#magic moment utterly ruined

[sixeyesonathiel]

you ever draw someone so hard you ride them?

pairing — star player satoru x broke artist reader

synopsis : after months of being your muse, satoru finally flips the table and makes you his canvas—reverent, hungry, and utterly devoted. you spent weeks capturing his form; now he worships yours, whispering that you are the masterpiece.

wc — 3.5k tags — smut, fluff, university au, pining, finally touching, soft dom satoru, service top satoru, hand worship, oral (f receiving), mirror sex, slow burn payoff, first time, established relationship, emotional smut, he loves you so much it’s sick, you lets yourself be loved, gentle filth, satoru is down so bad it’s pathetic

a/n: yes. this is the smut for free throws & figure drawings. i couldn’t add smut in the original oneshot, but these two never left me alone, the part two which includes their life after college is still in the making!

eight months in.

that’s how long it takes before satoru touches you like this.

not because you weren’t ready. not because he wasn’t. but because he’s a golden-retriever-faced menace who waited—waited—until your need outweighed your pride. he could tell. he always could. and he never pushed, never asked, never made you feel cornered. just circled closer every day like gravity, like fate. one teasing comment at a time. one lazy smirk, one thigh brush, one perfectly timed stretch of his jersey in your face. every moment so casual. calculated. loving. he gave you time to breathe, time to bloom.

he made it a game. but not one he ever planned to win fast.

he’d kiss you slow in the halls, hand in your back pocket, mouth curling into your neck just to feel you twitch. he’d crawl into your bed after practice, shirtless, smelling like sweat and mint gum and expensive laundry detergent. he’d grin like a devil and mouth at your collarbone like he was innocent. always stopping short. always leaving you throbbing, breathless, caught between a gasp and a growl. and he’d laugh when you shoved him away, cheeks pink, thighs pressed tight, muttering something vicious under your breath. and then he'd say something stupid like, "it's cute when you fluster," as if you weren't already melting inside.

satoru gojo is shameless. but he’s also patient. reverent. completely and utterly yours.

he never tried to touch what you weren’t ready to give. not once. not even when you straddled his lap in the studio, thighs framing his hips while you adjusted the light for your latest sketch. not when you fell asleep with your hand in his shirt and your face in his throat. not when your breath hitched the first time he kissed the base of your spine, or when your hips unconsciously pressed against him during a late-night cuddle. he’d grin, yes. he’d tease. but he’d always stop. always wait. because he wanted you to feel safe. he wanted you to choose.

because he knows how much you overthink. how long you spent folding your love into corners, how tightly you hold your own body together, like it’s a project you haven’t quite finished. you’re an artist—your hands are your pride, your purpose. and he knows that too. better than anyone.

he fell in love with them first.

long before you ever let him in, he was already watching the way you curled your fingers when you thought, the way you rubbed your thumb over your pencil before sketching, the way paint smudged the edges of your knuckles like a secret only he was meant to see. he watches them like a man starved. kisses them when you let him. cradles them like they might shatter. memorizes the little freckle on your index finger and the groove of your palm. calls them magic. says they saved him.

"you know you could ruin me with these," he’ll murmur sometimes, his lips brushing the heel of your palm. "all that talent, all that precision, and you use them to paint me?" his smile is crooked. adoring. "no one's ever been so lucky."

and when you look away, flustered, pretending not to care, he kisses the dip of your wrist and whispers, "i’d let you wreck me. just say the word."

but he waits.

days turn to weeks, then months. your sketchbooks fill with him. you pretend they don’t. he pretends not to notice. he starts bringing snacks to your sessions, then full meals. makes you take breaks. kisses the stress from your forehead. lays his head in your lap and lets you draw in peace. he runs errands for you. he fixes your squeaky cabinet. he folds your laundry, badly. he doodles in your margins when you aren't looking and gets scolded every time.

he never asks for more.

and still, he waits.

until one night, you pull him into your bed.

not like usual. not with the intent to sleep. not with your body curled toward the wall and his arm tossed carelessly around your waist.

no. this time, you kiss him first.

this time, your mouth is open and soft and wanting, your hands sliding under his shirt like you’re memorizing the ridges of his stomach. and for one suspended breath, he freezes. just to make sure you mean it. his lashes flutter. his breath stills. his hand hovers above your thigh, waiting.

and you do.

because for once, you aren’t overthinking. you aren’t afraid. you want him. you trust him. more than you’ve ever trusted anyone.

and the moment your back hits the sheets, he’s all over you.

knees planted wide between your legs, hands everywhere, mouth hot and eager as it trails kisses down your body. his eyes are bright and ravenous, that blue burned down to smoke, lips already slick from the kisses he's stolen. his hands shake, just barely. like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch. like he doesn’t want to ruin anything by rushing.

"took you long enough," he breathes, voice shot to hell as he watches you peel your shirt off. his gaze drags over your chest, reverent. like you’re light. like you’re art. like you’re his. something in him breaks a little, seeing you like this. bare. willing. glowing.

"you’re so annoying," you mutter, breathless, smiling despite yourself.

"mmhm," he hums, nuzzling against your neck. "but you’re still letting me fuck you. can’t be that bad."

your glare doesn’t land. not when he’s pressing you into the mattress, nosing at your jaw, whispering, “been dreaming about this. you, under me, making all those noises you try so hard to hold in.”

he kisses your hands first. of course he does. each finger, with reverence. your palm, with warmth. your wrist, with devotion. he presses them to his chest like they’re sacred. says something about how they’ve built whole worlds. says he wants to earn every touch.

he doesn't just want you.

he cherishes you.

and fuck, you are noisy.

it drives him insane.

satoru hears it before his mouth even touches you. that soft, hitched breath when his hands slide beneath your thighs, calloused fingertips dragging slow and reverent like he wants to learn the shape of your tremble. the little gasp you try to swallow when he kisses the sensitive skin above your knee, letting his lips linger there too long, humming softly as if he's savoring something decadent. the sound that breaks from your throat when his thumb barely brushes over your folds and finds you soaked — it has him swearing under his breath, jaw going tight, shoulders tensing as though he’s barely keeping himself leashed.

his groan is guttural, lodged deep in his chest, like it takes effort to keep himself from diving in right then. his eyes are hooded, lashes clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown wide beneath strands of silver hair that stick to his damp temple. his mouth is parted, a bead of spit catching on his bottom lip—already pink from where he's been biting it raw. his expression flickers, moment to moment: awe, hunger, something like devotion. he looks like a man seconds from prayer and sin all at once.

“mm,” he hums low, dragging a knuckle through your slick. his thumb ghosts over your clit but doesn’t linger yet. “you always get this messy when i just look at you?”

your thighs twitch. your jaw clenches. your hands fist into the sheets, trying not to give him the satisfaction. but your eyes flutter half-shut and your lips part around a breath that catches anyway.

“don’t narrate it,” you mumble, voice shaking, already unraveling.

he laughs into your skin, hot breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh, and his grin is all teeth and mischief.

“can’t help it,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. “you’re too fuckin’ cute when you try to be mad at me.”

his palms slide behind your thighs, thumbs smoothing over your skin as he eases you apart, spreading you open like you’re something sacred—his. the air hits your wetness and your body jerks, but he’s already lowering himself, settling between your legs like it’s his home.

his eyes roam every inch of you before he even touches. he stares, quiet for once, like he wants to memorize the way you look right now, how flushed you are, how your chest rises with shaky breath.

“shit,” he whispers, licking his lips. “you’re unreal.”

you breathe his name again, soft, tentative. he glances up, and when your eyes meet, his smile softens into something molten.

“shhh,” he says, lips brushing your skin. “just lemme taste you, baby. wanna make you feel good.”

and then he devours you.

no teasing. no hesitance. just tongue, mouth, hunger.

he groans like he’s been starved, like every inch of his body is aching to have this. he buries his mouth in you and licks like he’s drowning and the only thing keeping him breathing is you. his tongue is hot and slow at first, dragging between your folds, mapping out every part of you. and then deeper, messier, hungrier.

his nose nudges the crease of your thigh and he exhales sharply through it, groaning as his tongue circles your clit and flicks just right. your hips jump and he grins, lips curved against your skin.

when you moan, broken and high-pitched, his lashes flutter and his eyes roll back, like the sound of you is enough to undo him. he tightens his grip on your thighs, keeping you still while he feasts. you feel his jaw flex, the sharp edge of his cheekbone brushing your thigh with every movement.

he pulls back just a moment, lips slick, breath ragged, eyes glazed.

“you make the prettiest sounds,” he breathes, voice thick, reverent. “c'mon, don’t hide them from me. wanna hear everything.”

his tongue returns, more focused now, lapping and sucking in rhythm. you twitch beneath him, thighs clenching, and he lets out a low, gravelly noise of satisfaction. his lashes flutter again, mouth working hungrily, jaw moving with purpose.

“mmm,” he hums against you, smirking. “tastes better than any fuckin’ sweet i’ve had. should’ve done this sooner.”

your hand flies to his hair, tugging without thinking, and he groans loud—vibrating straight through you. his shoulders shudder, like he wants to grind himself into the mattress just from your sounds alone.

“fuck,” he breathes, and the tip of his nose bumps your clit again as he speaks. “pull harder. make a mess of me.”

then—without warning, without mercy—he sinks two fingers inside you.

thick. slow. deep. curling like he knows exactly where you need him.

your back bows. your breath stutters. your body arches up into him, and you make a sound he’s never heard from you before—wrecked and raw. his free hand anchors you down, palm spread flat against your stomach like he’s holding you to the earth.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes flicking up to watch your face. “so fuckin’ tight. like you’re made to take me.”

his fingers work a slow, maddening rhythm inside you, knuckles dragging firm as his tongue flicks your clit in sync. the room is too hot. your vision swims. your thighs shake beneath his mouth.

he watches every twitch, every breath you catch, every expression you can’t hide. he looks wrecked—hair damp and curling against his temples, lips swollen and slick, jaw sharp with tension.

he pants against your cunt, voice breaking.

“close,” he murmurs. “i know. i can feel it. fuck, baby, gimme it. let me have all of it.”

you shatter.

legs trembling, voice cracking. your orgasm crashes through you like thunder, loud and bright and soaked, and he moans into it—desperate and unfiltered, mouth still moving, tongue still pressing through every wave. your body jolts with every aftershock, thighs shaking around his head, hands twitching against his shoulders. your fingers go slack in his hair, your voice frayed.

his fingers don’t leave you. they ease, slow, coaxing every tremor from your body with tenderness. his mouth lingers, placing soft kisses now, like he’s trying to soothe you through the comedown.

your hands push weakly at his shoulders, breathless, spent.

and he loves it.

he finally lifts his head, breath warm against your thigh, chest heaving like he just ran through a storm and found peace in you. his pupils are blown wide, nearly eclipsing the soft blue, hair disheveled and damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed forehead. his lips glisten, raw and parted, breath shaky as though your taste alone stole every last thread of his composure. his tongue drags across his lower lip slowly, like he’s still savoring the flavor of you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smug, breathless grin.

he looks wrecked. and radiant. wild with need and dripping with adoration.

“you okay?”

you nod, barely. dazed. lips swollen, eyes glassy, pupils unfocused. your lashes flutter as he kisses up your body—delicate presses, reverent, like each inch of skin is something sacred, like he’s anchoring himself in the world by mapping every place he’s made you feel good. he doesn’t speak at first. just hums, low and satisfied, murmuring quiet praises into your skin like they’re instinct. like worship.

his mouth finds yours again, and he kisses you deep—wet and warm, a slow press that melts into something messier. he lets you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning into your mouth as your hips roll against him without meaning to. when you whimper, he exhales through his nose, kissing you deeper, his fingers slipping beneath your thighs to anchor you down.

“mm,” he exhales, voice syrup-thick as he shifts beneath you. “not done.”

his hands settle at your hips, palms steady, guiding you effortlessly into his lap like you’re weightless. your back meets his chest with a slick press, your sweat-slicked skin sliding against his. his arms coil around your waist, strong and grounding. his chest rises and falls behind you, a little too fast, like he’s barely managing to keep himself from dragging you under.

the mirror is in front of you.

angled just right. angled perfectly. and god, he made sure of that.

his cock, flushed dark and twitching, slides between your folds as he shifts his hips beneath you, letting the tip nudge against your clit before gliding through your slick. the friction alone makes your head tip back, a choked sound escaping you.

he watches your reaction in the mirror, that infuriating smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. you feel it—his amusement, his awe.

“look at that,” he purrs, voice heavy with affection and mischief. “haven’t even put it in yet, and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”

he kisses the side of your head, nose brushing your temple.

“breathe, baby.”

his fingers dip down again, slow, teasing circles over your clit. featherlight, just enough to make your stomach tighten. your head tips back, body twitching in his lap. your nails scratch lightly down his arms, the only defense you can muster.

then—

he pushes in.

inch by inch.

thick, stretching you open like it’s the first time. because it is.

your breath shatters. your whole body jolts, hands flying to his forearms. your nails dig deep. your thighs strain to close, but his arms hold you open. you gasp—a helpless, breathy thing that breaks before it ever becomes a word.

“shh,” he coos, voice gentler now, lips grazing your ear. “s’okay. i got you. just breathe. you’re takin’ me so good already.”

he groans—low, shaky. your walls flutter around him with every inch he sinks in, the stretch making your whole body shiver. his hand doesn’t leave your clit, rubbing slow, steady circles to ease the burn.

“fuck,” he moans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “you’re squeezin’ me like a vice. gonna make me lose it before i even move.”

you try to speak, to say something biting—but the words collapse into a soft, keening sound as he bottoms out.

his hand finds your chin and tilts it forward.

“nuh-uh,” he murmurs. “don’t look away. wanna see how fuckin’ pretty you look like this.”

your eyes drag open, hazy and wet, and meet the mirror.

you barely recognize yourself—flushed and shining, lips parted in a stunned gasp, your skin glowing with sweat. your brows are drawn, mouth twitching as your walls flutter around the thick weight of him inside you.

he starts to move.

slow. dragging. deliberate.

your breath stutters. your knees twitch, thighs trembling.

“that’s it,” he hums, breath hot on your neck. “just like that. god, you’re makin’ the cutest faces. y’know that? fuckin’ adorable. you sure you’re not the one obsessed with me?”

he rolls his hips deeper. you cry out, barely a sound, just air and heat. your hands tremble where they grip his thighs, too overwhelmed to speak.

“what’s that? no smart little comment now?” he teases, kissing your shoulder, his voice drenched in adoration. “thought you were tough, angel.”

he grinds up into you again. your mouth falls open.

a whimper.

a moan.

and nothing else.

he laughs. delighted. wrecked.

“knew it,” he whispers. “knew i’d turn that sharp mouth of yours to mush.”

his thrusts quicken. deepen. his arms wrap tighter around your waist, locking you in place as he fucks up into you, smooth and controlled. the mirror shows everything. your body bouncing with every roll of his hips, his cock splitting you open again and again, the muscles in his abdomen flexing as he moves.

“look at you, baby,” he growls, picking up the pace. “fuck—how’re you this gorgeous and still act like i’m the muse?”

his voice cracks with it. because you are—your expression undone, jaw slack, eyes lidded and wet. your thighs tremble with each thrust, every sound that escapes you more broken than the last.

“don’t hide from me,” he pants, breath sharp and quick. “keep watching. wanna see the exact moment you fall apart.”

you try.

but your eyes blur. your vision swims. your body rocks helplessly in his lap.

your orgasm coils tight in your belly, sharp and violent.

“satoru—please—i’m—”

“that’s it,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “let go. let me feel you, baby. wanna watch you fall apart all over my cock.”

you break. again.

your body collapses against him, your scream breathless, voice cracking. every muscle pulls taut, trembling. your walls clench hard around him, and he groans—deep, raw, as he fucks you through it, chasing his own edge.

“that’s it. fuck, that’s it—”

he spills into you with a strangled cry, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside, thick and so much it spills out around the edges. his arms crush you to him. he moans again, low and broken, like he doesn’t know how else to react. he doesn’t thrust again. just stays buried. trembling. like finishing inside you knocked every last thought out of his head.

his arms wrap around you like he’s trying to anchor himself—like if he loosens his grip, he might float away. his palm is pressed flat against your belly, grounding you, fingers twitching like they still don’t know how to stop touching. his forehead rests against your shoulder, breath ragged and warm, strands of hair clinging to the sweat-damp skin of his temple.

your bodies breathe in tandem. chest to back, sticky with sweat and afterglow. his cock twitches again inside you—a slow, pulsing aftershock—and you feel the lazy, inevitable trickle of his release starting to slip out around him. your thighs twitch. your toes curl. your reflection in the mirror shifts, barely perceptible, trembling like the rest of you.

“you okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

“no thanks to you,” you mumble, your voice thick and flat with exhaustion. it lacks the bite you were aiming for.

he laughs—quiet and hoarse—and kisses your jaw. “so mean,” he croons, nuzzling against your cheek. “and here i was, giving you the best night of your life.”

“shut up,” you whisper. your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. “i can’t even feel my knees.”

“that’s a good thing,” he says, smug now. “means i did it right.”

you groan, shifting just enough to smack his thigh with the back of your hand, weakly. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it,” he replies, kissing your temple. he still sounds dazed, too satisfied to be cocky for real. “gonna run you a bath soon. hot. lavender oil. bubbles.”

“don’t make promises you’re too tired to keep.”

he exhales a breathy laugh, the sound low and melted. his hand trails up your stomach, then down again, soothing, thoughtless. his thumb traces just beneath the curve of your ribs.

“give me five minutes,” he murmurs. “then i’ll carry you. princess treatment.”

“mm. better.”

he adjusts his hold on you slightly, only so he can tuck his nose into the crook of your neck, exhale slow and deep like he’s trying to memorize the way you smell like skin and sweat and everything he just did to you.

“but not yet,” he says, the words nearly lost in your skin. “just let me stay like this. hold you a little longer.”

and he does. he stays wrapped around you like he was carved to fit there.

like if he lets go, the world might stop.

a/n : i missed writing them—missed how individual they are, and how their chemistry feels like a natural consequence of who they are, not just the romance. free throws & figure drawings is still the piece i’m proudest of, and this feels like a little love letter to that <3 also: i toned down the explicitness in this one—not because they aren’t filthy, but because i really wanted to center the intimacy over the porn teehee :3

[wholemeallbread]

prince!rin is often overshadowed by his older brother. it's near impossible for him to have his moment when his brother always does it better. to everyone, he's "itoshi sae's younger brother". he's even had people trying to marry him just to get closer to sae.

his heart is ice at this point. steadily melting, but impossible to just crack through. it's a slow, slow process, his initial thought anyway, and he was convinced it would take ages for him to find the one.

prince!rin who's nothing but rude when you try and talk to him. it wasn't your own choice in the first place, purely for building relationships between different nations, but how were you going to explain that he was the one making things impossible?

prince!rin who genuinely couldn't believe he fell for the "love at first sight" trope. it's stupid – he was stupid, and he flunked his first impression. how has talking to you for a brief fifty seven seconds (he was counting) equate to his heart shattering into a million pieces with nothing but a gaze?

prince!rin who seems nicer than he lets on. this may sound corny, but he's protected you more times than you'd think.

weird people of importance that are way out of your age range eying you funny? he's only sharpened the sword in his scabbard last night, and he's not afraid to use it. he watches your drink from across the entire hall when you're gone just to make sure nobody tampers with it. believe him, it's more common than you think. when he knows you're visiting the kingdom soon, he makes sure every inch of the town is far from dirt and mud, in fear of ruining your outfit for the special night.

prince!rin panics and keeps the entire relationship undercover. this entire thing was spontaneous. god, it wasn't even him who asked, it was you. he didn't even know you liked him!

nobody knows, not even his brother. actually, he told the diary that he stress-writes into, but now it's locked up, in a locked up box, in another locked up box, and then in a locked up drawer. just the word "marriage" makes him flinch. how suspicious, but somehow, nobody was able to make the link between the two of you.

prince!rin tries to seem cool in front of you, but fails miserably. he has a short temper despite his outward appearance, and even tiny misfortunes cause the dormant anger inside of him to start bubbling up. luckily, you're always there to calm him down, so no more training dummies or random civilians have to suffer from his wrath.

prince!rin who would risk his life for you, but still struggles to bend or completely break the rules. he follows his curfew diligently, straight up refuses to sneak around, and is always on his best behaviour when around his family. the chances of you meeting during the night are near zero, and the only time you see each other is when you coincidentally cross paths or during royal events.

prince!rin always blames himself when the two of you get into an argument. you'd think he's ignoring you with how busy he magically becomes, but his brain is so full of thoughts and conflict. instead of talking things out, he releases stress by overtraining, spending all day working on his swordsmanship. yep, his communication skills suck.

prince!rin tweaks the fuck out when sae magically manages to find out. he could be halfway across the nation and he would still feel the disapproving glare he fears so much. he's pretty much begging on his knees for sae not to tell anyone, not for his own reputation, but he doesn't want to get you in trouble. and then everything comes out, confessing everything on the spot; how it happened, how he feels, how he wants to say sorry to you. sae gives him a weird look, claiming that he'll "help him out", but he doesn't get any advice in the following days.

and he feels utterly betrayed days later when his own brother set the two of you up. as evil as it was, he told you that rin was injured, and he told rin that you were going to break up with him. evil, so evil, but it worked. rin was not ready to receive a big hug, mumbles of missing him and telling him to never get hurt again beinf whispered in his ear. just what is going on?

whatever. at the end of the day, you were in his arms again, ans that's all that matters.

@lizbix CMERE I WROTE!!! oops its a bit late actually r u awake

[catssluvr]

𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒆, aaron hotchner

aaron hotchner x fem!reader (916 words)

in which you end up with an injured nose at girl’s night and aaron takes care of you

warnings: bloody nose (surprise), r is tipsy, sweet aaron again 🫶🏻

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

This is probably the last way you would have imagined your day to end up like. This being sitting in the passenger seat of Hotch's car with an ice pack against your very much painful bloody nose.

It's funny to think that working in the fbi wasn't what gave you an injurie but falling against Emily's coffee table sure was. It was definitely quite a fight between you, one of Sergio's toys on the floor and the corner of the table. You just didn't happen to win it, leaving your nose bruised and bloody.

You felt utterly embarrassed for having to call him to pick you up, but you couldn't drive after two cups of wine and didn't want to ruin girl's night. You're sure there's better things for him to do on his day off, specially at midnight.

Though he doesn't seem bothered by it the slightest, his hand resting on your thigh for the whole ride home and stealing worried glances at you once in a while.

"You okay?" He asks once he opens the door, helping you out of your seatbelt.

You're quiet and that worries him. He knows pretty well you're not one to be quite when alcohol is running in your system.

"Mhm. Sorry for this, again." It's probably your fourth apology tonight and he doesn't like that one bit.

"Stop saying sorry." His tone is almost stern but you can feel the affection sweeping through it. "I missed you today, was glad you called." He's too sweet even when you're sure you ripped him out of bed, his crooked quarter zip that's thrown over his sleeping shirt proving you right.

You smile softly at him, regretting it immediately as your nose stings.

Aaron hushes you inside the house, immediately leading you to the bathroom and sitting you on the counter.

He rummages through the cabinets for a moment, pulling out a few cottons and other things you're too dozy too look properly at.

"Oh, sweet girl..." It's only now that he takes the ice pack from your nose that he realizes how painful it must be. There's dried blood right outside your nostrils and the bridge of your nose look another shade.

"That bad, uh?" You mock, holding back a chuckle at his reprehending stare.

Aaron starts cleaning your nose with a wet cotton, mumbling out gentle sorries when you hiss in pain.

You take the time to look at him through half closed eyes. His dishevelled hair, his concentrated expression and most of all his quarter zip paired with stripped pyjama pants. It makes you feel both giddy and guilty that he probably came running to get you once you called.

"You're pretty." You say it before getting to actually think about it. But the fact that you're still tipsy helps you say things shamelessly.

"Thank you, honey. You're very pretty too." He answers with a smile bigger than he intended, just happy that you're finally acting like you normally would while tipsy.

Once the blood is cleaned and the arnica is applied, he reaches for the small band aid box. They all have some kind of cartoon in them, Jack's influence.

"Which one?" He questions with fake seriousness, displaying all the different band aids.

You point to the spider-man themed one, probably Jack's influence as well.

"Very good choice." Aaron pulls it open, carefully applying it over the small cut on the bridge of your nose before pressing a tiny kiss there.

He tells you to wait for a moment before dissapearing into the bedroom, coming back a few seconds later with a large hoodie and one pair of stripped pyjama pants - both his.

You let out a relaxed sigh once you're in them, his scent comforting and similar to what you would call home.

"Gimme a kiss?" You mumble nasally, a chuckle bubbling out of him at the way it sounds more like 'kith'.

"I'll hurt your nose."

"No, it'll heal magically from your kiss." You do little in trying to persuade him, but it's more than enough for him.

Aaron tucks a few strands of hair behind your ears, cupping your warm cheeks and leaning in to place a gentle peck on your lips.

"Better, sweet girl?" It's not really a question, as he knows the answer. His lips trail from your cheek to your temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling to hold your face once more.

"Mhm, much better." You lean into his hands almost involuntarily.

His hands reach under your thighs, picking you up before you can even process it. You let out a surprised gasp, smacking his chest lightly when he laughs.

"You know, my nose is hurt. Not my legs, Aaron." You mumble against his neck, smiling at the way he shivers at the contact.

"Just let me spoil you, yeah?" He shushes you, arms comfortable around you as he enters the bedroom.

Once you're tucked inside the blankets in his so familiar bed, Aaron pulls out his quarter zip. Throwing it on top of the armchair in the corner before rushing to lay beside you.

Almost immediately, your arms find place around his waist. Your fingers trace incoherent shapes on his stomach and your head lays against his chest, his heartbeat lulling you to a sleepy state almost immediately.

"Thank you." It's barely a whisper, but he hears it just fine.

He hums, squeezing his arms around you before pressing a kiss to your hair one last time. "My sweet girl."

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

love you,

cat 🤍

[xenodile]

"Shuro loves Falin for the same reasons he hates Laios" Completely and utterly wrong, could not be further off base.

I get the impression a lot of people watching Dungeon Meshi as it airs, or are a bit removed from its original manga run, have forgotten that Laios and Falin being monster freaks wasn't actually apparent until the events of the story. The only person that knew Falin loved monsters as much as Laios was Marcille because they were best friends at school.

Once Laios and Falin were in an adventuring party together, they both had public facing personas because they had both learned through their separate upbringings that being super interested in monsters and dungeons wasn't normal. Laios is the blunt but well meaning, outspoken and opinionated guy we all know, but Falin was way more withdrawn and soft-spoken, non-confrontational, easy to get along with. Everyone that interacted with Falin would say she's a sweet, gentle girl that everyone likes. Because she was, frankly, kind of a doormat.

The whole thing with Toshiro's infatuation with Falin is he doesn't actually know her. She is outwardly very polite and reserved, and that appeals to Toshiro because it meshes with his cultural sensibilities and how he was taught people are supposed to behave. Then he sees her marveling at a caterpillar in a private moment and decides on the spot that she's the ideal woman and proposes without actually talking to or getting to know her.

And his lack of understanding of Falin as a person is brought to the forefront in every action he takes after she gets eaten. He leaves the party and makes no attempt to contact the two people that Falin loves the most. Whether it's a matter of him just not knowing how much Falin cares about her brother and Marcille, or actively avoiding Laios to rescue Falin himself, he's demonstrating that he doesn't actually know what's important to her or understand how she feels.

Then when he meets Laios's party on the lower floors and they go over what happened, it's made even more blatant that Toshiro's affection is shallow and half-baked. He came into the dungeon a week too late and neglected his health the whole way down, so he was in no state to actually try and save Falin when he got there. When Laios talks about eating monsters, something Falin was thrilled about, Toshiro is disgusted. He threatens to kill Laios and turn Marcille in, which would never fly with Falin. His anger at the use of black magic is entirely based in his selfish idea of Falin being tainted and blaming Laios and Marcille for "ruining" his attempt to rescue her, as Kabru points out that Toshiro would have done the exact same thing in their shoes and that he's being a hypocrite. To say nothing of how he'd rather kill Falin after she's been transformed and "put her to rest" rather than put any effort into saving her, because that would require further involvement from Laios and Marcille and methods that Toshiro doesn't approve of.

And there's the fight he has with Laios, and Toshiro's subsequent confession that he had hoped to just take Falin home with him. He at no point gives consideration to what Falin feels or what she might want, only what he has decided about her based on the most surface level observation. Just like how his problem with Laios arises from his refusal to just talk to him about his boundaries, he has no actual connection with the woman he claims to love because he just wouldn't actually talk to her.

Like it's not a coincidence that every time his attraction to Falin is brought up, another character goes "yeah he's being weird about it".

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hellooo may I request an MLM fairy tale-esque story of a knight trying to save a prince from a sorcerer's spell, but the cunning sorcerer tries to enthrall him as well? ✨️✨️

"Why did you come?"

"Where is he?"

"Duty?" the sorcerer offered.

"Where. Is. He?"

"I hope it was not love," the sorcerer said. His head tilted. "You once vowed you'd never fall in love with someone like him. A parasite of royal blood."

He's different. But there was no good way to say that, not to them.

The knight came to a stop before the twisted imitation of the throne. It was closer to smoke and dreams than the gold plated seat in the grand hall that he knew so well these days, but the sorcerer lounged upon it as if it were all the same. Just as real.

"It doesn't matter why I'm here." The knight drew his blade, heart hammering. "I'm here. I'll cut you through to get to him, if that is what it takes."

The sorcerer's lip curled. "Spoken like a true knight."

"Well, you steal princes like a true evil sorcerer, so I suppose we both know our roles these days."

"You have either forgotten yourself or betrayed yourself," the sorcerer said, "and I'm truly not sure which possibility is worth."

It stung. Maybe it was even true.

"The kingdom needs him. Let him go."

"You are enthralled in the services of a man who loves you like a tic loves blood." The sorcerer's gaze drilled into the knight. "How else could he or any of them ask you to fight me for them? To die for him?"

The knight took a step closer, then another, and it felt too easy to press the silver shine of the blade against the sorcerer's throat. "Let. Him. Go."

The sorcerer smiled. "Why did you come?"

"You know why." The knight's voice cracked.

The sorcerer was quiet for a moment, before they offered more of their throat to the blade. "Then spill my blood across the floor and claim your prize, knight. You know how to break an enchantment, don't you?"

The knight's eyes narrowed. The sorcerer's gleamed in the moonlight, haunted and haunting, enchanted and enchanting - nothing like the world beyond the castle, where day still shone and princes were missing.

They were still, despite everything, not something that the knight wanted to kill.

"Go on." The sorcerer's voice lilted through him, sweet and cruel as a childhood memory. "Do your duty. You know it, don't you? Why cling to this small fragment of who you used to be, to me? You are his now."

His. For him.

The knight's head felt misty, like the fog of magic, of the whole cursed place, was seeping into them like damp.

He slit the sorcerer's throat.

Then, in an instant, it was not the sorcerer in front of him at all. It was the prince, his prince. An illusion shattered, blood-choked, familiar eyes filling with colour as the thrall of enchantment cleared from them.

"No!" The knight lunged for him, to catch him, to somehow reverse what he had unknowingly done. He peppered kisses to the prince's sweaty hair, exposing himself utterly, as his love and his duty looked at him with the sort of pleading that could have been it's okay or I forgive you but was ultimately far more terrible than how could you. "No," the knight said. "No, please. I'm sorry - I didn't - I thought -"

The sorcerer laughed. They appeared from behind the throne, winding out of the mist like a serpent. The magic changed the palace to an altar, as shadowy as the last setting had been but for the stained glass vibrant and bloody behind them.

The prince whimpered and crumpled on nothing, on air, landing on his knees. He clutched at the knight's hands. He squeezed, some morse code that wouldn't make it past his cleanly ruined throat.

"Now," the sorcerer murmured, "tell me what you would do, my knight, to save him?"

The trap was clear enough, but still the knight said it. "Anything."

"You would give yourself to me instead?"

"Anything. Just let them go, unharmed."

"I would enthrall you. Turn you inside out until I can see all the stitches of you and rework them in my image."

The prince shook his head against the knight's neck. He wheezed. His weak grip flexed and tightened.

"I said anything," the knight spat.

"Then everything," the sorcerer said, "I will have."

As the magic slid over them all, the knight had just enough in them to register one final command, to feel their true surroundings come into focus beneath the spell of it all.

"Put our prince in the tower, my knight," the sorcerer said. "I'll let him go, unharmed....eventually."

The knight did as he was told.

He did his duty.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

KISS ME HARD UNDER THE POURING RAIN.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ J. POTTER

SUMMARY ৎ୭ james is grumbling about the rain ruining quidditch practice, completely miserable. but when he turns to complain to you, you’re nowhere to be found—until he spots you, dancing in the rain without a care in the world. he swears he hates it—until suddenly, he doesn’t

WARNINGS ಇ. fluff overload, james being a dramatic baby, rain-soaked kisses, and excessive amounts of tooth-rotting sweetness

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 938

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨��ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

James Potter was sulking. For the past hour, he had been grumbling under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he sat on the Gryffindor Quidditch stands. The rain poured down relentlessly, pounding the field and drenching everything in sight, including James’s mood.

“Bloody weather. Ruined practice,” he muttered, staring gloomily at the puddles forming on the pitch.

You sat next to him, humming softly to yourself, completely unaffected by the downpour. In fact, you loved it. The rain was your thing—the rhythm of the drops, the fresh smell of wet grass, the way the world seemed to quiet down, as if nature itself was taking a deep breath.

James, however, seemed ready to punch a cloud.

“I mean, who likes rain? It's so—ugh,” he groaned again, clearly expecting you to chime in with a sympathetic nod or an equally passionate rant against the weather.

But you were quiet. Too quiet.

James frowned, looking up from his intense stare at the mud. “Hey, are you even—” His voice trailed off when he turned to find you… gone.

His heart skipped a beat as he whipped his head around, panic rising. “Where the hell—”

And then he saw you.

There you were, standing in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, your white dress already soaked, but that didn't seem to bother you at all. You twirled in the rain, arms outstretched, head tilted back to let the droplets fall on your face, as if the world was putting on a show just for you. The sight of you, spinning and laughing, so carefree, caught his breath.

You noticed him staring and waved dramatically. “Oi, Potter! Stop grumbling and come here!”

James just stared at you, rain drizzling down his glasses. “I hate the rain!” he called back, the frustration clear in his voice.

You raised your eyebrows, incredulous. “You hate the rain? How could anyone hate rain?!”

Before James could protest, you marched back to him, grabbing his hand and pulling him down from the stands with a mischievous grin. “Come on, grumpy, you need a bit of this magic.”

“Sweetheart, my hair is getting soaked!” James whined, though there was a slight tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Quidditch practice is cancelled, I’m cold, and—”

You cut him off by spinning him around so suddenly he stumbled a little. “Dance with me!” you ordered, that playful glint in your eyes making his protests seem utterly pointless.

James hesitated, glancing down at his drenched Quidditch jersey, then at your bright face, and finally up at the sky. “You’re mad, you know that?” he chuckled, shaking his head, but his fingers still curled around yours.

“I’ve been told,” you winked, stepping closer and placing one hand on his shoulder, the other still holding his. “Now, are you going to dance or let the rain win?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. “Fine,” he sighed, though it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “But if I get struck by lightning, I’m blaming you.”

You giggled and pulled him into an impromptu waltz, both of you stumbling through puddles, laughing like children as the rain continued to pour down. James was awkward at first, trying not to slip, his feet splashing through the mud, but after a few moments, he loosened up. Your joy was infectious, and soon, his complaints were forgotten as the two of you twirled and spun across the field, the rain soaking you both to the bone.

“This is ridiculous!” James shouted over the rain, but his laugh betrayed him.

“You love it!” you yelled back, twirling away from him and then back into his arms, making him catch you.

He caught you with ease, spinning you around in his arms before bringing you close, his nose nearly brushing yours. “You’re insane,” he murmured, his voice softer now, intimate, as if the rain had formed a cocoon around the two of you, blocking out the rest of the world.

You beamed up at him, droplets of rain running down your cheeks, your soaked hair sticking to your forehead. “And yet, here you are, dancing with me in the rain.”

James leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. “Only because you’re irresistible,” he said, his voice low and warm, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“You hate the rain, huh?” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his wet hair.

James grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling with affection. “Maybe it’s growing on me.”

And just like that, he kissed you—soft at first, but then deeper, more passionate, as the rain continued to pour around you, soaking you both but making everything feel electric. The world seemed to disappear, leaving just the two of you, dancing in the rain, lost in the moment.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you smiled up at him. “Told you the rain was magical.”

James laughed, shaking his head as he tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s not so bad when I’m with you.”

You smirked, poking him in the chest. “Not so bad? You’ll be begging for more rainy days after this.”

“Only if you promise to keep dancing with me,” he said, and you could tell by the way he looked at you that he meant it.

With a grin, you pulled him into another twirl, the rain continuing to fall around you as you both laughed and danced together, completely oblivious to anything else but each other.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[act-nat-ural]

It started when Kuroo referred to you as his ‘karaoke wife.’ Kenma’s face twisted into one of clear disgust. “What does that even mean..” Kuroo threw an arm around your shoulder and gave you a smug look. “Care to explain?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hold back your smile. “It means we only go to karaoke if the other is going.” The team gave you an unimpressed look as Kuroo gestured for you to go on. You sighed and avoided eye contact, mumbling, “We also only do duets with each other.”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks as Fukunaga let out a giggle and Yamamoto muttered, “I wish I had a karaoke wife,” under his breath.

Kuroo chuckled, sensing your discomfort. “What she means is, we’ve got a vibe when we sing together. Like, there’s this chemistry between us that just clicks. It’s like we can read each other’s minds, you know? We can start a song without saying a word, and it just flows. Perfect harmonies, smooth transitions… It’s like we’re in sync. Like we *get* each other, musically.”

The team looked between you and Kuroo with varying degrees of skepticism. Kenma raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh, chemistry, sure.”

“You know,” Kuroo continued, leaning back and grinning, “There’s a special kind of magic when you’re so in tune with someone. We can make any song sound like it’s meant for us. Ever heard of ‘The Power of Love’?” He looked to you, eyes glinting. “It’s like, you and I? We can turn even the cheesiest love songs into something everyone wants to listen to. And don’t get me started on our ‘Shallow’ duet. We had the whole room cheering.”

You felt the familiar rush of both pride and bashfulness. “It’s not that impressive,” you muttered, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. You were secretly proud of the way your voices blended, the effortless way you made each performance feel unique.

“Are you kidding?” Kuroo scoffed, clearly enjoying the teasing. “I’m pretty sure we make every karaoke night legendary. I mean, do you see how we make the crowd react? They go wild. It's not just the song—it’s us. We’ve got that... thing.”

The team was silent for a moment, trying to process what Kuroo was saying. Finally, Fukunaga spoke up, a teasing smile creeping up on his face. “I don’t know, man. If I’m ever looking for a duet partner, I might just steal (Name)  away from you.”

Kuroo’s face immediately shifted into mock offense. “Try it. You’ll regret it.”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re being a little dramatic, aren’t you?”

“Nope.” Kuroo leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. “You and I? We’ve got karaoke magic. I’m not just letting anyone ruin that.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the embarrassment from earlier melting away in the warmth of Kuroo’s words. He always knew how to make you feel special, and even though the teasing never stopped, you had to admit—it was kind of nice to be his ‘karaoke wife.’ The team might not get it, but you knew. When you two sang together, nothing else mattered.

But just as the moment seemed to settle, a voice rang out from Yamamoto, his grin wide and mischievous. “Kuroo, you do know you two are terrible, right?”

Kuroo’s confident smile faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Excuse me?”

Yamamoto shrugged with a grin, and Kenma, looking utterly bored, added dryly, “I mean, you both sound like two dying cats trying to harmonize. It’s not really the chemistry you think it is.”

The whole team, seemingly in agreement, nodded along. “You guys literally can’t stay on key for more than a few notes,” Fukunaga chimed in, barely suppressing his laughter.

You blushed, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. “Okay, okay, maybe we're not great... but it’s fun, right?”

“You and Kuroo are the worst,” Kenma said, deadpan. “You sound like you’re trying to hit notes that just don’t exist.”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the realization. “We’re not that bad,” you protested, but even you knew it was true. Kuroo, despite his confidence, was as tone-deaf as they came, and your singing wasn’t much better. 

Kuroo threw his hands up dramatically. “You’re all just jealous of our unmatched charisma!”

The team snickered, and Yamamoto playfully patted Kuroo on the back. “Sure, buddy. But hey, we’ll still cheer you on. You’re great... at making everyone else sound better.”

With that, you and Kuroo exchanged a look, both of you trying not to crack up. Despite all the teasing, you knew one thing for sure—karaoke with Kuroo was never about being the best. It was about having fun, creating memories, and laughing at how awful your singing was. And honestly? That was more than enough for both of you.

note: kinda short but oh well

[aprilthearcher]

covered in you

harry potter x slytherin!fem!reader ― Harry doesn't know it yet, but the crush he has on a certain Slytherin Chaser is reciprocated.

part 2 of replaying your laughter.

slightly inspired by 'ivy' by Taylor Swift. the first part was through Harry's POV, this one is from the reader (1st person). if you enjoyed this 2nd part, you can always like, reblog, or write a comment!

word count: 3k

#masterlist!

His eyes are the same colour as my tie and it feels like a punch to the throat every single time that I’m reminded of it, which occurs any time he’s mentioned. Unfortunately, that happens more often than not – even in the Common Room of the house that proudly swears to hate him. 

Though I was determined to forget him, I can't help myself from watching him sitting with his friends who brandish the same deep and vibrant colour on their robes, laughing at their jokes, smiling kindly – and awkwardly – at the kid with the camera and toothy grin. Though I was determined to forget him, my mind refuses to stop showing me his face every time I close my eyes at night. Though I have resolved that I must forget him, it is hard to do so when his presence haunts my dreams. 

He’s ruining my life. The image of him, his smile, his eyes, his voice, all creep into my head, covering what is deemed unimportant – almost anything that isn’t him – like an ivy climbing over a stone wall, trapping me to the point where it is suffocating. But the worst part is he doesn’t even know.

Peeling my eyes away from his back (it is a shame he didn’t sit on the other side of the Gryffindor table), I catch Luna’s eyes. I smile at her and raise a hand as a greeting. She mirrors my action, though more enthusiastically, and the scarlet and golden flecks of the lion hat she’s wearing move from one side to the other. I giggle at her creation, remembering how she came up to me a few days ago explaining how she would support Gryffindor at the upcoming match.

“I just thought it’d be nice to tell you. I don’t want you to feel bad because of me,” she had said while we were on our way to our first class of the day.

“Luna, you could never make me feel bad,” I had answered, truth embellishing every word. “But, I do expect you to support Slytherin when we play against Hufflepuff.”

A pair of tender eyes suddenly grew curious about Luna's actions, following her line of vision by turning his head and finding me. Our eyes meet for a brief second, but I look away, going back to eating my toast and remembering the plays that Urquhart had prepared for today’s match. For a moment, my mind tricked me into believing I saw what resembled a smile on his face. It couldn’t have been. 

The walk-back to the castle after the match and that conversation felt surreal. There was a massive and unforeseen flock of emotions that seemed to want to rip up my body, especially my mind by how fast it was racing. I was angry for the lost, conflicted because of the fight with Urquhart, surprised by my own magic after making him fly away several paces, irritated at the fact that I had to face Snape tomorrow for a detention that I didn’t deserve, confused as to why had Harry Potter even approached us; and just utterly elated. 

For some reason, Harry had seen it fit to come near us – me? No, it couldn’t be. I was already spiraling –. For some reason, he’d called me a great Chaser. Not good, but great. Could it be…? No, I was going further down the rabbit hole. He was being nice, because that was who he was. Harry Potter was nice – and charming, and funny, and heroic, although Snape had only said it to mock him –, therefore, it was simply because of him being such a good person that he would compliment my skills as a Chaser. 

That night, a single question kept me from resting. No matter how sore my muscles were from the match, how tired I was of simply thinking, I didn’t sleep a wink. It kept me up all night, and even when the sun was already rising, my mind insisted on repeating it.

Could it be? 

It had taken an insane amount of willpower to not yawn in front of Professor Snape while we – he – discussed the terms of my detention, though the bags under my eyes did little to take away the attention from the fact that I hadn’t slept at all. The whole time I was thinking about how Harry Potter was really ruining my life, because I didn’t know how I would manage to go through all of my classes after spending the night thinking about him. 

I was leaving Snape’s office with my bag, a stomach ready to devour breakfast, and a two-week more or less decent detention on my back, when he called me. Salazar, if he’s thinking about adding up a week…

“That display of wandless magic was… quite efficient.” Were my ears deceiving me? “Never use it against your Slytherin peers again.”

Should I use it against Gryffindors, then? The remark died in my throat. I did not want more detention. I accepted whatever sort of compliment – because Snape didn’t use the word efficient, even less with a quite in front, offhandedly – was that and left the room, not without uttering a ‘thank you’ and ‘of course, Professor, it won’t happen again’. 

My pace, and my mind, were a little lighter as I made my way to the Great Hall. A small smile settles on my face, proud of myself and my magic, as I walk towards my usual place at the Slytherin table. Most students have already had breakfast, making the long table not as crowded, and that is why Harry Potter decides, on a whim, to approach it quickly with a half-eaten toast in his hand and crumbles scattered across his robes. 

For one or two seconds, I stare at him – it seems to be all I do these days –. 

For two or three seconds, he stares at me, surprised, perhaps, that he’s even here. 

“How did your conversation with Snape go?” Why was he asking me that? Before I can answer, though, he appears to have realised something because it is all stretched out on his face. “Sorry- Hi, good morning. How did your conversation with Snape go?”

A laugh wants to escape my mouth, but I don’t let it in case Harry thinks it’s because I’m laughing at him. Instead, I remind myself to breathe and act cool, or at least casual. 

“Morning.” I didn’t think it’d be this hard but the kind expression he has on his face stuns me for a moment. “Well- it, it went well. I’ll have to help Madam Prince at the library for two weeks, but I don’t mind it too much. I like it there.”

“I know.” His response, too quick to his liking depending on his widened eyes, causes a giddy feeling to spread through my body. “I- I meant… I’ve seen you there… only when I go with Hermione, from time to time.”

I nod, choosing not to say anything that would spur the redness that has overtaken his cheeks and neck. Instead, I mention something else. “He called my wandless magic ‘quite efficient’, as well.”

“Did he? Wow, you must be his favourite for saying something that sounds so much like a compliment.” I laugh at Harry’s response, closing my eyes and missing the way his are twinkling. “I think he basically called you gifted.”

Suddenly, Luna is right beside Harry, a beam on her face as she sees our interaction. “Quibbler?” She asks us. I nod at the same time I grab a toast from the table. “This one includes a section on different Tarot readings and spreads, (Y/N).”

“Nice! Thank you, Luna.”

“No problem,” Luna whispers. Now, looking up at Harry, she furrows her eyebrows. “What happened to you, Harry? Your face and neck are all red.” My lips are etched on a sheepish smile on my face, and my heart beats just a tiny beat faster at the prospect that I could be the cause of his blush.

The next time I see Harry, he doesn’t actually see me, and it’s not like I’ve planned it so it doesn’t count as spying or stalking. I had been sitting on the crook of one of the many archways that the castle had to offer, reading a muggle book that I’d brought from home, when I heard three different sets of footsteps, each accompanying a different voice. From the sound of it, they had stopped a few metres away from me, and based on the fact that they started talking about me, I assumed the big column blocked me from their view.

“Why are you suddenly friends with that Slytherin?” Ron had asked, his face set on a scowl from the way his voice sounded.

“I think she is… nice, and kind… and friendly.”

“Friendly? Harry, she’s a Slytherin! She cannot be friendly! None of them are.” Ron’s words would have hurt me in First Year. Now, I had learned to ignore whatever people had to say about my house. It’s not as if he didn’t have a reason, though. Unfortunately, the ones that were not nice were also the loudest, making themselves look big and threatening by spitting insults, and, in the process, giving the rest of us a bad reputation. Moreover, the fact that He Who Must Not Be Named once brandished the same colours didn’t help. “Is this… some kind of plan to find out whatever you think Malfoy is up to?”

My eyebrows furrowed instantly after hearing Ron’s question. My heart, instead, trembled, getting closer to breaking apart while my mind began to come up with doubts, ‘I told you so’s’, and inquiries. 

Had Harry truly approached me only because he thought he’d get information about Malfoy from me? I wasn’t even friends with that arsehole! And speaking of him, did Harry believe he was planning something? I mean, sure, he was acting stranger than usual, but at the end of the day, it was Malfoy we were talking about here! He’s always scheming and he’s prone to acting weirdly. I could try to pry something from Zabini… Nah, that would never work out.

“No! No! I- I hadn’t even thought of that…” In the middle of my mental war, I heard Harry’s answer, catching myself almost too late to sigh in relief. They couldn’t know I was listening in to their conversation. That would surely make me more suspicious in Ron’s eyes. “She’s…”

Silence passed between the trio while Ron and Hermione waited for Harry to finish his sentence.

“Well, she’s Luna’s friend. And I trust Luna, so I trust her.” A smile grew on my face.

“Trust is a big word for a Slytherin.” The smile almost, almost, faltered. 

“You know what, Ron? I think you’d actually be good friends if you gave her a chance.” This was Hermione’s first contribution to the discussion, which surprised me quite a bit. I knew my housemates hadn’t been exactly friendly towards her, especially Malfoy and his gang of illiterate fools, so the fact that she would defend me in some way shocked me. 

“Sure, we’d be best mates.” I could picture Ron’s disgusted face perfectly on my head. I giggled quietly at it. It was a shame, we would make good friends.

Sipping my drink quietly, I looked at the different faces round the wooden table. Sitting idly between Professor Slughorn and Zabini, I avoided Marcus Belby devouring his food by locking eyes with Hermione. Her face almost made me cackle, Zabini’s wasn’t helping my case either. Sitting on the other side of Slughorn was Cormac McLaggen, the most obnoxious Gryffindor I had ever met, sending furtive glances towards Hermione. Salazar, I’d never want to be in her place. Neville Longbottom, seemingly just enjoying the fact that he had been invited, and Harry stood on each side of her. I forced myself not to stare at Harry – or at least, not so much as usual. The twins I had encountered a few times, though I had to avoid them daily because their stares and questions creeped me out; but I’d never seen the boy beside Harry. Only one was missing, Ginny Weasley. 

I jump at Slughorn’s sudden call of my name. “I hear you’ve got a business going on. Tarot readings, isn't it?”

My ‘business’, as Professor Slughorn called it, was always supposed to be secret. Particularly, because I had never bothered to check if it was permitted for a student to offer such ‘services’ at Hogwarts. I guess the mortified look on my face amused Professor Slughorn enough to laugh soundly. “Oh, do not fret, Miss. No one will expel you for that. But do tell me, are you thinking of doing it professionally?”

“Well -” Usually, I was not the shy kind, but I knew that if I moved my eyes towards the other side of the table, I’d see Harry looking at me because I could feel his green eyes observing me. Also, I felt the need to impress Professor Slughorn. He was a great teacher in my eyes, I enjoyed his classes, and he had good connections in the Wizarding World. “In a sense, I think I’d like to do it professionally, maybe even try my luck in the muggle world. But, I’ve always wanted to explore other branches of Divination, maybe even research them in depth.”

“You said something about the muggle world, muggles are aware of these practices, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are, sir. It was actually my muggle grandmother who taught me how to read the cards.”

Professor Slughorn hummed content. Pleased with my answer and his nod of approval, I let myself relax and smile. “That is certainly interesting, Miss. When I’m no longer your teacher, I shall ask for a reading for myself. What do you think, Mister Potter? Do you think we can predict the future?”

Finally, I looked up, linking my eyes with his. He had already been gazing at me, his green eyes fixing on mine the moment I moved my head towards him. 

“Well, only if the person predicting the future is an exceptionally gifted witch or wizard, sir.” There was a boyish beam on his face that pushed me to grin back at him.

Slughorn’s Christmas party looked more promising than I was expecting it to be. Perhaps it was due to the lavishly decorated room, the music playing in the background, and the never-ending incoming of trays filled with food. The guests who weren’t classmates were also interesting. It was hard sometimes to imagine a life outside of Hogwarts, especially with a war brewing, but seeing all these witches and wizards gave me a sense of comfort. 

I start roaming around the room alone a few minutes after I arrive. It had been some sort of beneficial agreement for both me and my date. Neither of us would've wanted to show up at this party alone – I knew it even if he hadn’t necessarily told me so –, but we didn’t tolerate each other enough to spend the night attached to the hip. 

It’s not as if I’m searching the room for him specifically, still I flinch a bit when I find him on the other side of Slughorn’s office. He hasn’t seen me, so I take this small moment to compose myself and to think of my next move, playing with the purple heart-shaped pendant that matches the deep hues of my long dress. The fabric is rich in colours and the tiny rocks that are sewn into the bodice seem to reflect the warm light that illuminates the room. 

Taking a deep breath, I let my eyes wander across the room once more, looking at everything except at where he is. A handful of guests are chatting with each other, some are hoarding the food, and others are just arriving. Finally, our eyes meet for the first time tonight. He appears to have forgotten the fact that he was just talking with someone because he starts moving towards me without even saying anything to the guest he’d been entertaining. In the middle of his walk, as a greeting, he raises his right hand, which stays for barely one or two seconds hovering over his heart when he’s putting it down. 

When he reaches me, alone in one of the corners, I can only describe the expression on his face as dumbfounded. He struggles to keep his eyes set on my face and not let them scan the way this dress is hugging my body. “H-Hi!” His excitement is heard through his voice. Also his nervousness. “You- you look…” His mouth opens and closes, and I giggle at the way he reminds so much of a fish right now. “You look… Godric, beautiful doesn’t do you any justice.” He whispers this as if he hadn’t wanted me to hear, but I do.

I want to scream. I want to start dancing around the room. I want to cry. I want to grab his face and kiss him until we’re both suffocating. I don’t do any of those things.

“Who, um, who did you come with?” He asks.

“Seeing as someone asked Luna before I got the chance, I had to resort to other… options.” My eyes settle on Zabini, chatting up a guest across the room.

Harry laughs sheepishly, “Right, sorry. It was either Luna or one girl who wanted to give me a love potion.”

“Oh! Then I’m glad you got to Luna first.”

There’s a moment of silence that, surprisingly, does not feel awkward. 

“I, uh, I was about to ask you, actually, but,” Harry turns his face towards me and I see him gulp “I didn’t know if you would’ve been up to it.”

I look at him, gazing at him in this warm-lighted room makes my head dizzy. His black robe is elegant and fitting, and there is something, just something, that seems to be calling me to run my fingers through his hair. But I control my urges and save myself the embarrassment. 

“I would’ve.”

“That’s good to know.”

Two weeks after, I find myself having a laugh over a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks with Harry Potter. My cheeks hurting from smiling so much and my stomach flipping because of something that I know has nothing to do with my drink, I choose to ignore the nasty feeling in my gut warning me about how this might not last long. Whatever time I can spend with him, I’ll take it.

thank you for reading!

[purifiedclitoris69]

Darkness and Chaos

A/n: I have no idea how long this been sitting in my drafts, but I finally finished it. Bit unedited, hope you all enjoy! Thanks :)

Wanda Maximoff x enhanced!reader

You had always been attuned to the dark—something about shadows called to you from a young age. You first noticed it in fleeting moments, like when the shadows around you seemed to shift with your emotions, with your father's yelling and your mother's crying and both their drinking. It was subtle at first, easily dismissed, until one day, the shadows responded to your will, protecting you from the poison your parents spat. A flick of your hand could send the darkness swirling, you could create solid constructs like weapons and shields, bind enemies with shadow tendrils, teleport through shadows, and even craft illusions to confuse foes, you were an unpredictable force.

It wasn’t long before your abilities attracted the attention of powerful beings—both good and bad. The team had first encountered you during a mission to stop some HYDRA experimentation. you yourself sat in a cell experimenting with dark energy. You had been held captive by HYDRA, forced to use your powers of shadow manipulation for the organization’s twisted ends. However, the moment the Avengers arrived, everything changed. Their mission that quickly spiraled out of control but you helped them without hesitation, shadows erupted from you like a storm, weaving through the battlefield with lethal precision, and taking out the HYDRA agents like you’ve been dreaming of for ages. Your tendrils of darkness restrained enemies, while walls of shadow protected the Avengers from incoming fire. Wanda, immediately sensing your potential, your desperation to be good, reaching out with her magic, she offered you a way out—not just from HYDRA, but from the darkness inside you.

The Avengers wasted no time putting your skills to use. Your shadow manipulation was unlike anything they had seen, with Wanda’s chaos magic, capable of rewriting reality itself, the two of you became the Avengers' secret weapon against threats too powerful for conventional means. Your darkness and her chaos were like a pair of loss lovers beginning to dance. You communicated without words, your powers flowing together. It wasn’t just your powers that made you a powerful duo—it was your connection. You had trained together for months, learning to anticipate each other’s moves, covering for one another’s weaknesses. Where your shadows needed precision and control, Wanda’s chaos magic thrived in unpredictability, giving you both a perfect balance of order and chaos.

In the heat of battle, your synergy was unmatched. Wanda would send waves of crimson magic crashing into your enemies, altering the battlefield in ways no one could predict, while your shadows weaved in and out, creating traps, shields, and devastating strikes from every angle.

Naturally you guys were an inseperable pair outside of the battlefield as well. You were best friendsand everyone on the team knew it. You spend almost every free moment together, whether it's lounging in the common area, cooking meals in the shared kitchen, or training in the gym. But for you, every moment with her is tinged with something more, something you can never quite bring yourself to admit. It’s the little things that get to you—the way she smiles when she catches you stealing the last piece of pizza, or how she lightly nudges you with her shoulder when you’re both watching a movie on the couch, curled up under a blanket. Her laugh, soft and genuine, makes your chest tighten, and sometimes, when she’s not looking, you find yourself staring at her just a little too long, trying to memorize every detail of her face.

You were falling in love with her, hopelessly and utterly in love—but you can’t say it. Not yet, not when it could ruin everything.

Your days are a mix of training, missions, and downtime. During training, the connection you share on the battlefield spills over. You’re so in sync, knowing each other's movements before they even happen. When you spar, it’s like a dance of power all over again, a delicate balance of strength and grace. Sometimes, when you’re caught up in the flow, you’ll catch her eye, and there’s this spark—something just beneath the surface that makes you wonder if she feels it too. But then it passes, and you’re back to being best friends, pretending that the tension isn’t there.

After training, you’ll both collapse onto the floor, breathless and laughing. "I’m getting better," Wanda says, teasing you with a grin.

"You’re still too predictable," you tease back, though you don’t mean it. She’s anything but predictable. Wanda is like a force of nature—fierce and compassionate, more complex than anyone you’ve ever known. It’s what drew you to her in the first place. But you’ve gotten good at hiding your feelings, laughing off the moments that hit a little too close to the truth.

in the evenings, you’ll make dinner together in the compound’s kitchen. Wanda loves experimenting with Sokovian recipes, and you’ve found yourself loving the process too, if only because it means spending more time with her. There’s always a moment when your hands brush as you reach for the same ingredient, or when you stand side by side at the counter, your shoulders touching. You’ll glance at her, and she’ll smile, oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing inside you. Sometimes she'd ask you to just sit at the counter for the company and the insurance so that you wouldn't mess up her 'delicate process,' you'd act annoyed but, it always allowed you to study her more, how she scrunches her nose, the sparkle in her eyes, the way her hair framed her face, anything.

"You're staring again," she says one night, catching you off guard as you chop vegetables.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. "Am I?" you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice comes out just a little too tight.

She laughs softly, nudging you playfully with her elbow. "You’re a terrible liar."

You laugh it off, brushing it aside like you always do, but every time you’re near her, the feelings only grow stronger. It’s in the way she looks at you with those piercing eyes, the way she leans into you when she’s tired, like you’re her safe place.

Sometimes, late at night, when the compound is quiet and it’s just the two of you sitting on the couch, you wonder what it would be like to tell her the truth. But then fear creeps in—the fear of losing her, of changing everything. So, you stay quiet. When she gets up to leave, she often lingers, just for a moment, as if she’s waiting for you to say something more. You wonder if she feels the tension too, if maybe she’s waiting for you to make the first move. But then she’ll smile, say goodnight, and disappear down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the feeling of her absence like a weight on your chest.

Every now and then, you catch her looking at you differently, her gaze lingering a second too long, her touch softer than it needs to be. You wonder if she’s trying to say something without saying it. But you’re too scared to ask, too scared to risk what you have, so you both continue the dance—best friends on the surface, with so much more bubbling underneath.

The rest of the Avengers don't seem to notice the tension. To them, you and Wanda are just inseparable. They joke about it sometimes—and apart of you feel like Natasha knows, Nat teasingly calling you "Wanda’s shadow" because you're always together. And maybe they're right. You follow her wherever she goes, drawn to her like she’s the only source of light in your world. But none of them know how deep your feelings were, how every laugh, every casual touch, every shared glance twists something inside you.

The hardest moments are when Wanda talks about her past—about Vision, the loss, the pain. She opens up to you in ways she doesn’t with anyone else. You’re the one she trusts, the one she comes to when the weight of it all is too much. And you listen, offering comfort the best way you can, but it kills you inside. Because no matter how close you are, a part of her heart still belongs to someone else. And no matter how much you love her, you’re not sure there’s room for you there.

The mission today is different, saving the universe different.

The sky is ablaze with kree ships, and the ground trembles as waves of invaders pour into the city. You and Wanda arrive together, side by side as always, with the rest of the Avengers already in the heat of battle. Steve's voice crackles through your earpiece: “We need backup—now.”

Your heart races, not just from the battle ahead, but from the proximity to Wanda. The mission is urgent, and your mind is focused, but there’s a constant hum in the background—your feelings for her.

You glance over at her, catching a glimpse of her eyes glowing red as she prepares her magic. She looks determined, fierce, and more beautiful than ever. You shake off the thought, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“They’re teleporting in from somewhere,” you say, scanning the battlefield. “If we shut down the portal, we can stop this.”

Wanda nods, and you can see the same determination mirrored in her expression. “I’ll handle the portal. Cover me,” she says, her voice calm but filled with urgency.

Together, you create a dome of darkness, your shadows rising from the ground and swallowing the battlefield in an inky void. The alien invaders stumble, confused, while Wanda floats upward, her crimson magic intertwining with your shadows. You stay close to her, shadows wrapping around your hands like armor as you dispatch enemies who dare to approach. Your abilities blend effortlessly, like they were made to work in unison. And in a way, maybe they were.

As Wanda’s magic tears through the dimensions, severing the invaders’ connection to their homeworld, you can’t help but steal another glance at her. She’s lost in concentration, her hands moving with precise, graceful motions, and it’s in these moments you’re reminded why you’ve fallen for her. It’s not just her power, not just the way you work together in perfect sync—it’s her heart, her kindness, her courage. You’ve seen her at her most vulnerable, and yet she’s never faltered.

With a final surge of magic, Wanda closes the portal, and the skies clear. The remaining invaders are no match for the rest of the Avengers. As you land beside her, the battle over, the battlefield is eerily quiet.

Wanda looks at you, her red magic flickering around her hands before it fades. She’s smiling softly, the exhaustion of the battle evident, but there’s something else in her eyes—something warm, something that makes your heart skip a beat.

“You did great,” she says, stepping closer. “We always do.”

You chuckle, trying to keep it light. “Only because I’ve got you watching my back.”

Her smile widens, and for a brief moment, the world around you seems to blur. It’s just the two of you now, standing in the aftermath of a battle you won together, like always. But there’s something unspoken between you. You can feel it. It hangs in the air like the only shadow you can’t quite grasp.

Admist the two of your distractions, one of the Kree is able to use the last of it's strengh shooting you twice in the back, one going straight through your abdomen. Wanda's face pales as Natasha quickly finishes of the Kree and you fall into Wanda's arms. You can barely focus, but her presence feels like a lifeline. She cradles your face in her hands, her expression frantic, eyes wide with fear.

“Stay with me,” she pleads, her voice trembling. “You’re going to be okay.”

You can feel the warmth of her hands against your skin, and in that moment, the weight of your unspoken feelings spills over. “Wanda,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I need to tell you—”

“Not now, y/n” she interrupts, her voice rising as she tries to keep the panic at bay. “We need to get you out of here first!”

But you can see the truth in her eyes, the fear that lurks beneath her fierce exterior. “I can’t—Wanda, I can’t hold back anymore. I love you. More than you know," you force a pained smile as the tears and burning pain blurr your vision, "I'm in love with you."

For a moment, time seems to freeze. You can see the flicker of hope in her eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by something else—fear, and with that your vision goes black.

"Hurry help! Please!," Wanda screams as the rest of the team rushes over.

"We need to get her on the jet now," Natasha says as Steve pick you up with ease, running you straight to the medical table.

You drift in and out of consciousness, the world around you a haze of sounds and sensations. The dull beeping of machines pulls you back, and when you finally force your eyes open, the sterile light of the medbay greets you. Blinking against the brightness, you focus on the figure by your side—Wanda, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the monitors.

“Y/n?” she whispers standing up, her voice trembling with relief. You try to speak, but your throat feels dry and raw, she quickly hands you a glass of water. She’s leaning closer, her hand holding yours, warm and grounding. “You’re awake. Thank goodness.”

The memories rush back—flashes of battle, the sting of pain, and the way she cradled your face in her hands as the world around you faded, as you finally confessed your love. Panic surges through you. “Wanda, what happened?” you rasp, struggling to sit up, but she gently pushes you back down.

“You were hurt. A Kree shot you.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes betray the storm beneath. “Natasha took care of it. You’re safe now.”

“safe, yeah…” you echo, relief flooding through you. “What about you? Are you okay?”

She nods, but there’s a distance in her gaze, a shadow that lingers just behind her eyes. You want to reach out, to pull her closer and make her feel your warmth, but there’s something heavy in the air—a wall between you.

“Wanda, I—” you start, the urgency of your feelings pressing at the edges of your mind. But before you can finish, she interrupts.

“Y/n, listen. There’s something we need to talk about.” Her tone shifts, the seriousness making your heart drop. You search her face, looking for any sign of what she’s about to say, but all you see is a mix of determination and fear.

"Wanda, what I said, it's true," you gulped down your anxiety, "I justt—"

“I don’t feel the same way,” she says, her voice firm yet shaking slightly. The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. “I’m sorry. I care about you, but not like that. We need to focus on being a team...we work better as we are."

Her words pierce through you, each syllable a shard of ice. You feel the warmth of her hands slipping away, and the connection you thought you shared shatters, leaving you raw and exposed. “But I—”

“No, y/n” she cuts you off, her voice rising with a mix of desperation and anguish, "I can't give you what you want. Not in that way, not after everything."

Inside, Wanda is fighting a battle of her own, her heart pounding in her chest. She wants to reach out, to tell you that she feels the same, that she’s been harboring feelings for you since the moment you became friends. But the thought of losing you—the thought of watching you slip away like Vision, like everyone else she’s ever loved—sends a cold wave of terror through her. She remembers the pain of loss, the way it consumed her, the ache that still lingers deep within her soul.

“Wanda, please…” you say, your voice breaking, and her heart aches at the sound. She can see the confusion and hurt in your eyes, and it shatters her inside.

You deserve so much more than a broken person like me, she thinks, forcing a smile that feels like a lie. You deserve someone who can be there for you completely, without fear. But I can’t be that person. I can’t be the reason you’re hurt.

“I just need you to understand,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “We can’t cross that line. It’s safer this way.” But as the words leave her lips, she knows they’re a lie. The truth is that she loves you—deeply, but she can’t let herself act on that love. Not now. Not when the fear of loss looms like a shadow, ready to swallow her whole. “I care about you, and I’ll always be here for you,” she adds, trying to keep her voice calm, even as her heart races. “Just… let’s keep it this way.”

You look at her, the hurt in your eyes a mirror of the pain in her heart. She watches as you swallow down the heartbreak and practically return back to the shell of the person they found at HYDRA. As she watches the acceptance settles in your gaze, a part of her breaks, knowing that she’s ultimately built your walls back up, she's pushed you away when all she wanted was to pull you closer.

What have I done? she thinks, her chest tightening as she sees the distance growing between you.

You nod slowly, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat, your heart heavy with the weight of her rejection. And as you lie back against the pillows, the silence fills the space where the truth should be, echoing with everything left unsaid, "I think I'd like some space for a little," you mumble turning away from her as you try so desperately to keep the tears from spilling.

"Okay," she agrees quietly walking towards the door, she pauses looking back as she's about to leave, "I'm sorry, y/n," she leaves.

[gothicxreylover]

I have another request for you. Yandere hashira plus kanao Aoi and the wives with a reader who’s like howl from howls moving castle in that they’re magical and have a moving castle alongside being very whiny. Please And thank you, also sorry if I’ve been requesting you too much.

Here’s your request and I hope you enjoy it!

Giyu Tomioka

Giyu doesn’t fully understand your magic, but that doesn’t stop him from being captivated by you. Your moving castle is a wonder to him, though he doesn’t dare to say so aloud. When you flop dramatically onto a couch, sighing, “I can’t believe the world is so cruel to someone as beautiful as me,” Giyu quietly sits nearby, glancing at you with concern.

He’s not great at words, so he shows his obsession in other ways—fixing small broken parts of the castle, silently leaving gifts, or standing watch outside for hours to ensure no one intrudes. While he’d never say it, Giyu enjoys your melodramatic side. It makes you seem approachable, even if he still struggles to respond to your over-the-top moments. If you ever cry or get truly upset, Giyu would stay by your side silently, unable to handle the thought of you being unhappy.

His yandere tendencies manifest in his quiet protectiveness. You may not notice it at first, but Giyu subtly ensures no one else gets too close to you. Anyone trying to enter your moving castle without his approval is silently dealt with.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Sanemi finds your dramatic behavior both infuriating and endearing. He constantly scolds you, yelling things like, “Quit whining about your hair! It looks fine!” whenever you launch into a tirade about how your beauty has been ruined by a rogue spell. But underneath his bluster is a fierce protectiveness.

He’s obsessed with keeping your castle—and by extension, you—safe. He’s always patrolling its perimeter or barking at others to stay away. If anyone dares to criticize your theatrics, Sanemi is the first to snap, threatening them with his blade. Deep down, he secretly loves your complaining because it gives him an excuse to step in and “fix” things for you, whether you actually need him to or not.

His yandere tendencies are loud and aggressive. Sanemi doesn’t shy away from making his obsession known, often chasing off potential rivals with threats or outright violence.

Kyojuro Rengoku

Kyojuro is utterly enchanted by you. Your magical nature and flamboyant personality are like a magnet for his boundless enthusiasm. Whenever you collapse in despair, saying something like, “This is the worst day of my life! My outfit is ruined!” Kyojuro springs into action, loudly proclaiming, “Fear not! I shall bring you the finest silks and garments to replace it!”

He sees your moving castle as a place of wonder and excitement, always eager to explore its many magical rooms. Kyojuro’s protective instincts go into overdrive whenever someone approaches the castle uninvited. He views your melodramatic outbursts as a sign of how special you are, and he cherishes the opportunity to be the one to cheer you up.

His yandere tendencies are fiery but warm, manifesting as over-the-top devotion. He doesn’t realize how suffocating his constant presence might be; he just wants to ensure you’re happy and safe.

Gyomei Himejima

Gyomei treats you like a fragile work of art. Your whiny personality only amplifies his desire to care for you. When you lament, “I can’t go on! My magic is failing, and I’m utterly helpless!” he gently reassures you with his calming presence, saying, “I will take care of everything. You have nothing to fear.”

Gyomei is fascinated by your moving castle but views it as a dangerous place where others might try to reach you. He often meditates outside its doors, silently guarding against intruders. His yandere tendencies are quiet but intense—he will do anything to keep you safe, even if it means isolating you from the outside world.

Muichiro Tokito

Muichiro is drawn to the magical nature of your moving castle, often losing himself in its shifting rooms and enchanted mechanisms. He doesn’t mind your whining; in fact, he finds it strangely comforting. When you pout, “Why must everything be so difficult?!” Muichiro tilts his head and calmly offers to help, his voice monotone but sincere.

He has a quiet, obsessive streak that grows the more time he spends with you. Muichiro doesn’t fully understand why he feels the need to keep others away from your castle, but his possessiveness manifests in subtle ways. He’ll quietly sabotage anyone who tries to get too close or linger too long.

Mitsuri Kanroji

Mitsuri absolutely adores you, quirks and all. Your dramatic outbursts make her heart flutter, and she’s always ready to cheer you up. When you sigh, “I’m doomed! My life is ruined!” Mitsuri clings to you, gushing, “You’re the most amazing person ever! Don’t say such sad things!”

She’s completely smitten with your magical abilities, often following you around your castle and marveling at everything you do. Mitsuri’s yandere tendencies come from her overwhelming love—she wants to be the only one who can make you smile and will fiercely protect you from anyone she sees as a threat to your happiness.

Shinobu Kocho

Shinobu finds your dramatics amusing and uses them as an excuse to keep you reliant on her. “Oh dear, you poor thing,” she says with a sweet smile when you complain about a spell gone wrong. She loves solving your problems, but only after you’ve had a good moment to stew in your misery—just long enough to remind you how much you need her.

Her obsession manifests in subtle manipulation. Shinobu ensures you depend on her for everything, from calming your magical mishaps to managing the upkeep of your castle. Anyone who tries to interfere with her role in your life is dealt with quietly but effectively.

Tengen Uzui and His Wives

• Tengen loves your dramatic personality, often joining in with his own flamboyant flair. When you throw yourself onto a chaise lounge, moaning about how “My beauty is fading!” Tengen dramatically retorts, “Nonsense! No one is more glamorous than you and me!” He sees your moving castle as a stage for his own performances and thrives in the chaos.

• Suma is your emotional twin, crying alongside you whenever something goes wrong. “You’re right! Life is so unfair!” she sobs, holding onto you for comfort.

• Makio acts annoyed but secretly loves your antics. “Get a grip already!” she yells, though she’s always the first to chase off anyone who bothers you.

• Hinatsuru is calm and nurturing, always ready with a solution to your problems. She quietly encourages your dependence on her, ensuring you see her as indispensable.

Together, they make a fearsome and obsessive group, each vying for your attention in their own way while ensuring your moving castle remains a fortress no one else can breach.

Aoi Kanzaki

Aoi pretends to be irritated by your antics, sighing loudly whenever you start complaining. But deep down, she loves taking care of you. When you groan, “I can’t possibly deal with this today!” she huffs, “Fine, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and don’t make it worse.”

She’s fiercely protective of your castle, often taking over its kitchen and ensuring you’re well-fed and cared for. Her yandere tendencies are quiet but intense—she won’t hesitate to chase off anyone who tries to interfere with your life.

Kanao Tsuyuri

Kanao is utterly captivated by you and your magical world. She follows you silently, her fixation growing with every passing day. Whenever you whine, “Why can’t things ever go my way?” she silently offers you flowers or helps with your chores, desperate for your approval.

Her yandere tendencies are subtle but dangerous. She quietly ensures no one else can get close to you, hiding in your castle and sabotaging any rivals before they become a threat.

Obanai Iguro

Obanai is deeply intrigued and simultaneously wary of your moving castle. At first, he sees it as a threat—a dangerous, unpredictable force that could take you away from him at any moment. However, as he learns more about its intricacies, he becomes obsessed with it, viewing it as a representation of your brilliance and mystery.

Obanai patrols the exterior relentlessly, ensuring no one unworthy enters. Kaburamaru often slithers ahead to scout the castle’s shifting rooms, reporting back to Obanai in his own way. Obanai doesn’t trust the magic entirely and makes it his personal mission to understand every corner of the castle, believing that controlling it means controlling your safety.

Inside, he’s uneasy with how vast and ever-changing the castle is, as it feels like it could hide secrets from him. He tends to linger in the spaces you frequent most, always staying close but just out of your direct line of sight. He’s particularly drawn to watching you use your magic, mesmerized by the way you command the castle’s mechanisms.

When you whine about the castle misbehaving—“Why does the door always send me to the wrong place?!”—Obanai calmly steps in. “You shouldn’t rely so much on something so fickle. Let me handle it for you.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but he secretly loves when the castle frustrates you because it gives him the chance to step in and “fix” things.

How would they react to their darlings castle

Giyu Tomioka

Giyu is quietly in awe of your moving castle but doesn’t openly express it. He spends hours observing it from a distance, mesmerized by the intricate gears and magical mechanisms. Though he doesn’t fully understand its magic, he respects its connection to you. He’s fiercely protective of the castle, often standing guard at its entrance to ward off potential intruders.

Inside, Giyu feels overwhelmed by its endless, shifting rooms. He tends to linger in quieter spaces, where he can watch you work your magic. He loves the castle because it’s your sanctuary, but he secretly despises how it allows you the freedom to move wherever you please, making it harder for him to keep track of you.

Yandere Move: Giyu might subtly manipulate the door’s magical settings to ensure the castle only travels to places where he can protect you.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Sanemi initially complains about the moving castle, calling it “a deathtrap” or “ridiculous nonsense,” but he’s secretly impressed by its complexity. He’s incredibly possessive of the castle and sees it as a fortress that he must defend at all costs. He patrols the exterior constantly, glaring at anyone who dares approach.

Inside, Sanemi finds the ever-changing layout frustrating. He’s the type to yell, “Why the hell does this hallway lead to a bathroom now?!” Yet, he loves how unique it is because it’s yours. He doesn’t trust anyone else inside the castle and will go as far as to physically drag out visitors he doesn’t like.

Yandere Move: Sanemi might try to limit access to the castle, breaking the door’s mechanisms so that only he can control where it travels.

Kyojuro Rengoku

Kyojuro is utterly captivated by the moving castle and treats it as a living testament to your brilliance. He’s the type to loudly declare, “What a magnificent creation! It is as unique and splendid as you are!” He’s fascinated by its magical design and spends hours exploring every nook and cranny, marveling at its shifting structure.

Rengoku views the castle as a symbol of your incredible potential, which makes him even more devoted to protecting you. He wants to help maintain it, constantly offering to assist with repairs or upgrades. However, he gets jealous of how easily the castle can take you away from him.

Yandere Move: Rengoku might secretly sabotage the castle’s magical door to ensure it always leads back to him, no matter where you try to go.

Gyomei Himejima

Gyomei views the moving castle as a sacred and wondrous place. He admires its craftsmanship and sees it as an extension of your soul. Gyomei is deeply protective of the castle, often praying for its safety and ensuring that no harm comes to it.

He appreciates the serenity of certain rooms within the castle, often meditating in quiet spaces while keeping an ear out for any signs of trouble. However, Gyomei also worries about how much freedom the castle gives you, fearing that it might lead you into danger.

Yandere Move: Gyomei would use his strength to seal off parts of the castle or block the door entirely, claiming it’s for your safety.

Muichiro Tokito

Muichiro finds the moving castle endlessly fascinating. He’s captivated by its shifting rooms and magical mechanisms, often wandering aimlessly through its corridors, lost in thought. To him, the castle feels like a dream made real, and he associates it entirely with you.

Muichiro’s possessiveness grows as he spends more time in the castle. He starts to see it as his home as much as yours and subtly begins rearranging things to suit his preferences. He doesn’t care if the layout confuses others; he loves the fact that only you and he seem to truly understand it.

Yandere Move: Muichiro might enchant certain rooms to lead only to him, ensuring you’ll always end up by his side, no matter where you go.

Mitsuri Kanroji

Mitsuri is completely enchanted by your moving castle, gushing about how magical and romantic it is. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale!” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with wonder. She loves exploring its rooms, marveling at the whimsical details and magical touches that reflect your personality.

Mitsuri views the castle as a perfect symbol of your love story—she even dreams of living there with you forever. However, her obsession with the castle and its connection to you makes her fiercely protective. She gets visibly upset if anyone else enters the castle without her approval.

Yandere Move: Mitsuri might start decorating the castle with items that remind you of her, subtly marking the space as hers.

Shinobu Kocho

Shinobu is deeply intrigued by the moving castle and its magic. She spends hours studying its mechanisms, hoping to understand how it works. While she admires its brilliance, she also sees it as a potential threat—it allows you too much freedom, and she doesn’t like the idea of you wandering off without her knowledge.

Inside the castle, Shinobu maintains a calm demeanor but subtly asserts control. She “helps” you by organizing your magical tools and ingredients, all while making sure certain parts of the castle are inaccessible to others.

Yandere Move: Shinobu might create potions to alter the castle’s magic, ensuring it only responds to her or prevents you from traveling too far.

Tengen Uzui and His Wives

• Tengen is immediately enamored with the castle’s grandeur, declaring it “flamboyant!” He loves the idea of living in such a unique and magical space, especially since it matches his larger-than-life personality. However, Tengen quickly becomes possessive, insisting that he should be the one to help maintain and control it.

• Suma is easily overwhelmed by the castle’s size and shifting rooms, often getting lost and clinging to you for comfort. She adores the magic but is nervous about the freedom it gives you to leave.

• Makio pretends to be unimpressed by the castle but secretly loves it. She sees it as a fortress to protect you from the outside world and takes it upon herself to monitor who enters and exits.

• Hinatsuru appreciates the castle’s magic and quietly ensures it’s always running smoothly. She’s the calmest of the three and subtly manipulates the castle’s layout to ensure it feels like home for all of you.

Yandere Move: The group might conspire to enchant the castle so it only moves to places they approve of, ensuring they always know where you are.

Aoi Kanzaki

Aoi is both impressed and annoyed by your moving castle. She mutters things like, “Does everything about you have to be so over the top?” while secretly admiring its magical beauty. She takes it upon herself to manage the castle’s daily operations, especially the kitchen, and becomes increasingly territorial over her role.

Though she pretends to dislike the castle’s constant movement, Aoi grows attached to it because it symbolizes your bond. She starts to view herself as its unofficial caretaker and resents anyone else who tries to take over her duties.

Yandere Move: Aoi might sabotage the castle’s mechanisms so it relies on her to function properly.

Kanao Tsuyuri

Kanao is utterly fascinated by the moving castle and spends hours exploring its shifting rooms. She often follows you silently, observing how you interact with the castle’s magic. To her, the castle is a reflection of your brilliance and uniqueness, which only deepens her obsession.

She becomes possessive of the castle, seeing it as a sacred space meant for you and her alone. Kanao quietly ensures that no one else lingers too long, often rearranging things or subtly leading others out of the castle.

Yandere Move: Kanao might enchant certain rooms to lead people in circles, ensuring no one can find you except for her.

Obanai Iguro

Obanai is both in awe and highly suspicious of your moving castle at first. The constantly shifting gears, magical doorways, and enchanted interior put him on edge, as he sees them as potential risks to your safety. He’s hyper-vigilant about inspecting every corner of the castle, looking for vulnerabilities or threats. “This place is too open. Anyone could use your magic against you,” he’d mutter, his tone laced with quiet concern.

Over time, Obanai grows possessive of the castle, viewing it as an extension of you. He spends countless hours patrolling its exterior and testing the magical door’s destinations to ensure no one unwanted can enter. If anyone tries to sneak in or harm the castle, he’ll handle them swiftly, ensuring your home—and by extension, your life—remains undisturbed.

Inside the castle, Obanai tends to stick close to you, often lurking in the shadows and watching as you work your magic. Kaburamaru, his snake, is also mesmerized by the castle’s mechanisms, often winding around gears or perching on your shoulder as you enchant various rooms.

Yandere move: Obanai knows the magical door is one of the most important parts of your castle, allowing you to travel anywhere and interact with the outside world. He would quietly alter the mechanisms behind it, redirecting its destinations to only safe, isolated places he approves of. If someone tries to use the door to reach you, they’ll find themselves transported to a desolate area far from your castle—or trapped in a dangerous location where they’re unlikely to return.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hope your yard work went well and the heat wasn't too strong! On this not-but-still Wednesday, I would like to prompt either established Malec with one making flower crowns/bouquets for the other, or not-established Malec with pining Alec making courting flower bouquets but hesitating to give them to Magnus - basically I'd like to see our pretty boys with flowers, sfw/nsfw as you'd like 🌻

thank you!! I did conquer the yard!!! I think it may have also conquered me a bit but that's what happened when you're allergic and disabled and doing yard work ^_^ still worth it to do it myself rn tho. I like yard work, I just complain because its also hard and exhausting and I'm allergic to half of it. which means I just get more stubborn tbh.

this is in the petals vs. because Alec and Magnus love their flower crowns and their garden and each other in most verses but especially this verse. they're as soft as petals for each other.

and I hope you enjoy, it's just something soft and sweet between them

<3 lumine

in his wake petals fall

Alec normally lets Magnus make the flower crowns, however he’s been tempted by the star jasmine climbing up the trellis.

It’s delicate and fragrant and the vines tangle with his fingers, Magnus’ magic as eager for contact as Alec is.

It’s not a perfect crown, not like the ones Magnus makes, but it’s elegant enough and it will hold together and that’s all Alec needs.

One crown is for his own brow and the other he holds carefully, with a care normally reserved for adamas fragments and newly born babes.

Magnus is on the phone, voice terse and bordering angry and Alec hides the crown behind his back.  The last thing he wants is Magnus reacting to the sight of it and ruining his phone call.

There are two ways it could go.

One, Magnus is overly charmed and his anger disappears, thus letting some undeserving lout get away with wasting his time.

Or two, he will become even more enraged and eviscerate his client until there is nothing left of them before kissing Alec breathless.

As much as Alec enjoys the latter option, he doesn’t want to risk the first and also, the client might be important.

Not more important than Alec and his flower crowns — Alec knows better than to even think such a thing near Magnus who will then utterly prove him wrong — but still, important enough to be careful.

Alec shuffles to the side and places the crown behind the teakettle, easy to retrieve but where Magnus won’t be able to see it from where his magic is rippling through the air.

Alec watches it with delighted amusement, reaching out his fingers to pass through the vibrant red energy and charmed when it turns purple-blue and wreathes around his fingers. 

It catches Magnus’ attention enough that his anger wanes enough for a delighted smile and the blowing of a magical kiss that Alec catches.

It’s warm and soft and filled with adoration and Alec wishes he had the magic to send one back, but instead he simple walks over and presses a gentle kiss to Magnus’ jaw and then his forehead.

Magnus relaxes then, leaning back against Alec when he braces himself, letting Magnus use his strength.

—

“What would I do without you, hmm?” Magnus murmurs quietly, the words almost too soft to be heard and then the moment is broken by yet another tedious question.

Magnus is about to send magic through the phone and set the werewolf he’s dealing with on fire.

Alas, Magnus cannot go killing all the alpha’s in the East Coast no matter how much easier it would make his life.

Even Alexander’s kiss to his hair doesn’t calm him.  Not when he catches the gentle scent of jasmine and realizes just how long he’s been on the call.

Alexander made himself a flower crown!

He now dons it, soft and luxurious and entirely made without Magnus magic — except the fact that it was grown with his magic but still, it should have been twinned by his fingers and magic.

Not that Alexander didn’t do a lovely job, but it’s the pride of it.

Alexander is supposed to be crowned by Magnus’ hand and he feels as though his client has stolen a bit of peace and happiness away.

It’s with anger sparking that he verbally cuts down the werewolf’s pride to a more manageable degree and then hangs up.

He’ll call back tonight.

Or tomorrow.

Whenever he next thinks of it and once he has corrected his erroneous mistake.

“Darling, I’ve failed you.” Magnus murmurs, truly distraught despite the fact that Alexander is looking at him with nothing but charmed fondness and love.

“Actually, I wanted to surprise you. I just didn’t want to interrupt.” And then Alexander is leaving him — which is truly the most heinous of crimes.  

Except then he is forgiven.

Instantly, because he’s made Magnus a charming matching crown with the slightest bit of a lopsided vine and Magnus will crush stars and diamonds to ensure that this crown never fades.

“I love it.” 

Magnus doesn’t even let Alexander speak, motioning with an eager gesture and it gets him several kisses before the crown is placed gently on his coiffed hair.

It smells divine but it’s even better because Alexander’s angelic magic is delicate and intertwined with Magnus’ own magic and the vines.

A small gift of himself that has Magnus pulling him in for a kiss.

-

yes Alec weighs his choices based on whether or not he thinks it will help or deter. like sometimes its good that he can redirect Magnus and sometimes, it wont actually help in the long run and he needs to consider that because they make each other too happy

[bradleysass]

Maniac - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 447 - Starchaser + Wolfstar

James Potter and Sirius Black took Valentine’s Day very, very seriously.

To the unsuspecting passerby, the Gryffindor common room looked like it had been attacked by an army of overly enthusiastic cupids. Red and gold streamers hung from every available surface, heart-shaped confetti coated the floor, and an enchanted banner above the fireplace flashed between declarations of love and embarrassing pet names. Floating candles cast a romantic glow over the chaos, and a magically amplified phonograph played an endless loop of love songs.

It was a lot.

And that was before anyone even looked at what James and Sirius had planned for their boyfriends.

Regulus Black had been dreading this moment since the calendar flipped to February. He loved James—he did—but James in full Valentine’s Day mode was something to be feared. He sat stiffly on one of the plush armchairs, watching with a blank expression as James fussed over a truly ridiculous bouquet of red roses, lilies, and something that sparkled unnaturally in the firelight.

“Jamie,” Regulus said, voice flat. “If I say I love you, will you stop before this gets out of hand?”

James grinned, completely unaffected. “Absolutely not, love of my life.” He leaned down and pressed a quick, obnoxiously loud kiss to Regulus’ cheek before returning to adjusting the bouquet. “Babe, you deserve the absolute best, and I am going to make sure you have the most romantic, most amazing, most—”

“—most extra?” Remus Lupin interjected, leaning against the arm of the couch where Sirius sat. He had the long-suffering expression of someone who had been through this before and knew there was no escape.

Sirius, for his part, simply beamed and threw an arm around Remus’ shoulders. “Moony, love of my life, you wound me. This is all for you!” He gestured dramatically to a pile of presents—neatly wrapped, though in an eye-wateringly mismatched combination of red and pink papers.

Remus sighed. “How many gifts did you get me this year?”

“Not important,” Sirius said quickly.

Remus turned to Regulus. “Has he tried to serenade you yet?”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not yet, but I’m sure it’s coming.”

“Oi! Don’t ruin the surprise!” James whined.

Sirius grinned. “They call us the Valentine Maniacs, and for good reason.”

“No one calls you that,” Regulus deadpanned.

James and Sirius exchanged a look. “We call us that.”

Remus and Regulus sighed in unison.

Despite all the excessive gestures—the charmed chocolates that floated around offering themselves at random, the giant enchanted teddy bear that recited sonnets, the unnecessarily large banners—Regulus and Remus couldn’t deny one thing: their boyfriends were absolutely ridiculous, but they were also utterly devoted.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

New year, new me?

Nah.

New year NEW CHARACTERRRRRR BITCHESSSSS

So anyway.

Those ABC Headcanons I did for Mihawk, Shanks, Sanji, and Zoro a few months ago when I first started this Tumblr. I'm doing one for Crocodaddy now. Needed to iron them out to write him later in a fanfiction I already have in-progress, and this helps.

This also means I'll be accepting requests for him tentatively (I know I'm way behind on ask requests as is, bear with me pls).

Also excuse me while I squeal about being able to create semi-transparent banners and shit now

A through Z

NSFW Headcanons

A — Afterglow (How are they have sex?)

He'll be sitting up against the pillows and headboard of your shared bed, striking up a cigar while you're still lying alongside him gasping for air.

Glancing down at you in your utterly spent and trembling state, smirking with the cigar between his teeth and pulling you up by your shoulder to recline back against his chest.

Not at all above taunting you about how utterly ruined you are.

"Oh, what's wrong? Was it too much?"

Chuckling when you tell him to go fuck himself as he leans over to pour himself and you a small glass of bourbon.

Leaning down to brush his lips and nibble at your neck, murmur in your ear while you take a sip from your glass, praising you with that same edge of almost cruel amusement.

"Such a good little fuck toy."

This is the most relaxed you're usually going to see him, and the most inclined toward cuddling up with you he's going to be.

B — Backrubs? (Do they like them? Like giving them?)

First time you come into his office and circle around behind his chair, he's going to be suspicious, probably even standoffish about it—until your hands are rubbing his neck and his shoulders.

"The hell do you think you're—......oh. Oh, that's...mmmm..."

You won't hear one single further complaint out of him after that.

He's not going to ask you to do it again—he's more likely to demand that you do, to send for you after a particularly long day so he can just lean back and let you work your magic on his stiff muscles.

If he returns the favor at any point, you can rest assured that it's not without an ulterior motive—he won't settle for having his hand on you without getting more out of it.

C — Cuddling (Do they enjoy cuddling a lot or only at certain moments?)

He's more likely to pull you against him or onto his lap in public than he is in private—he likes showing off his trophies, after all, and you're among his most prized possessions.

Gets off on making sure that everyone around knows that you're his, tugging you onto his knee with an arm curled possessively around your waist.

In private, he's still not going to shove you away if you lay back and drape yourself across his lap.

He might not say so, but he honestly loves it. He'll probably absently stroke your hair or brush his thumb across your cheek—but he's not as likely to initiate.

D — Dance (Are they good at it? Do they enjoy it?)

He's got his share of experience—being a filthy rich business magnate doesn't come without its share of formal to-dos, after all.

He's going to spend the majority of said fraternizations discussing business and making connections—but he can't and won't ever resist any opportunity that arises to show you off, either.

Whether you ask or not, at some point he's going to wrap his arm around you and curl his hook around your waist—pull you in close by your chin to speak against your lips.

"Let's show these low-lives what they're missing."

Lowering his hand down and squeezing your ass to tug you against him.

It's definitely more of a command than a question, and he's already smirking because he knows you aren't going to protest—at least not if you know what's good for you.

E — Extravagant Gestures (Things they do to make you feel loved)

"Love" is a strong word, and one that it's going to take a hell of a long time for him to actually admit out loud or really show.

He'll mostly show his appreciation in a material manner—buying you flowers, jewelry, clothes.

Anything you desire or he thinks you deserve, he's going to give you without any hesitation. He doesn't always have much time to spend, but he has more than enough money to spend, and he's going to.

It might seem like empty gestures on the surface, but showering you with gifts is his main mode of affection.

When he does have time to spend, however, he makes sure that his sole focus is on you and you alone, either flat out ignoring anyone that dares interrupt or putting them in their place on the spot.

He intends to ensure that his lover should never have to need or want for anything.

F — Fighting (How do they handle arguments/apologies?)

He's not apologizing. Doesn't matter if he's at fault or in the wrong, he's not going to acknowledge it.

He'll typically keep a cool head about it, even if you're shouting—but if you take a stab at his pride, things are probably going to escalate until you're not on speaking terms for a bit.

Closest thing to an apology you're going to get is him conveniently forgetting about the whole thing and you suddenly being showered with even more lavish gifts than normal, likely even accompanied by little handwritten sappy notes.

He'll also probably let it go entirely if you come back and apologize, but he's going to remain bitter about it for a while.

At least until he gets you alone later to bend you over and grudge-fuck your brains out until he's satisfied you've learned your lesson.

G — Getting Hot (What do they do turn turn you on, and vice versa?)

He stays busy enough that it tends to stray from his mind that physical intimacy an important part of a healthy romantic relationship.

On the rare occasion he isn’t busy, however, he's likely to have his hands and lips all over you—even if you're busy at the time yourself, intent on distracting you from your own priorities and enjoying you at his own whim.

Pulling you back against him by your waist while you're in the middle of some important business or personal call, pushing his hand down between your thighs, his voice a low murmur in your ear, conveying in great detail what he plans to do to you.

"Hang up the phone...unless you want them to hear me ruining you."

Pushing his hook under your chin to tilt your head back, giving his lips free roam of your neck and your jaw, trailing them slowly across every inch of your exposed skin.

The quickest way to get him riled up is to subtly do the same to him in a situation where he can't do anything about it.

To cup your hands around his ear while he's in the middle of some important business or social exchange and whisper all your dirtiest fantasies, forcing him to keep up a calm and professional demeanor in spite of his carnal desire for you.

He's going to act like it's annoying him, but you know better.

You know that he's going to be tearing your clothes off the second he manages to get you alone.

H — Heartache (How would they handle it if you broke up with them?)

He's used to courting his losses, so in the surface it's going to seem like he's unbothered, and anyone that suggests otherwise is going to get their head bitten off over it.

He's going to be more cruel, more impatient with his subordinates.

He's going to be a lot more likely to fly off the handle at anything that could be taken as a slight or insult.

He's going to be unfocused in his business dealings, delegating more work than usual to those below him.

He's going to engage in a great deal of debauchery and self-destructive behavior to push you from his mind—rebound sex, heavy gambling, heavy drinking, chain smoking.

He's going to spend sleepless nights glaring uo at the ceiling and white-knuckling a bottle of liquor, beating himself up over it in silence and solitude.

He's probably going to end up drunkenly den den mushi dialing you after a few weeks, slurring about how big a mistake you made and how much better off he is...and slurring about how big a mistake he made while begging you to come back.

Emotional availability isn’t one of his strong suits.

I — Intimacy (When are they intimate with you? And how often?)

Whenever he feels like it.

He could go a week without paying you much attention at all; then revert to shoving you against a wall or pulling you onto his lap and having you every time he catches sight of you.

Depends largely on his mood, which depends largely on other aspects of his life.

Unless he's incredibly busy or frustrated from stress, he isn’t likely to turn you away if you initiate.

Whether you're circling behind him to rub his shoulders or sitting yourself on his lap, he's likely to pull you closer and breathe you in, brush his lips to your neck and jaw, enjoying some much needed peace and solace in your closeness.

But he's still going to tease and belittle you about it, making sure you feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin.

"What's the matter? Does my little girl need some attention?"

J — Joker (How do they make you laugh)

His sense of humor is typically cruel and comes at the expense of others.

Certified master at roasting—typically with deadpan delivery, maybe with a hint of a condescending smirk as he verbally destroys whoever has dared to cross him.

There might be a playful insult battle between you and him here and there—he's not going to do it to be outright hurtful, but if you call him an arrogant prick (a slur he frankly agrees with and gladly owns), he's going to put you in your place and chuckle at whatever you manage to throw back at him.

K — Kissing (How good? How often?)

Like other brands of physical affection, he's not going to initiate it very often.

Which is a bit of a shame, because he's incredibly good at it—if more than a bit of a tease.

Slow and sensual, curling his hand around the back of your head, his teeth grazing against your bottom lip, tongue brushing against yours.

Smirking and drawing away when you moan to tease you in a low murmur.

"Oh...? Did you want more, sweetheart?"

Grasping your waist and pulling you against him aggressively to deepen the kiss, devouring your lips possessively with a low growl.

No qualms at all about doing so in public—he greatly enjoys the thrill of all those judgmental and envious eyes, of showing others what they're missing out on.

L — Lay down (How do they sleep with you? Are they a cuddler or do they prefer their space?)

His pride won't allow him to say so aloud, but he cannot sleep without you.

There's always the slightest subconscious worry, eating away at the back of his mind, that he doesn't do enough for you, that he isn’t there enough for you, a worry that really only surfaces in the minutes and hours before sleep when he has no choice but to be alone with his own thoughts.

He'll lay awake until you're there with him so he can pull you against his side, lower his head over yours and breathe in your scent, relaxing into the comfort of your warmth.

This is when he's most vulnerable, most affectionate, when he's anything even close to self-conscious.

When he might brush his lips to your temple and praise you in a low murmur without any expectation of you reciprocating.

"Mmm...so warm....."

He'll slip his arm under you, pull you against him, and refuse to release you until morning.

M — Making babies (Do they want to settle down and have kids?)

HAHAHAHAHAHA no

No, absolutely not.

This really isn’t negotiable. He has no interest in having children at all. Doesn't remotely have the patience necessary and doesn't wish to change his lifestyle to fit around parenthood.

N — Nervous? (How confident are they when it comes to romance?)

Confident really isn’t the word—the man's arrogance is unrivaled.

He's filthy rich, he has unrivaled social standing, the physique of a living god, he knows he could have damned near any woman he wants. Why the hell would he be worried?

His only concern is the matter of trust—that letting anyone get too close could be detrimental to his status. You could blackmail him, you could entice him too deeply and take him for all he's worth, so he might keep you ag arm's length for a while.

Despite his confidence, he also won't tolerate any other men hitting on you—you're his, and he doesn't share his things.

O — Oral Fixation (Giving or receiving? And how good are they?)

Far more into receiving.

Very into pulling out abruptly after fucking you relentlessly and forcing his cock down your throat while you're still gasping for air, reveling in the sight of your make-up smeared over your flushed face and the sound of you gagging on it.

"Yeah, that's it, baby—take every fucking inch—"

But he does love making you beg, and giving isn’t off the table if you satisfy him adequately and ask very nicely.

Just as much as he loves ruining you—so he's going to hold you down by your hip, isn’t going to stop until you're screaming, gasping, hyperventilating from overstimulation, limp and trembling and barely conscious in his grasp.

P — Pet Peeves (Things they don't like in a partner)

Excessive neediness is going to irritate the hell out of him.

He doesn't have the time or the patience to constantly offer his attention and reassurance, so he strongly prefers a confident and independent lover.

Absolutely can't stand you flirting with other men to make him jealous.

It might get his attention, but not in a good way.

He's already iffy about trust, and all that will do is put him on high alert and make him more likely to push you away.

Q — Quiet Time (How much alone time do they need, or do they want to be with you 24/7?)

He stays busy—whether it's running several profitable businesses around Alabasta or dealing with Cross Guild, he doesn't have much spare time, and he's pretty used to it.

That means he's also accustomed to a lot of alone time, and that it's required for his work.

He doesn't mind you being there while he's dealing with it, but only if you're quiet—if you insist on distracting him, he's not going to be pleased.

He's fine with you laying back across his lap, even against his chest with his arm stretched over your shoulders, just as long as you're not intentionally disturbing his concentration.

Though if you are intentionally disturbing him, he will bend you over and wear you out until you're too spent to bother him any further.

R — Romance (How romantic are they? Do they have to force it ir does it come natural?)

Not much of a romantic at all. He's pretty accustomed to just being able to win over women with money and status.

Dinner reservations at expensive restaurants where the waiting lists go on for months, ritzy parties and clubs, anything that allows him to throw his weight and wallet around and show you off.

He will make a point of keeping his attention in you—his arm curled around your waist, keeping you close at his side—but traditional romance is definitely not his strong suit.

S — Spending Money (How much do they like to spend on you?)

Physical touch is his love language, but it's best that yours is receiving gifts, because you're going to be getting a LOT of them.

Designer clothes, jewelry expensive enough that it could be used as collateral in purchasing a small nation, the finest perfumes, date nights that could cost a few hundred thousand berries—whatever your poison, he's providing it.

You're never going to want or need for anything. Even if something just briefly catches your eye in a shop window or a vendor stall, you're likely going to find it in your possession before the end of the day.

In a way it's an apology for not being able to spend as much time with you as he feels you deserve—he'll never say so out loud, that would injure his pride, but the implications of it are heavy.

Only the best of the best for his lady.

T — Trust (Are they trusting of you? Jealous?)

There are some definite trust issues with Croc. It's not uncommon for women to cozy up to him just for monetary and material gain, and he's well aware of it. It's going to take a lot of time for him to fully believe that this isn’t your endgame.

Even once he does trust you, may the heavens have mercy on any man whose eyes linger on you for too long, because he'll need divine intervention to save him if Crocodile catches him.

At that point it's less a matter of his trust wavering—it's more a matter of the fact that he does trust you, and doesn't want to lose that, to lose you now that you do have his trust.

U — Underwear (What kind do they wear, and what kind do they like on you?)

Tends toward tight boxers and briefs (always designer) to show off his physique.

That's his default, at least; you could pretty easily talk him into wearing something more skimpy if you want.

He's going to have a full closet of expensive lingerie for you. If it's something he wants to see you in, he's buying it.

The finest silk, the smoothest satin, the most delicate lace. If it's fit for a queen, then it's yours.

V — Vulnerable (How vulnerable are they with you? Is it easy for them to open up to you?

There's a solid steel wall separating you from his emotions and his past that is damned near impossible to break down.

He has to be able to trust you before he can be open, and again, that's going to take time. A lot of time.

He doesn't allow himself to take that kind of risk—one single mistake, being the slightest bit too open with the wrong person, and every ounce of power he's built up could come crashing down on the wings of blackmail and betrayal.

That being said, once you do manage to gain his trust, you'll be the only person he's open with.

And he'll be completely open, because it's a bit addictive, as it's not something he's accustomed to—being able to be comfortably vulnerable is a nice, relaxing change of pace.

W — Wine and Dine (Do they prefer meals at home or going out with you? Who does more of the cooking?)

Domestic endeavors definitely aren't his forte. He's had a personal chef on his staff since well before he met you.

He isn't going to prevent you from cooking if you enjoy it—though he might find it a little strange, since it's a task he considers below him.

He might even watch you out of sheer curiosity, though it's doubtful he will partake; he'll be more likely to sit back and puff on a cigar, taking the opportunity to enjoy the view and let his eyes roam over you while you work.

Overall, he would usually prefer to just go out, or let the staff handle it...but he does find something particularly enticing about seeing you working with your hands, regardless the reason.

X — X-Rated (How good are they in bed? What do they like?)

You're going to need a safe word, because he's aggressive. He desires total and absolute control, and won't settle for anything less.

You're his free use slut—if and when he wants you, you had best be ready for him.

He'll curl his hook around your neck and his hand around your waist to pull you back against him, let out a slow breath against your neck as his slips your clothes down your shoulders to lay in a pool at your feet.

Or simply rip them away from you, pressing against you to ensure you feel the hard heat of his arousal straining against his clothes, throbbing against your ass and your lower back.

Tilting his head down to ensure you both feel and hear his low, commanding growl in your ear.

"You're mine. Aren't you, my little whore?"

Whether he leads you by the edge of his hook to the privacy of your bedroom he simply bends you over his desk is entirely at his whim.

Either way, he's going to do little more than pull your panties to the side before he thrusts straight into you and fucks you relentlessly.

He's selfish, his main concern is mostly his own gratification—but he still has some concern for yours.

He does love the sound of your breathless moans, after all. Your cries of abandon are music to his ears, and there's nothing more intoxicating than the feeling of your pussy tightening up and pulsing around his cock as you fall limp beneath him in the wake of release.

Pulling you right back up by your hair before you've recovered, hearing your breath catch in your throat.

He lives for it, growling in your ear as he tightens his grip around your tender flesh, pinching and rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

"I didn't say I was done with you, slut."

He has no intention of stopping until he is done, until he's fully satisfied—whether that means making you cum until you pass out or cramming his cock down your throat until you're choking on his cum, it doesn't matter.

Either way, he always gets what he wants.

Y — Yearning (How long will they pursue the person they're interested in before losing interest?)

Not long, in most cases. He can just throw money and gifts at most women and get the gratification that he's after out of it.

He's going to be more interested, and honestly more likely to pursue, if you can't be bought.

If you're interested in more than what he can provide for you on a material or physical level, he's going to be intrigued. That's not something he's used to.

In that case, he very much enjoys a good game of cat and mouse. He'll want to find out exactly what makes you tick, and he's going to persist until he does find out.

He'll likely be courting and fraternizing with other women at the same time initially, but he'll push them away in a heartbeat if you engage in the game and show interest.

He'll probably still throw money and gifts at you, as that's what he's accustomed to doing—but he'll make a point of learning about you, and make the gifts more personal, more in line with your interests and passions, to ensure you know he's paying attention.

He still won't wait for too long. The whole hard-to-get shtick is fun for a time, but he will move on if it begins to seem to him like he's being strung along. If he isn’t the one in control and he feels like he's being played a fool, he'll cut his losses without a second thought.

Z — Zen (What do they do to wind down and relax? Do they prefer to do it alone or with you?

He doesn't have much time for rest and relaxation, so he values it immensely—and he absolutely requires your presence for it.

Even if he doesn't show it most of the time, you're his solace, his peace, the one thing that warms the cold and calculating persona he has to keep up almost twenty-four seven.

If he's reclining back with a glass of bourbon and a cigar, he wants you there. He needs you there.

Reclining back against his chest, his thumb brushing circles against your waist, trailing delicate patterns over your hand as he lies his head back to slowly exhale a plume of smoke.

Lowering his head back down to admire the sight of you, to brush your hair behind your shoulder and murmur in your ear.

"Get comfortable. You're not going anywhere until I say so."

[inquisimer]

For arlow and viago 😭 ❛ i don’t want to understand, i want you to stay. ❜

THANK YOUUUUUUU I am ALL up in my feels about them ;-; this is set well pre-canon, right after Arlow is released from (my version of) "how not to get possessed" Crow Edition

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 972 words | cw: implied/referenced torture, child abuse | @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

-

She is ragged, rubbed raw when they dump her on the stoop of Viago's estate. They rap on the door, once, twice, three times, because she could not lift an arm to do it herself. And then they leave her there, shivering and utterly drained, still bleeding where the manacles had held her. Still aching where the Fade had dug its claws into her.

But she is alive. That is more than most of the others can say.

Viago opens the door himself--of course he does, because he does not employ a staff, would not give anyone such access, no matter how thoroughly vetted. She wonders, as a soft string of curses fall from his lips, how they even knew to leave her here. Its location is a closely guarded secret.

(She will never know about the gold and threats exchanged, when first she was taken. As soon as she has passed, he insisted. Not a moment longer.)

His arms are gentle, slotting carefully under her legs and at her shoulders; he is trying to avoid the bruises, the welts, the weeping wounds. If she could find her voice, she would tell him not to bother--there is nowhere that does not ache, in some shape or form. But he is trying, and she focuses on that, rather than how the world spins as he lifts her, carries her down the hallway to a familiar room. It is not hers, but she spends a great deal of time here, being poked and prodded--poisoned--pressed for answers and learning how to describe what he needs to know.

The cot she usually sits on is made up with softer blankets and pillows than is typical. As if it were waiting for her, and knew that she would not be in a state for the harsh, cold crinkle of paper. But that is foolish--there is no one in the estate except Viago, and Viago is not the type to prepare such creature comforts. If her mind were not so muddled--

She blinks, and Viago presses a vial to her lips. He does not need to tell her to drink; she lets him tip it down her throat without hesitation. Bitter elfroot, and acidity. At her side, over her knuckles, and where it is seeping down her temple, blood clots as her skin knits itself back together. Though the gash over her shoulder blade only gets about two-thirds of the way there, and she knows that it will be a scar.

Experimentally, she reaches for it with her magic. It is new, this power within her, and awkward like a third arm, or second tongue. It is also weak, drained by the price the Crows have exacted. But she has paid it--she is alive. She has been judged, and not found wanting.

For once. Perhaps for the last time.

"Stop that," Viago snaps, as if he can sense that she is pushing past limits that have long since been flattened. "You will make it worse."

The tendril of mana blinks out into nothing. He cuts her ruined tunic away, pursing his lips together as each snip reveals bruises, burns, and more ribs than he'd been able to see three weeks ago. But he is not surprised. Necessary, as so many painful things are. When the pain fades, confidence will take root--in confidence, safety.

With short, clinical strokes, he cleans her skin and a tiny sigh parts Arlow's lips. She has nearly forgotten what it is like to be touched with an intention that is kind.

He takes his time. Tends each of the wounds with the appropriate salve, or balm, or serum. His gloved hands are more gentle than they have ever been when he urges her to lean forward, but he offers no apology when he draws the needle through her flesh, sealing another mark into her skin.

When he is finished, he wraps her in fresh clothes and brings her to rest before the fire. Hands her another potion, diluted this time, and gives strict instructions to sip, slowly.

Despite the fire, despite the ghost of his care lingering over her skin, Arlow feels a chill. This is the part where he leaves. She knows--understands, even. So much more than a child should have to. Of all the ways Viago covers his skin, he has never treated her with kid gloves.

She does not want him to leave. But it is not her place to ask him to stay.

Her eyes drift closed; for a moment, her heart stutters, afraid of the darkness that waits behind her lids. But the fire makes it warm and orange; the cold and dank to which she has been relegated remains firmly--if a bit too near--in her memory.

In that halfway place between waking and sleep, she imagines tender hands tucking a blanket around her. Shifting her on the pillow so that her neck will not be so terribly cricked in the morning. It is nice of her mind, to cushion her recovery with such niceties.

Gloved knuckles brush a stray hair back behind her ear. A softness that she will not remember in the morning, nearly gone to the Fade already as she is. Which is why he offers it, of course.

"Well done, parajito," Viago murmurs. She will not remember that, either, or the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. When he is stern and exacting in the morning, she will not remember that he was proud of her, or relieved to have her back under his purview.

But that does not change the fact--he is.

He tucks the blanket more snugly under her chin, smooths the wrinkles over her legs. For the first time in three weeks, she is resting easy--and he leaves, for the first time in three weeks, to do the same.

[bardic-tales]

Bianca Moore | Question 2

GTKMC: Name

Villains don’t emerge. They erupt into existence. And Bianca Moore isn’t just a name. It’s a prophecy dressed in scars and stitched from celestial ash and infernal blood. She walks the line between salvation and annihilation with a blade in her hand and Sephiroth at her side, not as an accessory, but as an equal.

In a world of moral binaries and broken heroes, Bianca shatters the mold: unredeemable, unforgettable, and utterly untouchable. This is not a redemption arc. It’s a reckoning.

Possible Trigger Warnings: abuse, blood, curses, emotional trauma, experimentation, identity issues, parental betrayal, psychological manipulation, suffering, supernatural themes, torture, violence, demonic heritage, loss of innocence, forced legacy, vivisection, magical coercion, the aftermath of trauma.

Her name is Bianca Amara Moore, though she'd be the first to tell you with a curled lip that the middle part is a sick joke. Amara—a name given to her by Asmodeus who is her biological father—was meant to be a “gift,” a binding echo of her infernal heritage. It sounds beautiful, ethereal, even sacred. But for Bianca, it feels like a curse spat from his silver tongue. It tastes of betrayal and forced legacy. She never uses it unless forced to by magical constraints. If someone dares to call her Amara, they’d better be ready for a verbal flaying or worse.

Bianca identifies most strongly with her first and last name: Bianca Moore. “Bianca” was chosen by her adoptive mother, a soft, old-world name meaning “white,” meant to symbolize hope, renewal, and purity. The irony would be laughable if it didn’t cut so deep. The young girl who bore that name was bright-eyed, innocent, unscarred and devoured long ago.

“Moore,” the surname she carries from her human family is the only piece of her past she clutches like a relic. It’s her link to the life she lost and a banner she waves as both mourning and defiance. She's not her father’s child. She's what happens when you sever destiny and stitch something new from the ruin.

Still, the full name persists like an echo: Bianca Amara Moore. It shows up in files Hojo beside the name 'N01'. To her enemies, it’s a title to fear. To the Planet, it’s a warning. And to Sephiroth? It’s sacred, even if he knows better than to say the middle part aloud. He’s the only one allowed to whisper her full name, and even then, only during the rarest of moments when she lets the poison in her veins quiet long enough to be vulnerable.

Bianca has many other names whispered about her in the Lifestream and across broken realms: Destroyer, Harbinger, Sephiroth’s bride, The Pale Flame, Horseman of Death, and worse. But when she introduces herself, she always keeps it simple. Bianca Moore will be said with a smirk that dares you to pry. It’s not humility. It’s a veiled threat. Because if you really knew the name etched across the bones of creation, you’d already be running.

So yes, she has a full name. That name is beauty, blood, and bitterness stitched between every syllable. But don’t use it unless you have a death wish: or unless you’ve earned her love, her wrath, or both.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

[rita-repulsa-ke]

The Present

One more Agatha/Rio fanfic, post-finale, angst and tragic romance.

Rio goes to visit Agatha, and brings her a present.

Rio watches Agatha sleep, all of her dignity lost, mouth open, limbs askew. She takes a few steps forward and waits. The year is 1803 and by now, she knows the steps to this dance. Somewhere in this peaceful room, there is a trap.

Agatha Harkness cannot kill Death. But she can wound her, bind her temporarily, inconvenience and humiliate her. She can certainly hurt her feelings and she delights in doing so.

And Rio, when hurt, retaliates. She uses magic, knives, but most of all taunting, callous words. She derives a sense of twisted satisfaction from watching her beloved crumple and beg for something they both know she cannot give.

Sometimes, later, she regrets. Today, she carries a present, folded in her green and black cloak, either a peace offering or a dagger to the heart.

She takes another step, sits on the bed, then stretches to lie next to Agatha, inches away from a few locks of dark hair. She wants to caress them, put them in her mouth, as she once would have done.

Before she can do either, the trap springs. Runes on each wall glow purple, and fine wires of magic snap around her, haul her up by the neck, wrists and ankles, suspended in midair.

“You trapped the bed?” she asks, incredulous, as Agatha jerks awake, sits up rubbing her eyes, wearing only a nightshirt, her hair a tangled mess.

She still takes Rio’s breath away.

“You are so utterly predictable,” Agatha says, smug even though her voice is laced with sleep. She motions to the walls, to the carved runes. “The six bindings runes are done in the Solomonic tradition, but I added an extra layer with the—"

She stops abruptly. Explaining the cleverness of her magic to Rio is an old habit, from better times. “The point being, it should hold for a couple of years, if I’ve done it right, and the doors and windows to this room are bespelled so that once I leave, everyone will forget its here.”

“Clever,” Rio praises and Agatha’s jaw tightens, though the praise is nothing but truthful. She has always been impressed by the sheer skill of Agatha's craft. “But I’ve brought you a gift.”

“Keep it,” Agatha says, packing her things from where they are scattered about the room, fishing out clothes from where they've somehow ended up under the bed. “I think we’re past the courting stage.”

“You’re going to want it. Trust me.” She sees the other woman pause. She can still provoke Agatha’s curiosity, always her strongest emotion.

But Agatha won't ruin her own work. “It can wait a couple of yea—“

Rio tires of this game. She reaches for power, not magic, but the simple truth of what she is. Wisps of black and green smoke escape her, pour from her mouth to settle on Agatha’s runes.

“You can't do that!" Agatha protests, watching with clenched teeth as the magic dies and Rio glides elegantly to the floor.

“You can’t bind Death, Ags.”

Agatha’s face contorts with fury, the realization of how many times Rio has chosen to let her think she had won, to indulge her pride, when she could have freed herself so easily. “I hate you,” she snarls.

Rio pulls out the portrait and offers it to her.

It’s a good one, a little boy with crooked teeth and long hair, as perfect a rendering as she could manage.

Agatha takes it and sinks to sit on the bed, trembling, stares at it, traces the image with a finger and whispers his name.

Rio shrugs, doesn't quite look at the other woman, allowing her a private moment of grief. “So you don’t forget what he looked like.”

After some immeasurable length of time, the longest either of them have gone without violence toward each other in decades, Agatha puts the painting carefully, almost worshipfully, on the table and stands, opens her arms to Rio.

Death steps into the embrace at once, clings tight and is aware that she is shaking as Agatha’s fingers smooth her hair. For one blissful moment, her world is whole.

“Pathetic,” Agatha says and the word is spoken so flatly that it delays the blow, takes Rio a second to even comprehend what was said. “Pitiful, desperate, like a dog with its tail between its legs, rolling over to show your belly for me, as though I will ever, ever care about you ag—"

“Incendem,” Rio says, the word spoken quiet and empty.

Agatha reacts too slowly, lunges as the portrait goes up in flames. She burns her hands, fumbles and drops it, uses a nearby shirt to stamp out the flames.

What is left is a ruined mess of canvas, blackened beyond recognition.

Death laughs and laughs and laughs. “Please,” Agatha whispers, sinking to her knees, clutching the painting as though she could protect it, as though she could protect anything. “Please, please, please.”

Rio crouches next to her, too close, absorbing the heat from her body as a mortal might sit near a fire for comfort. “Pathetic,” she murmurs, almost affectionate. “Pitiful. You can't help yourself, can you? It’s all right, Ags. Cruelty suits you.”

“Give it back,” Agatha whispers, her voice cracking like a skull. “Rio, please, give it back, give it back, give him back to me…”

Rio gathers her beloved in her arms, unprotesting for once, lets her sob like a broken-hearted child and feels a gentle contentment with the situation, murmuring sweet nothings in a handful of dead languages in her ear.

"Rio," Agatha whispers against her neck, and the way her breath brushes over Rio's skin is a reminder of so many better times.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Let me drop my barriers for you. Read my thoughts."

Rio hesitates, it must be a trap, but this time it is her curiosity that gets the better of her. Even when there was genuine affection between them, Agatha always guarded her thoughts so closely. She reaches tentatively for the mind she always wished to understand above all others.

Hatred, raw and pure, impales her, a spear shoved through her guts and out the other side, a sucking, fatal wound. She recoils from the agony, a sob building in her throat.

"No," she gasps. "You love me. You love me, you do, you love me, you're hurt, you're angry, I understand, but you do love me, Agatha!”

Agatha's turn to laugh now, her cackling, witchy laugh that Rio has always loved, a hint of insanity wound through it. "See for yourself. Look as deeply as you want, my heart." She presses her lips to Rio's cheek, untwines herself and comes to her feet to look down at Death, sitting on the floor, staring up at her with blank, empty eyes.

Rio looks. She does not wish to, it is an act of self-harm to stare into the abyss of Agatha's relentless hatred, but she lets it cut her, wound and scar her over and over, relentless in her search for any morsel of affection.

There is nothing. Agatha's hatred is an endless fall, a vast, dark pit of torment.

Rio wrenches her mind free and doubles over, a terrible shriek ripped from her, the sound of her heart being torn from her ribcage, her chest flayed open, entrails flopping out.

"There is only one thing I want from you now," Agatha says. "And it is never, ever to see your face again."

Rio winks out of existence.

Agatha sits and stares at the blackened portrait, then carefully releases the spell on her mind that withholds her true feelings, a complicated rush of true hatred, the aching memory of a world-devouring love, a desperate desire not to be abandoned, and the sudden yearning to be back in Rio's arms.

Feel free to comment/reblog if you like this sort of thing. If you want to read something written pre-finale and therefore less angsty, try the talk. The part where Rio says she’ll never leave hits different now.