering your gaze. “I—I’ll cooperate.”

Arthur’s entire face lit up, and it made your stomach churn. “I knew you’d understand,” he murmured, his fingers lightly tracing over your bound wrists. “I promise, you’ll be happy with me. You’ll see.”

You clenched your jaw, holding back the revulsion crawling up your throat. “Can you untie me?” you asked softly. “It hurts.”

For a second, Arthur hesitated, but then he nodded. “Of course, mon amour.”

He pulled a knife from his pocket, flicking it open with a practiced ease. You held your breath as he carefully sliced through the bindings around your wrists, then moved down to your ankles. The moment you felt the restraints loosen, your muscles screamed with relief.

You flexed your fingers, trying to hide how desperately you wanted to run.

Arthur stood, turning his back to you for just a moment.

And you took your chance.

You sprang to your feet, ignoring the burning pain in your legs, and lunged for the door. Your fingers barely brushed the handle before a strong arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you back with terrifying force.

“No!” Arthur snarled, spinning you around and slamming you against the wall. His grip on your arms was bruising, his breath hot against your skin. “Why would you do that?” His voice cracked, hurt lacing his fury. “I trusted you!”

You struggled wildly, thrashing against him, your nails scratching at his arms. “Let me go, Arthur! Please!”

A sudden noise outside made both of you freeze.

Then—

“YN!”

Your breath caught.

Charles.

His voice was raw with panic, filled with a desperation you had never heard before.

Tears flooded your eyes as you twisted in Arthur’s grasp, screaming with everything you had. “Charles!”

Heavy footsteps pounded against the floor outside.

Arthur’s grip tightened painfully. “No, no, no…” he muttered, his eyes flashing with desperation.

You screamed again, louder, your voice hoarse and broken. “I’m in here!”

The door rattled violently as someone slammed against it.

“YN, hold on!” Charles shouted, his voice nearly breaking.

Arthur cursed under his breath, his grip on you like a vice as he pulled you away from the door.

But you fought harder. Because Charles was here.

And he wasn’t going to stop until he got to you.

Next part

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16, @a-beaverhausen, @lol6sposts, @linnygirl09, @weekendlusting

[corendisguise]

Date with two daddies

Chapter 1

The jazz music hummed softly in the background as Jo sat nervously at the bar, drumming his fingers on the counter. He had been waiting for Tom for what felt like forever, and his anticipation was growing with every passing minute. He had met Tom on a fetish dating site. He was a muscular hunk daddy with a gorgeous mustache. Jo knew that it was just a elaborate rubber face mask. But it was his kink not to know who was under this lifelike mask. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the room, adding to the intimate atmosphere of the small, cozy bar. Just as Jo was about to check his phone for the hundredth time, a tall figure emerged from the entrance, his presence commanding attention.

Tom sauntered in wearing a worn leather jacket that hugged his stocky, muscular frame, only covered with a tight T-Shirt. A thick mustache framed his lips, giving him an unmistakably rugged charm. He looked as if he was in his 40s. Jo’s breath hitched as Tom smiled warmly, revealing a playful glint in his eyes. "Hey there, sweetheart," Tom’s voice was deep and smooth, sending a shiver down Jo’s spine.

“Hey,” Jo replied, his voice a little shaky but filled with excitement. He couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly Tom exuded confidence. The way he moved, the way he looked at him—it was all so intoxicating.

Tom slid into the seat next to Jo, his thigh brushing against Jo’s ever so slightly. “You look even more handsome than your pictures,” Tom murmured, his tone dripping with admiration. Jo’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, feeling an undeniable surge of pride.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Jo teased, stealing a glance at the man beside him. Tom’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement, and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I think we’re going to have a very good night together, don’t you?”

Jo swallowed hard, feeling the intensity of Tom’s gaze. The air between them seemed charged with electricity, and Jo found himself leaning in just a little closer. Their hands lightly brushed against each other as they reached for their drinks, and Jo noticed how warm and firm Tom’s hand felt. It was as if his touch sent jolts of pleasure surging through Jo’s body.

As the night wore on, the two men grew more and more comfortable with each other. Tom’s playful banter never failed to make Jo laugh, and his sweet whispers in Jo’s ear made him feel cherished and desired. “You’re so beautiful,” Tom would murmur, causing Jo’s heart to race. Every word, every touch, was designed to make Jo feel special.

Jo couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and touch Tom’s face, marveling at the slight roughness of his skin. The texture felt different, almost sticky, but in a way that only added to his allure. Tom didn’t shy away from Jo’s touch; instead, he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation. “Do you like what you feel, sweetheart?” he asked playfully, his voice tinged with a hint of mischief.

Jo nodded, unable to form words. The way Tom looked at him, the way he made Jo feel, was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was as if Tom knew exactly how to bring out the best in him, to make him feel confident and sexy.

As the evening progressed, their touches became bolder, more intentional. Tom’s hand resting on Jo’s thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles against the fabric of Jo’s jeans. Jo reciprocated by placing his hand on Tom’s knee, slowly inching it upward. Both men were acutely aware of the hunger building within them, the desire simmering just beneath the surface.

“Let’s get to the restrooms,” Tom suggested in a low, husky voice, catching Jo’s eye. Jo felt a delicious thrill run through him at the suggestion, and he quickly agreed. Without another word, Tom stood up and offered his hand to Jo, who eagerly took it.

The pair made their way through the dimly lit bar, ignoring the curious glances of the other patrons. Jo couldn’t help but notice how no one recognized Tom as anyone other than the charming, older man he appeared to be. To everyone else, they were just another couple enjoying a night out. But to Jo, Tom was something else entirely.

Once inside the privacy of the restroom, the tension between them exploded into action. Tom pressed Jo against the wall, his strong arms caging Jo in as he leaned in for a kiss. The first touch of their lips was gentle, almost reverent, but it quickly escalated into something more passionate. Tom’s tongue slipped into Jo’s mouth, exploring hungrily, while his hands roamed over Jo’s body, igniting a fire within him.

Jo moaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck as his hands tangled in the thick, dark hair. The sensation of Tom’s stubble grazing against his cheek only heightened his arousal, making him crave more. “You drive me crazy,” Tom whispered against Jo’s lips, his voice laced with need.

Jo could feel Tom’s hardness pressing against him, and he gasped in response. Tom took advantage of Jo’s momentary distraction, sliding his hands beneath Jo’s shirt to caress his bare skin. The warmth of Tom’s touch sent shivers of delight coursing through Jo’s body, and he arched his back instinctively, seeking more contact.

Tom chuckled softly, pulling back slightly to meet Jo’s gaze. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart?” he teased, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Jo nodded fervently, his breathing ragged as he gazed up at Tom. “More than ready,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tom’s expression softened, replaced by one of pure desire. “Then let’s see where this takes us, shall we?”

As Tom and Jo emerged from the bathroom, their shared excitement still simmering between them, they were greeted by two familiar faces. A muscular leather daddy bear with a commanding presence and a twink, both of whom Tom knew well, stood by the bar, their eyes meeting Tom’s with a knowing grin.

“Well, look who’s been hiding in the loo,” the leather daddy drawled, his voice deep and rich with amusement. His gaze flicked briefly to Jo, then back to Tom. “And who’s this? A new playmate?”

Tom chuckled, pulling Jo closer by the hand. “Jo, meet Ben and Alex. They’re old friends of mine.” His tone was casual, but there was an edge of something more—something playful and undeniably naughty. Jo felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine, his heart racing as he realized what might be about to happen. He knew both from the fetish site, but never talked to them.

“Nice to meet you,” Jo said nervously, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual. He could feel the heat radiating off Tom, and it only added to his growing arousal.

Ben, the leather daddy, stepped forward, his towering frame exuding confidence. “Well, well, aren’t you just adorable?” he said, his voice dripping with charm as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from Jo’s face. “And so eager too, I see.” He bent down and kissed Jo‘s skin, his masked face with a thick beard tickled at his chin. Like Tom‘s, his face looked absolutely life like, only slight details around the eyes proved for him the truth. All the crowd around them didn’t seem to notice. It was so exciting.

Alex, the twink, giggled softly, his slight frame pressed against Ben’s side. “Looks like we’ve got quite the party going on here,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Tom leaned in close to Jo, his lips brushing against his ear as he whispered, “Do you trust me, sweetheart?” The warmth of his breath sent shivers through Jo, and he nodded without hesitation. “I do.”

“Good,” Tom replied, his voice low and seductive. “Because things are about to get very interesting.”

With that, Tom turned to Ben and Alex, his expression one of pure intent. “Why don’t we take this somewhere more… private? My place isn’t far.”

Ben grinned, his dark eyes gleaming with approval. “Sounds like a plan.”

The four of them left the bar together, the cool night air doing little to dampen the flames of desire burning within them. As they walked, Tom kept a firm grip on Jo’s hand, his touch grounding him in the moment. Jo couldn’t help but steal glances at the others, his mind racing with possibilities.

When they arrived at Tom’s apartment, the atmosphere changed immediately. The door closed behind them, and the space seemed to shrink, the tension between the four men palpable. Tom led Jo to the center of the room, his hands gentle but insistent as he guided him to stand before him.

“You look so good, baby,” Tom murmured, his fingers tracing the curve of Jo’s jawline. “So perfect.”

Jo’s breath hitched, his body responding instinctively to Tom’s touch. His eyes fluttered shut as Tom’s lips found his neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. “Tom…” he whimpered, his voice trembling with need.

“Shh,” Tom soothed, his lips moving lower, his tongue darting out to taste Jo’s flesh. “Let me take care of you.”

Ben and Alex watched silently, their own desires clearly visible in their expressions. Ben took a step forward, his hands sliding down to cup Alex’s ass, pulling him closer for a heated kiss. The sound of their lips meeting filled the room, adding to the already electric atmosphere.

Tom’s hands moved to Jo’s waist, his thumbs hooking under the waistband of his jeans. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid them down, freeing Jo’s erection. Jo gasped as the cool air hit his skin, his cock already throbbing with anticipation.

“Beautiful,” Tom whispered, his voice thick with desire. “So hard for me already.”

Jo’s legs felt weak, his entire body trembling as Tom began to stroke him. The sensation was overwhelming, every touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through him. He clung to Tom, his nails digging lightly into his shoulders as he struggled to stay upright.

“Please,” Jo begged, his voice barely audible. “Please, Tom.”

Tom smiled, his eyes dark with lust. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

With that, Tom sank to his knees, his lips closing around Jo’s tip. Jo cried out, his head falling back as Tom’s mouth worked its magic. The sensation was indescribable, the mustache tickle his skin, his body electrified by the feel of Tom’s tongue swirling around him, the warm suction drawing him deeper. Jo could se the sides of the mouthhole of the mask slipping back and forth with Tom mouth moving on his dig.

Meanwhile, Ben had lifted Alex onto the nearby table, his hands roaming freely over the younger man’s body. Alex moaned softly, his hands gripping Ben’s shoulders as the older man kissed his way down his chest, pausing to tease his nipples with his teeth.

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” Ben growled, his voice rough with desire. “And so responsive.”

Alex blushed, his cheeks flushing a deep red as Ben’s fingers found his entrance, teasing and probing until he was panting with need.

Back with Jo, Tom’s mouth was relentless, his tongue working in tandem with his fingers to send Jo spiraling toward release. Jo’s vision blurred, his hips bucking helplessly as he sought relief.

“T-Tom!” Jo screamed, his orgasm crashing over him in waves of ecstasy. Tom swallowed every drop, his eyes locked on Jo’s as the younger man came undone in his arms.

As Jo’s body relaxed, Tom rose to his feet, his own hardness straining against his jeans. Without a word, he spun Jo around and bent him over the edge of the couch, his hands gripping his hips firmly.

“Hold on tight, baby,” Tom commanded, his voice gravelly with need. “This is gonna feel so good.”

Jo nodded, his breathing quickening as he felt Tom position himself behind him. The first thrust was deep and unrelenting, driving the air from Jo’s lungs. He cried out, his hands clutching the couch cushions as Tom set a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting his prostate with precision.

“Fuck, Jo,” Tom groaned, his voice strained with effort. “You feel so fucking good. So tight.”

Ben, seeing the action unfold, couldn’t resist joining in. He positioned himself beside Jo, his hand reaching out to stroke the younger man’s back as he thrust into Alex, the sounds of their coupling filling the room.

“Look at you,” Ben said, his voice dripping with admiration. “Taking it like a pro.”

Jo could barely respond, his body consumed by the sensations coursing through him. He felt like he was floating, his mind unable to process anything beyond the incredible feeling of Tom’s cock pounding into him from behind.

“Harder,” Jo begged, his voice breaking. “Please, Tom, harder!” Tom breathed hard now, but the white shirt was still sweatless, every drop of sweat was enclosed inside the mask.

Tom obliged, his pace increasing as he drove into Jo with renewed vigor. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the room, the intensity of the moment palpable.

Tom’s grip tightened on Jo’s hips as he thrust into him with an intensity that made Jo’s breath hitch. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the wet slap of latex against skin echoing like a drumbeat. Jo felt himself being pushed to his limits, but it wasn’t enough—he needed more. His fingers clawed at the couch, desperate for something to hold onto as Tom’s rhythm grew frenzied.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Tom growled, his voice low and rough. “So tight around me, baby.”

Jo moaned, his head falling back as he surrendered completely to the sensation. He could feel Tom’s cock deep inside him, hitting spots that made his legs tremble. The weight of Ben behind them only added to the heat, his presence looming like a shadow ready to consume them both.

“Ben…” Tom’s voice was a command now, not a request. “Come closer.”

Jo’s heart raced as he felt Ben step in, his muscular frame towering over them. There was no hesitation, no pause—just the smooth slide of Ben’s hands reaching out to grasp Jo’s shoulders. The touch was firm but gentle, a contrast to the wildness of Tom’s movements. Jo shuddered, his body alive with anticipation.

“You want this, don’t you?” Ben murmured, his lips brushing against Jo’s ear. “Want us both.”

The words were whispered but carried a weight that sent a shiver down Jo’s spine. He nodded, unable to form a coherent response through the haze of desire clouding his mind. Ben’s hand trailed down Jo’s chest, fingertips teasing across his nipples before gripping his waist.

“Good boy,” Ben said, his tone approving. “Let us take care of you.”

Tom released Jo’s hips, allowing Ben to guide him onto his back. Jo gasped as Tom pulled out, the loss of contact momentarily jarring. But before he could process the emptiness, Tom was positioning himself above him, straddling Jo’s thighs while Ben knelt beside them. The sight of the two men flanking him, one above and one beside, was almost too much to handle. Jo’s cock twitched, already hard again despite the intense sucking it had just endured.

“Ride him,” Ben instructed, his voice calm yet commanding. “Show him how much you want him.”

Tom didn’t hesitate. With a wicked grin, he lowered himself onto Jo’s throbbing erection, the slick head sliding easily into his tight heat entering through a small gap in Tom’s muscle suit. Jo groaned, his hands instinctively finding Tom’s hips to steady him as he began to move. The sensation was overwhelming—being surrounded by Tom’s warmth, the feeling of being connected so intimately with someone who seemed to know exactly how to pleasure him.

“Oh God,” Jo muttered, his voice breaking. “You’re so… fuck.”

Tom chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest as he took Jo deeper. His movements were deliberate, each grind of his hips sending sparks of pleasure shooting through Jo’s body. Ben watched intently, his dark eyes focused on Jo’s reactions, cataloging every twitch and moan.

“Look at him,” Ben said to Tom, his voice thick with amusement. “He’s loving this.”

“He definitely does,” Tom replied with a smirk, his gaze never leaving Jo’s face. “But I think he needs more.”

Before Jo could ask what he meant, Ben shifted closer, his hand caressing Jo’s chest. Ben entered his hard prosthetic dig in Jo’s mouth. The combination of Tom riding him and Ben’s expert touch was too much. Jo’s breath hitched, his hips bucking involuntarily as he fought to maintain control.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Tom cooed, his voice dripping with affection. “Just let go. Let us take care of everything.”

Jo closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensations swirling through his body. Tom’s weight on top of him, Ben’s hand massaging him, smelling the faint smell of warm wet latex, the heat of their skin mingling—it was all too much. His mind spiraled, focusing solely on the pleasure coursing through him.

“That’s it,” Ben encouraged, his voice low and soothing. “Feel it all.”

Tom picked up the pace, his hips rolling faster as he rode Jo with increasing intensity. Tom was still hard, his dig chopping on his Abs. The room was filled with the sounds of their breaths mingling, the rhythmic slapping of flesh, and Jo’s increasingly desperate moans. He could sense the sweat of Ben’s body running out of the opening around his dig running down his hip with a tickling sensation. Every movement brought him closer to the edge, a precipice he was eager to tumble over.

“I’m close,” Jo mumbled, his voice trembling. “Please, I need—”

“Shh,” Tom interrupted, leaning down to press a kiss to Jo’s chin. “It’s okay. Just let it happen.”

With that, Ben squeezed Jo’s chest tighter, his thumb brushing over his nipples in a way that sent shockwaves of pleasure through Jo’s body. The final push was all it took. Jo cried out, his release washing over him in waves as he came inside Tom. His body convulsed, muscles tightening as he rode out the aftershocks. Tom came simultaneously on Jo‘s stomach, pumping out four huge loads onto his stomach. Also Ben started now to groan loudly and shot his load into his fake dig only letting a drew drops out at the tip.

Tom stopped moving and stayed seated on his dig, grinding gently as Jo came down from his high. His own breath was ragged, his chest heaving as he adjusted to the feeling of Jo’s seed inside him. Slowly, he leaned back, his arms braced on Jo’s thighs as he looked down at him with a satisfied smile.

“There you go,” Tom said softly, his voice tender. “Perfect.”

Ben moved closer, his hand resting on Jo’s chest as he watched the two of them interact. The air between them was charged, the intimacy of the moment palpable. Jo smiled faintly, his eyes fluttering open to meet Tom’s gaze.

“Thank you,” Jo murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Anytime,” Tom replied, leaning down to kiss Jo gently on the lips. The kiss was soft and lingering, a quiet moment amidst the chaos of their passion. When they parted, Tom turned his attention to Ben, his expression shifting from tenderness to something darker, more primal.

Ben stepped back, his breathing heavy, the heat of their shared passion still lingering in the air. Alex, ever playful and mischievous, took advantage of the moment. He leaned in close to Ben, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You look like you could use a little break,” Alex teased, his voice light and teasing. “But first… let’s show Jo what’s under that mask.”

Jo watched with wide eyes as Alex reached up and gently touched the edge of Ben’s mask. The rubber felt sticky against his fingers, damp with sweat from their earlier activities. Ben didn’t resist, letting out a soft chuckle as Alex began to search the seam at Ben’s throat and stocked his fingers inside. He inserted his hand at both sides of Ben’s chin and stretched the mask to the side. With that he lifted his hands and pulled the mask up. Jo’s heart raced as the edges of the mask lifted about a bearded chin, revealing skin beneath—smooth, youthful, and glistening with sweat.

“Holy shit,” Jo whispered, his voice barely audible. The man he thought was a commanding leather daddy was now revealed to be something else entirely. Beneath the mask was a young face, flushed and panting, with a boyish charm that made Jo’s stomach flip. Alex giggled, clearly thrilled by the revelation, as he tossed the mask aside.

“Surprise!” Alex said, grinning widely. “Ben’s not as old as he looks.”

Ben smirked, running a hand through his now-exposed hair. “Well, it adds to the role, doesn’t it?” he said, his voice still carrying that deep, rich tone that had initially fooled them all.

Jo couldn’t take his eyes off Ben’s newly revealed features. The contrast between the imposing figure he’d seen earlier and this playful, younger version was staggering. And yet, there was something undeniably attractive about it. The drops of sweat glistening on Ben’s muscular latex chest, the way his muscles moved up with every breath, it all seemed to scream raw, unfiltered masculinity.

Before Jo could fully process what was happening, Tom moved closer, his own presence drawing Jo’s attention. Tom’s expression was calm, almost serene, but there was a hint of mischief in his dark eyes. He reached up to his own mask, his fingers tracing the edges with deliberate care. Jo held his breath as Tom began to remove it, the anticipation making his pulse quicken.

The mask came off slowly, revealing another young hairless face beneath. Tom’s cheeks were flushed, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. His lips curled into a faint smile as he met Jo’s gaze, as if to say, “What did you expect?”

Jo exhaled sharply, his mind racing. This wasn’t the man he’d been picturing all night—the confident, charming daddy who’d swept him off his feet. But somehow, it was so hot. There was an intimacy to this revelation, a vulnerability that made Jo’s heart swell with affection. Tom wasn’t just playing a role before; he was allowing Jo to see him another part of his identity.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Jo admitted, his voice trembling slightly.

Tom chuckled softly, stepping closer until their bodies nearly brushed against each other. “Don’t say anything,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “Just feel.”

With that, Tom reached for the zipper of his muscle suit, pulling it down with practiced ease. The latex peeled away, revealing a toned, athletic body underneath—one that glistened with sweat just like Ben’s. Jo’s eyes widened as he took in the sight, his arousal returning with a vengeance.

“Fuck,” Jo muttered under his breath, unable to tear his gaze away.

Tom smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on Jo. He turned to Ben, his expression shifting to one of playful challenge. “Your turn,” he said, his voice dripping with mirth.

Ben rolled his eyes but complied, peeling off his own muscle suit with a flourish. Underneath, his body was lean and muscular, his skin slick with sweat. The three of them stood together, drenched in their combined heat, the air thick with desire.

Alex clapped his hands together, clearly thrilled by the unfolding scene. “This is way better than I expected,” he said, his grin widening. “We will be good friends.”

With that, Alex stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Tom. He tilted his head up, his lips brushing against Tom’s in a soft, exploratory kiss. Tom responded immediately, wrapping an arm around Alex’s waist and pulling him closer. Jo watched, his breath hitching as he saw the two of them embrace, their bodies pressed together in a seamless union.

Ben, meanwhile, turned his attention to Jo. He reached out, his fingers lightly grazing Jo’s arm before moving up to cup his cheek. “You okay?” Ben asked, his voice gentle but laced with amusement.

Jo nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he managed to say, though his voice wavered. “It’s… it’s kind of overwhelming.”

Ben chuckled, his thumb brushing across Jo’s skin. “That’s part of the fun, isn’t it? Letting go, seeing where things take you.”

Jo swallowed hard, his mind flooded with conflicting emotions. He loved to know that there were very handsome guys underneath the disguise, but he preferred the masked faces.

„Now, let’s see how far we can push this.” Ben murmured, his tone challenging.

Jo’s breath hitched as Ben leaned in, their lips meeting in a slow, deliberate kiss. The taste of salt from their sweat mingled on Jo’s tongue, sending waves of heat cascading through his body. Ben’s grip tightened on Jo’s hand as their kiss deepened, the intensity building with every second. With this he turned aside and picked up Tom’s muscle suit and mask.

Tom, meanwhile, pulled away from Alex long enough to watch the situation with curiosity. “Looks like we are getting a sequel,” he said, his voice teasing but affectionate. He went over to Ben’s suit and masked and started to dress up aswell. The sweat inside made it easy for them to slide inside.

Alex grinned, his cheeks flushing as he looked between the two couples. “Should we help them?“ he suggested, his voice filled with mischief.

Jo’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched this identity switch. Tom was now looking as as the muscle bear and his hands roamed over Jo’s back, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. Jo moaned softly into Tom’s fully bearded mouth, his hips instinctively grinding against Tom’s.

“You feel so good,” Tom whispered against Jo’s lips, his voice low and intimate.

Jo could only nod, his mind swimming in a haze of pleasure. He wanted more, needed more, but he wasn’t sure how to ask.

Ben must have sensed his wish because he closed in now with Tom’s mask on his face, his dark eyes locking onto Jo’s. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded, his voice firm but encouraging.

Jo swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I… I want you both,” he admitted, his words barely above a whisper.

Ben’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, leaning in to capture Jo’s lips next to Tom’s bearded face.

As their kiss deepened, Ben’s hands moved lower, sliding down to cup Jo’s ass. Jo gasped into the kiss, his body tensing as Ben squeezed gently. The sensation was intoxicating, sending shivers down his spine.

Tom moaning at his face, his presence adding another layer of heat to the already charged atmosphere.

Tom moved behind Jo, placing his hands on Jo’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. Jo’s entire body shuddered at the touch of the rubber mask and the thick beard, his arousal spiking as Tom’s lips trailed lower, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath his jaw.

“You’re going to love this,” Tom murmured, his voice a sultry whisper that sent goosebumps skittering across Jo’s skin.

Jo didn’t respond; he couldn’t. His mind was too consumed by the sensations coursing through his body. Ben’s hands on his ass, Tom’s lips on his neck, the weight of their combined desire pressing down on him. It was overwhelming in the best possible way.

“Lean into it,” Ben instructed, his voice steady and reassuring.

to be continued…..

[llamagoddessofficial]

It was the best hidden room in his castle.

Nightmare appeared, emerging from within the liquid shadows at the far corner, taking on a solid form. The room had no doors- that was the trick to it. Only a being who already knew the room’s location in the castle, and had the ability to transport themselves through space, would be capable of accessing this place.

... Though there was no door, there was a window. Just one. A circular skylight, directly above the bed... it gave a perfect view of the stars.

It was a small, comfortable chamber, the obsidian walls draped with finely embroidered midnight blue tapestries to maintain warmth. Ancient murals, moons and interlocking patterns that had long lost their meaning, inlaid with silver- the silver caught the light from the small glowing blue stones that dotted the walls. The room was barely brighter than a dim twilight. 

Of course... the most important thing in the whole room was what was at the centre.

... Nightmare approached your bed.

A fine bed, of course. A large canopy draped luxuriously, for even more warmth, protection and quiet. Only the best for you. You were tucked under sumptuous sheets, your head upon a satin pillow, sweet little face barely visible under all the layers of comfort.

... He reached out, tucking the blanket down slightly, to get a better look at you. You were so peaceful. Your cheeks had regained some colour, over the past few days, as had your lips- but your eyelids did not move.

He knew what it looked like. If his damned brother found this room, and the sleeping human, he’d jump to conclusions (as he always did); Nightmare had stolen a human, cursed them with eternal sleep. Worst case scenario, Nightmare was tormenting this human as a sick game- best case scenario, Nightmare has grown so feverishly attached he would rather have someone sleep in his arms forever than be free to walk away from him.

...

And... well. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t enjoying having you this way. But it was missing one crucial detail.

... You would wake up the moment you wanted to.

He sat on the bed, beside you. He reached out, and gently stroked your hair... enjoying the softness and texture.

You didn’t stir.

Nightmare had felt your pain far across your universe. Like a moth to a flame, he came to you- and though he originally had only the intent to feed, he loved you the moment he laid eyes on you. Your Soul, such a pretty thing, cracking under the weight of its pain; the fractures sparkled like fault lines in a diamond. You were holding the agony within, unwilling to let anyone know. You were on the verge of shattering. On the verge of your Soul going out.

When he came for you, you didn’t protest, you didn't even struggle.

You had looked at him with an empty, accepting expression.

Perhaps you thought he was death? Cute.

... So he took you, instead. You let him put his arms around you- he had never had someone accept him so completely, his jealous desire only intensified. He carried you back to his palace, he cradled you lovingly. Once your eyes had closed, he laid you down in the quietest room, in his finest bed... cuddled under his softest sheets and guarded by his most possessive magic.

The spell in question was one he hadn’t used in a long, long time. There was nothing on any Earth that could forcibly awaken you from your slumber. No sound, no touch, no pain nor magic. No power he (or any other great being) possessed, nothing in the wide multiverse. Nothing could awaken you from the outside.

But... the moment you wanted to open your eyes, you would. The tail of the Rupert’s drop. As if waking from a pleasant midday nap, the spell would shatter into dust around you.

It was a one-way spell. That was what made it so powerful.

... He continued to stroke your hair. Your dreams were safety- he ensured nothing crossed your mind but visions of peace and warmth. You curled deeper into his dreams like a hibernating rabbit. He could sense the injuries in your slowly Soul mending, your wounds slowly healing, as you were finally allowed to rest.

You had yet to even think of opening your eyes.

At that moment, the moon emerged. Its light passed through the skylight window... catching a small array of crystals that hung above your bed. Flecks of iridescence silently scattered across the walls, and over your face. 

“... beautiful.” He murmured. “no one will ever hurt you again, my darling. no one. i promise.”

...

... You, of course... did not even stir.

[comatosebunny09]

prey | astarion a.

summary: he makes you feel like small, feeble prey. something to be slowly devoured and savored. warnings: steamy, language now playing: desert rose [ slowed ] - lolo zouaï notes: i blame astarion’s bedroom eyes for this. tagging: @nanaoise08squad

The tavern is lively tonight. Filled to the brim with laughter, music, and the clinking of mugs.

You hang back from the festivities, tucked away from the other patrons at a secluded table. Not lonely. Just prefer solitude.

You raise your mug to your companions every so often as they venture past, their mirth infectious.

There’s a smile on your face. Your body buzzes from the ale settling in your belly. You nurse your tankard, the contents of it gently sloshing about.

A laugh occasionally touches your lips. Watching everyone enjoy themselves is a welcomed sight, given the doom constantly looming over your shoulders.

Subconsciously, you find yourself sifting through the crowd in search of someone. A familiar thatch of white. Vermilion eyes. Sharp features. And like a beacon, you’re drawn to him, watching him chat up some pretty brunette on the other side of the bar.

You sit up on the barstool, unconsciously tugging at your collar. Feel your stomach plummet to your feet. Your lips part with shallow breaths, and your throat grows dry.

Who the hell is that? And why are they standing so close to him?

You’ve no time to coddle the envy blooming in your chest, for his gaze finds yours through the throng of people with laser precision. As if he sensed you looking his way, his eyes crinkle with the slightest hint of amusement.

Your heart stutters at the sight. You suddenly forget how to breathe. Trapped in a soundless stare-down, only the two of you seem to exist as the noise of the tavern fades into the background. It’s all a muddled mess to you, your senses heightened and all trained on Astarion.

His eyes dip into a mysterious shade of red whilst he studies you from beneath dark lashes. Makes you feel like small, feeble prey. Something to be slowly devoured and savored. Your bones licked clean and left on display on a mantle like a trophy.

And you still can’t quite get the hang of breathing.

He pays no heed to the person in front of him. As if they were a mere distraction—an appetizer to sate him until the main course.

He continues to leisurely undo you with his eyes, stripping you down to the marrow until you’re raw and exposed. You feel heavy. Pulsing. Dizzy. Not sure if it’s the ale filling your head with static or the depth of his stare.

Whatever the cause, you tear yourself from your seat. Wend through the crowd, gulping down air as you propel yourself into one of the dark and secluded back rooms.

The noise of the tavern peters into silence.

You press your back against a cool, textured wall, fighting to get your head back on straight. You clutch your chest. Screw your eyes shut.

Breathe. Breathe.

You realize all too late that you’re not alone.

The room’s pressure shifts. And like a prowler, he emerges from the shadows. Slow and meticulous in his steps, ingesting you with those devastating eyes aglow in the darkness, and his brows quirk with intrigue.

You can’t get your limbs to work—to move. So Astarion easily traps you between the hard press of his body and the wall, and he frames either side of your head on bent arms. The hunger in his gaze never leaves, only growing whilst his face slinks in. You swallow thickly, your legs ready to give way.

You’re a sheep cornered in a wolf’s den. Gazing up at him, your lids feeling so very heavy, your head swimming. He smells divine. Feels even better. You unconsciously tangle your fingers in the collar of his coat, drawing him closer.

His lips pan in, his lids shuttering, lashes thick. You stand on the tips of your toes, waiting with bated breath. Ever patient. Obedient. But the kiss never comes.

Instead, he teases you with the promise of one. Grazes your lips with his, sparkles of delight flittering across your face. He releases little pleased, hoarse groans you have to strain your ears to hear. And he revels in this, torturing you so. Coaxing petulant whines from your throat, and you kick your feet like an impatient child.

“Astarion,” you rasp.

“My love?” The rumble of his voice is heady. Makes you throb. His lips brush against yours again, kissing along the outskirts of your mouth, causing the delicate skin to tingle pleasantly.

“Why do you insist on being such a little shit?”

A chuckle. His nose nuzzles along yours, his hands cupping your neck below your jawline, thumbs smoothing over your chin and angling your head further back. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Astarion,” you growl. “Just…gods dammit, just kiss me already.”

You’re desperate. Breathy. Teetering along the edge, and you have to cling to him to keep from careening over it. Your senses are overhauled, filled only with Astarion. Too hot. Too many clothes. Can’t think straight. Can’t—

“Oh, darling,” Astarion croons, continuing his cruel game of keep-away when you move to close the gap between your mouths. “Where’s the fun in giving you exactly what you want whenever you demand it?” He noses along the torrid flesh of your cheek, and you can hear the cruel smile taking hold of his voice. “I rather like the sound of you begging.”

You scoff. Try to kiss him again, but Astarion won’t have any of that.

“Now.” He zooms in, ghosting his lips over yours, fully intending to make you suffer. You lunge forward as if to bite him, earning another low, guttural laugh that you feel in the depths of your belly. “From the top, my love.”

[prisvvner]

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ɪᴛ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ

word count: 746

content: complicated romance, unspoken feelings, tension, bittersweet moment, slight angst, forbidden connections, mild language

author's note: hey there. this one’s a little different—think of it like a glimpse into something that almost happened, but didn’t. it’s messy, it’s tense, and it’s full of moments hanging on the edge. sukuna and you, caught in that weird space between teasing and truth, where timing’s always playing tricks.

this is my interpretation for tv girl's song "it almost worked". thank you so much for letting me be part of your collab @prosypepper <33 congrats to 2k and i hope you enjoy !!

The city was a ghost tonight, draped in shadows that seemed to swallow sound and light alike. The air hung heavy with the faint scent of rain and rust—an acrid perfume that mingled with the cold creeping beneath your skin. You pressed your back against the cracked stone wall of the abandoned warehouse, its rough texture grounding you even as your thoughts spiraled.

You crossed your arms tightly, folding yourself in an attempt to hold steady the storm inside—nerves, anticipation, the foolish flutter of hope that never quite settled. Waiting wasn’t your thing. Waiting for Sukuna was the worst kind of torture. And here you were again, chasing a feeling that danced just beyond your reach.

The dull hum of the city felt miles away, swallowed by the hollow silence of this forgotten place. Your eyes traced the fractured pattern of light from the broken windows above, weaving a kaleidoscope of dust motes drifting lazily through the stale air. You fought to quieten the quick beat of your heart, but the memory of his last touch, the almost-brush of his fingers against your skin, throbbed like a pulse beneath your ribs.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually enjoying this waiting game,” you muttered bitterly, the words sharper than you intended. Sarcasm was your shield, a way to guard yourself from the crack in your voice betraying your nerves. You hated how much you wanted this. Wanted him to cross the line you both danced around.

Slow, deliberate footsteps broke the silence. You didn’t need to look. You knew. You always knew.

Sukuna emerged from the shadows like a dark flame, impossible to ignore. His pink hair spilled over his forehead, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mixture of mischief and something deeper. Something that dared you to look closer. That smirk, that dangerous tilt of his mouth—it was a challenge, an invitation, and a warning all at once.

“Oh, I’m enjoying it. The chase suits me.” His voice was low, smooth, the kind that made your skin prick with awareness even as your pulse quickened.

He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him brushed against your arm, and then his hand lifted. The faintest touch of his fingers swept a loose strand of hair away from your face, grazing your cheek. The contact was light, barely there, but it struck through you like a bolt of lightning.

Your breath hitched, a sharp intake that you barely stifled.

You jerked back, fighting the rush of heat blooming across your cheeks. “Keep your damn fingers to yourself, Sukuna.”

His laughter was soft, amused, like he’d won some private game. His eyes sparkled with a teasing light. “But then how would I know if you’re paying attention?”

You scowled, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, tugging up in spite of yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he murmured, voice dropping to something that felt almost tender, “still letting me get away with it.”

For a moment, the banter faltered, and something real flickered in his gaze—raw and fragile. You wanted to reach out, to close the small distance between you and say the words you’d been choking on for weeks. But fear pinned you still. Pride wrapped itself around you like armor.

“Why do you do this?” Your voice softened, barely audible. “Always the tease. Always just… almost.”

He shrugged, but the smirk wavered. “Because timing is a cruel joke.”

And suddenly, you understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. It was that the world never let you have it—never let you both be enough at the same time.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and opened your mouth to reply, to tell him how you felt, how every teasing smile and half-touched hand left you aching. But before the words could escape, a sharp crack shattered the stillness. The unmistakable flare of cursed energy, like a storm tearing through the night.

Sukuna’s eyes snapped to the shadows, alert and lethal.

“Duty calls.” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of regret you caught before he turned away.

His hand brushed yours once more—lighter this time, almost a promise—before he melted into the darkness.

You remained where you were, heart pounding in the sudden silence. The cold seeped back in, but this time it was colder... emptier.

And you realized, with a bittersweet ache, that once again, it almost worked.

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @hyuneskkami ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[celebtf]

EVENT WITH BECKHAM

In the penthouse office of his corporate empire, Sebastian Moreau stared at his screen, the image of David Beckham smiling from some recent event. Sebastian’s face twisted in bitter envy. Beckham had everything: the fame, the fortune, the family, the world’s adoration—all the things Sebastian believed were rightfully his.

Sebastian had clawed his way to the top, building an empire of wealth and power. Yet, despite all his success, it was Beckham who haunted him. The world loved Beckham for his talent and charm, while Sebastian remained feared, despised in the shadows of his own power.

He had spent years obsessing over a plan—one that would make him not just like David Beckham, but be David Beckham. His scientists, operating under the strictest secrecy, had developed a serum like nothing before it. The serum would allow him to switch places with anyone—by turning his victim into inanimate clothing. He would wear them, take on their appearance, their mannerisms, even their memories.

Now, the time had come. Tonight, at an exclusive charity gala, Beckham would be present. And Sebastian, through his money and connections, had made sure he’d be there too. His obsession would finally become reality.

The charity gala was held in a grand ballroom, dripping with crystal chandeliers, awash in soft gold light. Celebrities mingled, champagne glasses clinked, and photographers snapped pictures of the elite. At the center of the room, as always, stood David Beckham—effortlessly the star of the night. His fitted suit and neatly styled hair added to the perfection that seemed to surround him.

Sebastian stood at the edges of the room, watching like a predator stalking his prey. His fingers absently touched the small vial in his pocket—the serum. He watched as Beckham laughed, shook hands, and charmed every person who approached. The jealousy burning inside Sebastian felt insatiable. It was time.

As the night wore on, Beckham eventually found himself near the bar, alone for a brief moment. Sebastian seized his chance.

“David,” Sebastian said, his voice smooth as he approached, extending a hand. “Sebastian Moreau. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

Beckham smiled graciously, unaware of the darkness lurking behind those words. “Nice to meet you,” Beckham replied as he shook Sebastian’s hand.

In that moment, Sebastian pressed a tiny needle concealed in his palm into Beckham’s skin. The serum worked quickly, but subtly.

Beckham smiled, but then his brow furrowed slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over him. "Strange... feeling a little lightheaded."

"Long night, I’m sure," Sebastian said, a smile creeping onto his lips. Beckham nodded, but as he turned away, the real transformation began.

His movements became sluggish, his limbs growing stiff. He tried to speak, but his throat tightened. His skin began to lose its texture, becoming smoother, shinier. The realization hit Beckham like a truck—something was terribly wrong.

His legs began to fuse together, his arms bending unnaturally as his entire body started to flatten, folding in on itself. His mind screamed, but no sound emerged as his chest turned into soft fabric, his limbs shrinking and reshaping. His consciousness dimmed as he was pulled further into the void, feeling his body’s every thread tighten and warp.

And then, he was gone—reduced to the tailored suit that had once adorned him, crumpled on the floor.

Sebastian grinned, bending down to pick up the empty suit that had once been David Beckham. “Finally,” he whispered to himself, the moment of triumph sending a chill of euphoria through him. He slipped into the suit, feeling its luxurious fabric wrap around him like a second skin.

As soon as the last button fastened, the serum worked its final magic.

Sebastian staggered slightly as the transformation began. The sensation was overwhelming—his bones, his muscles, everything about his body shifting. He looked down at his hands as they began to change. The skin tone lightened, the fingers slimmed and became more refined. In a strange blend of pain and pleasure, his once bulky hands became Beckham’s—the famous hands that had bent so many free kicks into the back of the net.

His body followed suit. His large, stocky frame shrank, muscles lengthening and shifting to mirror Beckham’s athletic, lean build. His chest flattened, growing taut and sculpted beneath the smooth fabric of the suit, while his legs extended, becoming long and powerful like Beckham’s, built from years of football glory.

He could feel the tightening of his jaw as his facial structure reformed. The sharp, angular cheekbones became Beckham’s iconic features. His nose reshaped itself, narrowing, softening. His lips thinned into a familiar, confident smirk. But it was his eyes that completed the transformation—once cold and calculating, they became warm, piercing, like Beckham’s, twinkling with the confidence of a man adored by millions.

Sebastian grinned, turning to the mirror near the bar. There, in the reflection, was David Beckham staring back at him. His hands moved up to touch his new face. He felt the stubble of Beckham’s perfectly maintained beard, the sensation alien but thrilling.

The final touch was the hair. His previously thinning, graying hair became thick and perfectly styled, just like Beckham’s famous cuts. Even the tattoos—the sprawling sleeve on Beckham’s right arm, the intricate ink across his body—began to materialize. Black ink blossomed across his skin, forming the symbols, words, and patterns that were as iconic as Beckham himself.

Sebastian—now David—let out a low, triumphant chuckle. He looked down at his arms, flexing them. The tattoos shifted and moved with him, a perfect recreation of Beckham’s body art. Everything was as it should be.

The change was complete. He was David Beckham—right down to the last tattoo, the last hair, the last fiber of his being.

The boss, now fully transformed, slipped back into the gala with ease. No one noticed a thing. He gave David Beckham’s iconic smile to the crowd, shaking hands, laughing, posing for photos. The transformation was flawless. Even Victoria Beckham, when he returned home that night, kissed him without the slightest hesitation.

Over the next few days, he lived David’s life as though it had always been his. The fame, the luxury, the adoration—it was all his now. He took Beckham’s place at interviews, events, and training sessions, perfectly replicating the man’s charisma and charm.

Meanwhile, the real David, trapped forever as a silent, powerless suit, could do nothing but suffer in darkness, forced to feel every moment of his body being worn by the man who had stolen his life.

Sebastian—David—looked into the mirror one last time, admiring the tattoos that now marked his arms and torso, the chiseled features that the world adored. He was finally living the dream.

This story is from an old one i never posted, wasn’t very happy with it but I will post it anyways.

[jjwolves]

Hiya!!! Really liked the BunrakoMan fic!! Just wanna ask smth for a friend, Can I request some headcanons for him just trying to bring back up a y/n who is drinking their sorrows away after an incident???? Platonic or Romantic is fine! Thanks!

AZTEC RAVE MONKEY 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵 𓏵

What: 5 Bunrako Man X Reader Headcanons Where He Tries to Comfort You

Who: Bunrako Man from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1200 words, ~6 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: Alcohol/Substance Abuse(?)

Bunrako Man and his operator take a seat next to you, the faint click of his turning crank one of the last remaining excuses valid enough for you to pick your head up off the bar's countertop. Not by much, though. Glassy eyes drift to the side to see him confidently "leaning" on the counter and bearing his signature grin. His shirt flashes with green and white blurs of motion like it's a heavily-edited music video that'd be too loud and energetic for you to stomach right now. You'd normally be happy to see him but you can already tell that his energy levels are not going to sync with yours tonight. "Well, well, well. Partyin' down, huh? Mind if I squeeze in here, love?" You offer a morose nod as the operator awkwardly holds Bunrako Man a little closer to you. "You look like you're goin' through it, mate." You take a shot of some kind of some kind of gritty liquid which acts close enough to alcohol that you're fairly nonplussed by its texture. Your personal entertainer interjects into your self-pity by picking up the bottle you've been pouring shots from and inspecting it, laughing loudly and slinging an arm around your shoulders. "HahaHA! Sand of the Lethe, eh? Heavier stuff than your usual, love! At least based on what I've seen you drink! WHOO! Stuff like this, you must be celebratin'! Celebratin', or... uh..." You covered your eyes and curled into the bar.

"Whoa whoa whoa. Hey hey hey. C'mon." Bunrako Man clearly has no idea what he's doing, making sure not to touch you as if it'd cause you to melt into the floor. He chokes down a metal laugh like his cogs are getting jammed, like he's not programmed for this sort of situation. His crank jams and he goes dead, until his operator snaps him out of it and he claps his hands together. "Alright, love! I know what we're doing tonight! It came to me in my power-nap." You murmur that you're not in the mood for anything and you'd rather go rot in bed. "But you've already started drinkin'! My bloody gears are still dry! And the night's not endin' on a sour note for you! Not while I'm around, not happenin'!" You fight to keep a smile off your face with his enthusiasm. Why can't he just let you have a cathartic night of sobbing into your pillow all alone?! You blink and Bunrako Man is already leading you out the door with an arm around your shoulders, making sure to snag that bottle of Sand of the Lethe before you two exit.

You walk for a while and eventually pass through a tunnel of darkness, emerging into some sort of secret night bar which shouldn't exist. Only a few shadowy figures undulate near the walls; for the most part, it's just you and Bunrako Man. You try not to let your shoulders sag--he seems excited to be with you, so you try to match his energy halfway. "Don't drift off to sleepytime just yet, missy. Check it out!! Yeah-HA-HA!!" He grandly gestures towards a complicated self-serve bar holding hundreds of oddly-colored drinks. Your companion snaps his fingers. "You've started down an amazing path with Sands of the Lethe, love. Right proud of ya. But we can take it FURTHER. That's what you need! More!" You two take turns throwing back shots of pink syrup with salt cubes in it, bubbly healing poison and Liquid Spade. By the end of it, you and Bunrako Man stop laughing to squint and realize that you've become the shadows living within the walls. It's even more hilarious. You didn't ask for him to be so good to you, but he is, and you think you'll be better because of it.

Bunrako Man guides you to your house and has somehow hosted a dance party there without leaving your sight all night. Your floors are blinking neon as strange figures waltz and swing to the rhythm throughout the rooms which have been completely altered, somehow, like you've stepped into an extradimensional version of your house that had the color palette of a bag of jellybeans. The rumbling bass of oddball techno music thrums throughout the floors of your home as Bunrako Man leads you to the dance floor, his operator tiptoeing silently. "How are ya feelin' now?" Smiling, and maybe a little shy all of a sudden, you reply that you're feeling OK, you guess. Your date gasps. "OK YOU GUESS?! No no no, I don't bloody think so. DJ!! CRANK IT ALL TO MAX!! YEAH-HA!" And with that, the night's rhythm reaches a fever pitch. Bunrako Man takes your hand and pulls you into a blistering-fast dance. The world blurs. You're pretty sure your ceiling is melting after you pass through a nearby silhouetted dancer. They burst into smoke, but your dance partner laughs it off as he twirls you around to the other side and his operator does its best to keep up. "Watch where you're goin'! You might just send someone to heaven with moves like that!"

You wake up the following morning with a headache. You're ungracefully splayed out on your couch--at least someone had the decency to cover you with a blanket. Your house is back to normal, thankfully. Turning to the side, you see Bunrako Man lying face down on the floor next to where you woke up. He doesn't need to sleep, as far as you know; he's probably dormant right now without his operator. Rubbing your eyes, you pick him up by his attached stick and start turning the crank. In a few moments, his voice manages to crackle to life and his shirt is dancing with the entire light spectrum again. "YOOOW! ...Oh, it's mornin'. Mornin', sweetheart! So, are you feelin' pumped up after such a CRAZY NIGHT?!" That was a complicated question--you felt a lot happier, if that's what he meant, but you also felt like you'd been hit by a truck and were waking up with tire tracks on your head. "That's life, ain't it great?" You ask where his operator got off to. "Heh! Shin? Sneaking off to get breakfast for us. Start off our day in a kickass way, eh?" Well, it sounded like a good idea to get something on your stomach, at least. It wasn't long before Shin silently slid through a window and skulked into the living room, setting down a tray of martinis. Confused, you ask what this is for. Bunrako Man says, "Didn't I say he was gettin' breakfast?" before already starting on one.