#molten evil

[black-hole-daycare-attendant]

What Sun and Moon Show Character Are You? Part 2

[sonicvoid]

Cool dragon I dreamed about

[ikamigami]

It does make me wonder, if there is a redemption in the end for all of this, if New Moon will still choose to become Nexus, or some other name, to differentiate himself fully, as even before this insane corruption arc he had this inner debate about being New vs Old Moon, I've seen some others suggest this theory and I think it could be interesting, if all the wrongs were made right beforehand that is

Hmm I think that Old Moon will go buy buy and New Moon will be back to normal and he'll be Moon..

Like idk it'd be weird to just swap them again.. or even just make Old Moon just Moon once again and New Moon would stay Nexus - a villain..

I don't see a point in this tbh.. cause why show would make such a deal of Moon being worried about Sun which is the reason to why Moon became so paranoid in the first place ofc together with his insecurities - yes all of this was caused by talk with Dark Sun in his original dimension but these were main factors..

And later also Moon told Earth that he's scared that Sun is self-destructive.. and he later had that vivid dream that Sun died protecting Lunar which reflects exactly what Old Moon told him that he needs to not let Sun sacrifice himself.. and later Moon being in poor mental state - it was after the dream mind you - told Molten that Sun is light of his life.. so I think that it is important..

It seems like a set-up for Moon to snap out of this state thanks to Sun.. though it most definitely happen when Sun will die but still..

Though that begs the question what will happen with Old Moon? Tbf.. I have no idea lol 😅

One thing I'm sure of is that Moon needs to finally accept himself.. and take responsibility for his actions and atone for what he's done..

Hmm.. you know what? Maybe Old Moon will merge with New Moon still.. I mean it won't be a completely new person cause their personalities are so similar that there's barely a difference..

But I was thinking that maybe show will make Moon try to atone for his actions - all of them.. the past and the present.. he'll take responsibility for everything that he's done.. and he'll try to regain trust and forgiveness of his family especially Sun.. cause he hurt him the most..

And I think that if they would merge Moon he'd have all of his memories.. and even if that would mean that he'll remember Old Moon's trauma.. I think that maybe merging them together would make Moon more complete.. maybe it'd help him feel more whole.. and less insecure about his own identity..

Maybe that's the plan.. or maybe not.. idk but they'll definitely do something with Old Moon but I doubt that they'll let him live making that there would be two Moons..

[rhaaclaws]

Been on a Darling Nikki roll recently but i also wanted to draw their freak robot boytoy, Vihaan

[Vihaan by @outpost-31]

[fanstuffrantings]

I know people are a fan of the found family trope with companions in games, but I for one really love when companions are so different they simply never stop hating each other. No amount of shared goals or conversations fix the rift they have because morally they're so different that they can barely stand each others company and simply tolerate proximity due to shared friends.

Sometimes people don't get along and never will. Sometimes companions want to kill each other the minute they meet and getting to know the other person reinforces that thought. It's not bad writing if that's the case and I wish fandoms would accept that.

[crappyyuki]

TheFamousFilms sketches/doodles

EB/Vile

Evil Bryan >:DDDDD

Well, more like Evil Fnaf Bryan. A Fnaf universe Bryan that turned evil. Post End Game where no one survived. I’m sorry Lefty :,)

He decided to leave his universe and cause havoc in other universes :D

Basically a Mercenary. You pay him, he does what you ask. Get some info. Sabotage someone. Silence someone. The whole shebang. Pay him handsomely, he will make himself look like a fool and be the distraction you want him to be :)

Headcanon: He totally smokes. Definitely. He also uses kunai as his main weapon.

Dialogue:

EB: *reads the contract* Basically…you want a distraction.

Bryan: Yup!

EB: And you want me to make myself look like an idiot?

Bryan: Yup!

EB: …

EB: Pay me triple and I’ll do it.

Bryan: Deal!

“Being underestimated is one of the biggest competitive advantages you can have. Embrace it.” - from somewhere in the internet

[artdcnaldson]

You asked for blurb ideas & that thought here got stuck in my mind since this morning 🌞

Tennis Reader “thanking” Art after their training session in the locker rooms. ;)

Reader sneaks in men’s locker room after training together till evening, surprising (Stanford) Art under the shower + asking for some steamy extra cardio. 👀

And eventually Patrick walks in. Idk abt that but whatever you write is amazing, in every trope 🫶🏻

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (hj, fingering, p in v), throuple dynamics (+1)

A/N: Ok I’m sorry I know you said Stanford but 2019 era Art is ALLLL I can think about 🩷 forgive me for my transgressions pls

Tashi had set the whole thing up, holding his hand through it. Because Tashi and Patrick were off globetrotting for the tour— France, if he remembered correctly. Tashi just wanted to make sure he was taken care of, that his needs were being met. In his career… and otherwise.

You were a player out of… USC? He thought that sounded right. Recently graduated, doing well in the pros, already highly ranked with an excellent record. The perfect first player for Art Donaldson to coach.

She set up the entire thing, met with you to get things organized, and penciled training into his calendar with a tiny note.

Have fun without us -T

You were doing such a good job, even unwittingly— putting on the sweetest little show for him. When you’d miss a serve or a ball went out of bounds, you’d do a peppy little jog then bend over to grab it, completely unaware of the effect it might have had on him.

“I need to see how you play,” he had said as you dropped your bag on the side of the court. You smiled and nodded, and took to the opposite side of the net.

He beat you embarrassingly easily the first set. Sweat was beading on your forehead as you met him at the benches between courts and guzzled down water. When you finally came up for air, a little trail of water went from your plush bottom lip and down your chin.

He watched you lick the moisture from your lips, then wipe at the rest with the back of your hand. He swallowed hard.

“Do you want my advice?” He scratched at the back of his neck as you peered up at him expectantly. “You need to loosen up, you’re too tense.”

Your eyes widened at his direction, but you nodded. “Yeah, okay, Mr. Donaldson.” You drank down another gulp, then jogged back to the other side of the court, eager to please.

He watched you bend over, retrieving a couple of balls that you’d hit into the net, flashing tiny white spandex beneath your tennis skirt.

Jesus Christ, Tashi was evil.

By the afternoon, sweat dripped down your arms, along the line of your throat, dampened the baby hairs framing your face and the back of your neck, tacking them down to sticky skin.

“Why don’t we head to the locker rooms inside, then we can meet upstairs and go through a training plan.”

You smiled, looking so sweet and eager. “Okay.”

He was grateful for the shower— molten against aching, underused muscles. He hadn’t exactly just given up on everything after retiring, but his muscles weren’t being used the way they were used to— the constant strenuous training.

He closed his eyes, letting the spray hit his face and soak into his skin.

He heard a squeak and jumped, eyes flying open to the sight of you naked underneath one of the other shower heads, quickly adjusting the spray from ice cold to steaming hot.

“Turned it to cold on accident,” you said over your shoulder. “Women’s locker rooms are under maintenance. You don’t mind, right?”

He turned, cheeks burning pink as he tried his best to play it cool— act like he wasn’t checking you out. “No, uh, it’s fine.”

Were you in on it with Tashi? It certainly felt like it as he watched you lathering your body up with soap, maybe focusing too much attention to your tits.

You glanced over, caught him looking, and smiled. He turned away quickly with his pulse thrumming in his throat.

Fuck. He was already hard. It wasn’t exactly a surprise— he’d been half-hard just at the sight of you in that fucking outfit on the court.

He heard you laugh and looked back at you. You were looking right at him, amusement evident in your expression. “She said you’d be easy, but, Jesus, I thought you’d put up more of a fight.” 

You shut off the water of your shower and made your way over. Water dripped from your body, rolling down your skin in delicate rivulets. You stopped in front of him and ran a hand down his chest, making him shiver.

“Tashi told you?” His words trailed off into a groan as your hands moved between his legs, stroking the length of him in your delicate grasp.

“She told me to say thank you after every lesson,” you said. With each step forward you made, he took a step back, until you had him pinned against the cold tile. He moaned as your thumb ran over the tip of his cock, and you smile sweetly. “She showed me exactly how I should do it.”

“Showed you?”

You sped your hand up, twisting slightly with each tug upwards. “Mhmm. On Patrick. She went first, then I showed her what I learned.” You laughed softly, lips brushing along his jaw. “I’m a very fast learner. Patrick was very impressed.”

Fuck, he was going to get back at Tashi for not letting him be there for that. The mental image was enough to make his cock pulse in your grip. Maybe he’d just have you recreate it for him the second Tashi and Patrick came home.

Your lips brushed along the like of his jaw as you continued to jerk him off, your hand slick and tight and relentless. Just like Tashi’s would be. God, you really were a fast learner.

It would certainly make being your coach a lot easier.

“Art,” you hummed, breath hot against his ear. He nodded wordlessly, almost afraid that if he spoke, he’d wake up from a fugue state to find out that he’d just imagined it all and was mid-jerk off session.

Your lips moved against his throat, nipping gently at the expanse of soft skin. He tasted like sweat and tap water. Your words came out as a whisper, “You can fuck me now.”

He laughed shakily, flushed red down to his chest. “Now? You don’t want me to go down on you, or—“

He was cut off when you grabbed his hand and moved it between your legs. Dripping wet, silky soft, absolutely aching for him.

You moaned softly, leaning fully onto him for support as he rubbed at your clit. “T-Tashi—“ You stammered, losing that seductive bravado you’d walked in with. “Told me I should make you work for it. But, fuck—”

Art laughed softly. “You’re too needy.”

“Do you know how fucking sexy you sound when you play tennis?” You whined, breath going shaky as he pushed a finger inside of your aching cunt. “Halfway through the second set, I— god— I considered dropping the pretense and fucking you right on the— on the court.”

Tashi wouldn’t have that. When she came home, she’d clock that impatience train it out of you. She’d make you sit and watch, get so desperate you’d beg and cry for it. She had to do it to Patrick before— she would know just how to get you to the point she needed you at.

The tennis would be up to Art.

You were so wet, clenching around his finger, craving more. What the fuck would be the point in denying either of you any longer?

You whined when he moved his hand from you, but he wasn’t going to keep you waiting. He pinned you against the cold tile wall, lifting you up to where he needed. You smiled at him,wrapping your legs around his waist, coaxing him closer.

A shiver ran through you as his cock brushed over your folds— so close to where you needed him. His tip notched against your entrance and he pressed into you slowly, relishing in the way you held your breath, in the way your body opened up for him so eagerly.

He pressed his forehead against yours when he bottomed out, and you panted as you adjusted to him.

You were impatient. So fucking impatient. You rocked your hips against him, begging wordlessly for more. He leaned in, kissing you slowly.

“Art,” you gasped, pulling away from the kiss as he fucked into you, slow and deep. “Patrick told me that I should tell you that you’re supposed to fuck me, not make love to me.”

Of fucking course he did. “Is that what you want?”

You nodded, somehow looking so sweet split open on his cock. His hips met yours in a particularly harsh thrust and you cried out in surprise. You moaned so seeetly, your lips turned up in a smug grin. It was exactly what you wanted.

Your back slid against the slick tile wall as he drove into you again and again and again. Your cunt was so warm, and tight, and so fucking wet if squelched obscenely with each thrust.

Wet kisses were peppered along his jaw and throat along with soft murmured thank yous and praise.

“You’re so deep, Art,” you moaned into his ear. “Feels so good. Thank you, thank you.”

It had been a week since Tashi and Patrick were home. A week of having to find satisfaction with Patrick’s fucking lewd Snapchat videos and his hand.

And here you were— a sweet, tight, Tashi-approved plaything. Your manicured nails rubbing at your clit, your pussy clamping around his cock as you drew closer and closer to the edge.

What better foreplay was there than tennis?

You came first, which was a fucking Godsend. He had no doubt Tashi would’ve flayed him if she found out that he couldn’t even manage to get his new toy off before he did. Loud— not caring if anyone heard.

Tashi would train that out of you too, lest you get them banned from every fucking country club in the state. Or a TMZ article whispering about a tawdry affair.

He shut you up with a hungry, searing kiss. Tongue moving against yours, muffling your cries. He came buried as deep as he could possibly get, with his tongue shoved down your throat and his grip bruising your soft thighs.

The water had gone icy when you both detached from each other, finally taking the actual shower you needed. You happily shared a shower head since you’d wasted enough water as is.

You redressed, tied up your wet hair, and sat on a bench, tapping away at your phone while he did his best to look presentable, and not like he’d just fucked the athlete he was supposed to be coaching.

“Tashi and Patrick say hi,” you said casually, offering a killer smile.

Maybe retirement wasn’t that bad.

NEED to be the toxic triplets’ little plaything im clawing at the padded walls of my enclosure

Anywayssss feel free to send more blurb reqs 🩷

[gghostwriter]

Whispered Truths

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your weekly reading club with boyfriend, Spencer Reid, has never been as sweet and life-changing as this night Trope: Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 0.8k a/n: This is actually a request from @bloodredrubyrose and I really liked how this came out. I also used my favorite piece of fiction here as a prop so I hope you like it! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Couples, no matter how new or old, tend to create personalized dates as a way to strengthen the relationship. Some go on hikes together, some go on travels, while some stay in the comfort of their homes—under a blanket with a chosen book on hand.

You and Spencer definitely fall under the latter category. It was quite obvious from the first meeting that literature would be one of the strongest bonding agents between you and him. After all, it was how you were brought together—crashing into one another at the library with books and miscellaneous items scattered on the tiled floor. A few shy glances and bewitching dates later, you found yourself spending your Saturday nights in the presence of your boyfriend of six months, hosting an exclusive reading club with just two members, you and him.

“I never thought of it that way,” your left hand paving an aimless path through Spencer’s curly hair while the other held the book up high.

The pitter patters of the rain outside softly echoed through the walls. You were propped up on the loveseat sofa, his head resting on your lap as he looked upwards in question in regards to your statement.

“Never thought of which?” His voice low and soft, striking a resemblance to how he gazed at you oh so lovingly. As if you were the most riveting piece if art he had ever laid his eyes upon.

“How water played a big symbol throughout the whole book. It was really focused on during the first chapters but I—I just never quite connected the dots,” you clarified, bring the book to a close.

It was your choice for the week, East of Eden by John Steinbeck—a modern classic and had been your favorite work of literature since high school. Spencer had lent his copy to you last week and you vice versa—both turning brown from age, pages about to fall apart from its binding, annotations scribbled on the margins and any lengthy self reflections written on various notebook pages sandwiched in between.

“Your explanation on the empty pages at the end—how water is capable of bringing both life and death. Water being essential for the crops but at the same time, drowned victims. It’s such a poignant note that I think I just fell more in love with Steinbeck’s writing,” you added. “It also made me realize how water in his novel represents the dual capacity of the human soul for good and evil. How we are all filled with conundrums and contradictions and what makes us different from the other species on Earth is our ability to choose whether we are good or evil—” Spencer had sat up and leaned in, interrupting your musings. “—what?” You breathed out as his lips hovered on yours.

The once cozy atmosphere quickly charged with tension and desire that seemed to ooze out of Spencer. There was little space in between and you had no doubt that from the outside looking in, it looked like he was kissing you but he was not, rather a sliver of air was still given space to pass through. So close but so far.

You studied his features up close. How his long lashes fluttered like butterfly wings beating against the wind as his molten, darkened, hazel eyes flickered between your lips and eyes. How his nose lightly caressed yours in an endless Eskimo kiss. How his cheeks stained into a lighter shade of red. And how his pink tongue peeked out to wet his pillowy lips. 

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered as if it was some kind of national secret that he now felt right to expose.

Your breath caught in your throat. This was the first time he had said it. His love for you had been conveyed with every touch, with every action, and with every silence but this was the first time he had put it into words.

His lips caressed yours—the pressure almost non-existent. A ghost of a kiss to gauge your reaction and consent.

“I love you,” he repeated a little louder this time, eyes locking into the very depths of your soul. “You and your mind have enchanted me since the beginning—so beautiful, so captivating.”

The butterflies set free in your stomach caused you to viscerally shiver in reaction.

“I love you too, Spencer.”

A smile graced his face and it was bright and as blinding as the sun, like it had finally decided to stop hiding behind the clouds and show itself in all of its glory.

He leaned in once more. The pressure from his lips now heavier and headier, trying to stamp his everlasting mark on you and in between all these kisses were whispers of his utter devotion and adoration until there was no more space—until you both became one on his loveseat sofa.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of  Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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[ninibeingdelulu]

Lazy kisses ✧

Plot: Cuddling with your boyfriend .

An idle Sunday lazed by in sun-dappled tranquility, the midday silence cloaking your shared bedroom in a syrupy warmth.

Not even the hazy tick of the bedside clock intruded upon this blissful pocket of domesticity - save for the occasional breathy sigh escaping your lips as you lost yourself within the pages splayed before you.

Nestled amidst the cozily rumpled sheets lay Leon - your normally unshakable, clear-eyed sentinel anchored steadfastly against the world's roiling tides of nightmarish evil.

Yet within these achingly finite moments behind closed doors, even that stalwart facade softened into pure boyish vulnerability.

Gradually stirring from a deep, much-needed slumber after over a week's deployment, Leon drowsily burrowed tighter against your bare thigh with a mumble muffled by plush bedding.

Still smeared in the dregs of jet lag and weariness plaguing those steely features despite being worlds away from his latest harrowing operation.

Simply sinking deeper within your comforting presence with a reflexive nuzzle sent your chest swelling with boundless affection.

Those habitually hyper-alert gunmetal irises remained obscured beneath a heavy fringe of tawny lashes, angular jawline lax.

Leon Kennedy - the living epitome of unrelenting willpower and heroism borne from steel - reduced to nothing more than an endearingly rumpled mass in slackened repose beside you.

Just one innocuous shift of the mattress was all it took for those gunmetal blues to finally drag open through a squint, fixating upon your doting half-smile with a tender yearning.

The sort which inevitably dissolved every carefully maintained stoicism within their molten depths.

Reaching across the sliver of space between you, Leon toyed idly with a lock of your tousled hair, drifting nearer until your faces hovered a hairsbreadth apart.

Until his baritone burr ghosted over your parted lips like velvet rasping across satin.

"Hey...missed you," that chiseled visage tilted into yours ever-so-slightly, thumb sweeping reverently along your jawline with undisguised longing.

"Kiss me?"

Catching your giggle before it could fully bubble up, you nodded and carefully tucked your novel away.

Because the toweringly heroic, hyper-competent government operative you'd fallen so maddeningly hard for morphed into the gentlest, neediest lover once breaching your oasis's bounds.

Skimming the calloused pad of your thumb across his whiskered jaw, you felt that delicious familiarity thrumming beneath in the tautening of sinewy muscle and tendons as Leon initiated the achingly slow, unhurried collision of your mouths.

Yet with none of the commanding intensity one would expect from such an epitome of masculine fortitude.

Instead, the instant your lips brushed in gossamer friction, Leon melted like warmed honey into your soothing embrace.

Solid contours molding seamlessly against you as that impassioned heat blossomed steadily across your mouths and into hungry, writhing depths.

Sloppy and luxuriantly decadent, your limbs languidly tangling as scorching pants mingled on feverish cusp of perpetual collapse.

Silken muscle glided in achingly deliberate, indulgent strokes of worship. Chasing the maddening bliss only he could lure forth with such practiced reverence.

Wholly cherished and consumed, swathed in the rich cedar and gunpowder musk cloaking your senses, you both spun deliriously in a centrifuge of celestial descent - until rasping breaths and tender caresses ultimately pulled back the hazy veil.

Lids fluttered open in tandem, mere inches between your swollen, reddened lips as molten slate gray bore unguarded into yours.

A barely-perceptible smile ghosted across Leon's finely-hewn features - rare and infinitely more beautiful than any treasures hoarded across the globe.

"Thanks, gorgeous..." he purred, hoarse and thoroughly spent as you traded trembling inhales and exhales.

"Was needing that. Bad."

And with zero preamble, he reclined back into that sweet respite afforded between your cradling arms and heartbeat's lullaby like a contented infant - soaking in the solace and reprieve you alone could grant.

Peering down at your beloved, honed warrior recharging his depleted batteries while you tenderly sifted adoring fingers through his burnished forelocks, you couldn't help but shake your head through another helpless giggle.

Leon Kennedy.

The very man entrusted with safeguarding humanity from incomprehensible evil incarnate.

A deadly, hyper-lethal force to be reckoned with by hell's legions.

Yet in this sanctuary of love and tenderness you shared, he teetered forever on the precipice of simply dissolving into a huge, needy baby within your sheltering arms.

And honestly? You wouldn't have traded this meltingly sweet authenticity for all the universe's wealth and laurels.

[storiesfromafan]

Obsessed Pt1

A/N: it's finally here :) Forgive me if its not the best and a little rambly, I tried writing more for Mattheo this time around. And I know it will get better, hopefully. Set in Fourth year, because I have a fondness for a curtain Ball ;)

Pairing: Mattheo x Fem!Reader

Summary: obsession can be good, depending on the context. Being obsessed by food or music, not so bad. Being obsessed with someone, doesn't sound good.

How could one person haunt his mind, to the point it was every waking moment of the day? He was under your spell. Hook, line and sinker. But why? How? You were the opposite of him, as in he is evil while you are good. He is tainted, you are pure. He was smart but nowhere near as smart as you. He couldn’t understand his infatuation with you.

Maybe it was that pureness that drew him in. While everyone disliked the Slytherin, except for the females of Hogwarts fairing for his attention, you put the stigma about him aside and helped him when he needed it. In one moment of kindness, you were there for him. No hate in your eyes, or judgement, just concern and kindness stared at him.

No one had been so kind to him. Not his family, or his close friends. He didn’t entirely know what help was, or kindness or a caring touch. But before him a year ago, Mattheo Riddle for the first time was witnessing it from you.

“If I am hurting you, please tell me” you said softly, calming that matched your touch, he recalled.

“No, it’s fine” he had replied with a sigh.

With gentle hands you had wrapped the bandage around his arm, mindful to not wrap it too tight. All the while he had watched you closely, waiting for the usual look of dislike/distaste or a chorus of hurtful words that he was used to. Yet they never came. When you had finished you brought your (color) eyes back to meet his molten brown ones.

A soft smile crossed your dusty lips. “There, all done”.

The way you looked relieved mixed with pleased at your handy work, caused Mattheo’s stomach to flip in a good way. The way you smiled at him caused his breath to falter. He had seen you in the halls or in classes, but it was like he was seeing you for the first time. The quiet nerdy girl who was so much more. An Angel so kind, caring and pure. But here she was helping a literal demon, who only caused hurt, sadness and sin.

That night a year ago always playing on his mind. So much so, that Mattheo started to seek you out in a crowd or room. His eyes watching you every chance he could. A new addiction, obsession even. Mattheo was borderline stalker.

Sitting with his friends, Lorenzo and Theodore, both males at his side in full conversation. Mattheo did not partake in their conversation, nor was he giving it his full attention. Instead, his eyes rolled over those in the hall leading to Charm’s class, molten brown orbs looking for someone, for you.

Mattheo could feel the eyes of every female in the hall upon him, yet never paid them any attention. He did not even turn his gaze when a third-year girl came up to him with a love note, nor did he accept it. Both his friends laughed as the girl left, tail between her legs and tears falling from her eyes. Yes, it was heartless of him, but it was necessary.

He heard you before he saw you. Turning his head in the direction the third year took off, Mattheo’s gaze located you standing with your friends looking back from the hall they had come from. You and you friends shared a look, along with some quiet words, all the while a few other girls joined you all to no doubt fill in the blanks to what had happened.

Five sets of eyes landed on him, which caused Mattheo to turn back to his friends. Silently he hoped you hadn’t noticed that his gaze had been upon you. Risking a look from under his lashes, there was relief when seeing all five girls were back in discussion. Yet he noted that you were not talking like those around you. The way they spoke as if they sat on the edge a chair, along with animated movements, was rather comical. You on the other hand looked to be bored, as such talk was not enthralling, which he understood.

Gossip was not your kind of thing. One as good as you never spoke ill of another. Nor were you that mean, always doing what you could to help those in need. Being good also meant staying out of the gossip mill. Always proper, never stepping out of line that would lead to ridicule. You never spoke to males, unless required, so that you weren’t compromised in any way.

With their group discussion coming to an end, you and your two friends parted from the other two girls. You all moved down the hall in conversation. Briefly three pairs of eyes looked to Mattheo, who blankly looked at you all, his eyes linger on you just a bit longer, before going back to talking amongst themselves.

“Time for Charms” Mattheo stated moving to stand before his friends. Silently hurrying them up so he could follow you.

Both males groaned, reluctantly getting up from their spot. “What’s the hurry?” questioned Lorenzo with a stretch. “It’s only Charms”.

Ignoring Lorenzo’s question, Mattheo and his mates made their way to Charm’s class. Picking up his pace, Mattheo grew closer to you, leaving a person and a half gap. His eyes followed you, watching as you nodded your head to whatever your friend had said. When you turned your head, replying to your other friend. He took note of your profile, how your nose slopped down in completion. How your tongue would dart out to swipe over your lips, a quick way to moisturize the dusty petals of your lips. How bright your eye looked hearing your friends words.

You and your friends slowed down upon coming to the Charm’s classroom, entering after a few other students. Mattheo silently entered the room, watching you take a seat front row but close to the middle of the length of the table. Your friends taking a seat either side of you, some banter from them made you smile and laugh softly. He may not have been able to hear it, but seeing it was something to savour.

Theodore clapped Mattheo on the shoulder and gestured to the back row at the tablet across from you. It couldn’t have been more perfect, how fate was in his favour today. Sitting next Theodore, Lorenzo on said males’ other side, Mattheo got out the minimal supplies he needed for the class.

Eventually Professor Flitwick entered the room, the students before him quieting down, waiting for the Professor to address the class. Mattheo looked over to you, watching how you looked to the Professor. No doubt waiting with bated breath for an incline of what the lesson would be about. Ah, the Ravenclaw in you showing.

Mattheo half smiled only imagining what was going through your mind. Yet it was a place he would love to be a fly on the wall of. For you didn’t really show much, leaving him only guessing to what made the gears in your mind turn. Part of it was the need to learn, always needing to learn something new. Another part was the need to think of others, always thoughtful and caring.

Charm’s class was spent for Mattheo observing you. How excitement crossed your gorgeous face when Flitwick spoke of a new spell to be learnt. How you listened to his instructions, brows drawing together with every word the Professor spoke. How you concentrated when practicing the spell, the determination in your eyes to master said spell. Once confident with knowing it front and back, how you turned to one of your friends that struggled to get it. You had patience with her, but the joy that washed over your face when she got it, even made him smile.

As the lesson came to an end, every student packed up their supplies before leaving the classroom. Mattheo had planned to hang back and then follow behind you. Only his friends had other plans. He could have denied them but that would have led to them questioning him, which Mattheo didn’t want to answer. So, with one last look at you, he slipped out of the room in tow of his friends.

The rest of the afternoon and night was lackluster. The only time Mattheo had gotten to see you was at dinner, and even then, it was restricted. And the arrival of both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, which both schools entered in flare, was a distraction. Yet neither entertained Mattheo, though you seemed intrigued and curious. He could see it in the change in your facial features, along with conversation you had with those around you.

With the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament and all that, dinner finished and students, in a commotion over the tournament, made their way back to their common rooms or dorm rooms. With a final look at you for the evening, Mattheo reluctantly made the journey back to the Dungeons, and to the Slytherin house. He chose to return to his dorm, not feeling in the mood to idly chat with his friends and fellow house mates.

He opted to lounging on his bed, mind running with thoughts of you as he read poetry. To be honest, Mattheo hadn’t been one for poetry but a few times he had seen you with a poetry book. No doubt it was light reading for you, but on some level he could see that you enjoyed reading it. So, he took to reading it himself, which he has come to like. Many poems would bring you to the front of his mind, the beautiful words speaking to him of you like no other could.

After reading a particular poem, Mattheo had an idea come to mind. It might be foolish and impulsive, something he may come to regret. But before really thinking about it, he moved to his desk and took out some parchment and a quill with ink. Picking his book back up, Mattheo looked to the page he had been on, writing the poem word for word.

Once satisfied with his handy work, he smiled contently. Without another thought, Mattheo grabbed his wand and enchanted the neatly folded parchment that had your name upon it. Then with a flick of his wand the letter was off, off it went into the night to its intended recipient.

Only once it was gone did the realization set in, and nerves now started to grow. Along with a raging storm of thoughts and doubts. Dropping his wand on his desk, Mattheo finally saw what he had done. The only good thing had been that he did not sign his name to the embarrassing moment of that he let his feelings get the best of him. Mattheo Riddle had just sent you an anonymous letter…

A/N: feedback welcome! Along with requests :)

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | part two teaser

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 482 ➥ overall warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, squirting, choking, riding, dirty talk, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --” ➥ notes | ok i don't know if it's the sleep deprivation or if i'm getting too in my head/have stared at this too long but i am begging y'all to help me 😭are we fuckin with this or?? 🫠 send helppp. i'm still working on this rn but i'm going crazy atm

feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Then broad palms slip beneath the hem.

Blunt nails snag on nylon, and calloused fingers dance along the silky skin of your thighs. At the whisper soft rasp of fabric as Cooper’s wrist rucks up your dress, your nerves tremble with white static.

And when he traces the strap of your garter, his thumb tucking beneath the elastic to stroke over an angry indent, you tremble.

“Think it’s about time you take these off, pretty girl,” a teasing forefinger brushes over the front of your panties, “don’t you?”

You comply without a thought, pulse thudding and mind foggy with desire.

Soaked cotton dangles from your ankle only to be yanked free by Cooper. With a cheeky wink and a husky, “For later,” he deposits them into his shirt pocket for safe keeping.

Oh fuck.

You almost swallow your tongue at the thought of him using them when you’re gone. Stroking along his fat cock with a fistful of panties, cumming onto the fabric as he fantasizes about pumping you full.

“You’re evil, you know that?” you croak, swallowing hard. “Nothing but a perverted old man.” It’s a punch to the gut when he flashes a roguish smirk. 

“That may be, but you still want to fuck me. What’s that say about you, sweetheart? Now --” The skirt of your sundress flutters behind you, draping down over your ass to cover his legs. “-- Show me what you want.”

Smug asshole.

Who knew he was such a goddamn tease (you should’ve)?

You sigh, looking at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. “Please.”

“Well, go on. I’m sure as shit not gonna stop you.”

With a hummingbird heart, you shift until your bare pussy hovers over the bulge of his cock. There’s no doubt you’ll stain the dark fabric of his slacks as soon as you claim your spot on his lap.

You clench at the thought of leaving a mark, using him as you please.

Something you’ve wanted for so long, and now it’s so close you can taste it. It’s hard not to get greedy. To explore all those forbidden thoughts, enact your darkest fantasies now that he’s before you, so goddamn handsome and willing to indulge.

Your hips dip.

Everything flashes, white lightning; molten heat pumping through your body with every rabbit fast thump of your heart. The line of his shaft spreads your folds, hot and hard as the rough material of his slacks sparks delicious friction against your aching clit.

Your arms anchor around his neck, your fingers burrowing into the meat of his wide shoulders as you groan in unison at the silken contact.

“I can feel how wet you are, sweetheart.” He exhales through his nose in a heavy rush, his brow crinkling as hands tighten around your waist in a bruising vice. “You’re so soft and warm. Fuck - I wanna feel you squeezing around my cock.”

[neckromantics]

*NSFW*

"You're on the brink of an orgasm that's going to wipe you off the face of the planet, and he's laughing at you again."

Pairing: GN!Reader/Astarion or GN!Tav/Astarion (Not really gender specific, but the MC is said to create slick, so do with that what you will.)

CW: Smut. Beware! There will be: Biting. Edging if you really think about it? Laughter (what). Maybe a liiiiittle bit of tears in the best way. Fingering? Astarion.

You're not listening.

Astarion's laughing at you, and you're not even listening.

It's not quite your fault though, as just about the only thing you're able to hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat against your eardrums.

A high giggle and the sharp exhale of his breath. So cold. So close to the sensitive flesh at the back of your knee that goosebumps prickle along the length of your thighs.

Even colder are the lips that trail up, soothing away those goosebumps before you can squirm too far off in your pleasure-drunken stupor. It's a rather sweet gesture, you think, until the sharpness of his teeth has your hips jerking clean off the bed. Those things-- an ever-present threat to the supple skin that he pulls between them-- digging in until you whimper out his name.

"Astarion." A silent plead for it.

Bite me. Mark me. Break the skin.

Please.

And yet (of course) he doesn't. There's the gentle pressure as he sucks. Works your skin between his lips until he can feel a bruise blossoming beneath his tongue and has to swallow back a mouthful of saliva before he begins to drool. Delicious as you and your sweet blood may be, he won't let it distract him.

Not yet, at least.

He nips a little (okay, maybe it's big) love bite through that downright evil grin that's been splitting his handsome face for Gods' knows how long, now. He could have been teasing you for a ten-day at this point, and you wouldn't be surprised.

You can feel the curve of that grin as it grows mischievous, and you feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes in anticipation. You turn your head to the side in an attempt to hide them, near delirious as he nips another bruise just beneath the space where your groin meets your thigh.

When he hums, it's a thoughtful sound. And, while you're still not listening yet, you can feel the vibrations of it from where his lips are still against you. He makes his move while you're distracted.

Your yelp chokes off into a moan so high that you would probably be embarrassed if you had half the mind. The familiar sting of his gnawing blends with molten hot pleasure as he sinks his fingers back inside of you with little warning this time.

Two of them, long since warmed by your heat from his prior teasing, taking their time to explore parts of you that you've never been able to find on your own. Reaching. Curling. Searching. It's so good. It's so fucking good, and you've been on edge for so long that you're going to full-on cry if he doesn't stop playing games with you soon.

Your heart nearly drops into your stomach when he pulls away only moments later, but he's quick to hush any whimpered complaints before they start. You don't even have time to mourn the loss of his fingers as they drag out of you because they don't go too far. Firm, slick circles rub quick against the rim of your twitching hole until you can barely keep your eyes open.

A wet trail of opened-mouthed kisses up your belly. A nuzzle against the center of your chest before he shifts about.

Your lover crawls his way up the bed until he's all but looming over you. Ruby red eyes peer down at your fucked out expression from beneath heavy lids- drinking in every square inch of you as you writhe amongst the bedsheets and beg so sweetly for him. Yes, this will do nicely.

He seems more than satisfied with this angle. Presses his free palm to the back of one of your shaky thighs and guides it up, up, up until your knee is against your chest and he's got you splayed out. Pinned.

You swear you can feel each knuckle as he fucks his fingers back into you. Three this time, you think, and then make the mistake of craning your neck to watch his glossy digits as they press in again just to see if you're correct.

Gods, you're making a mess of yourself. Of him. Everything is so slick. Every push and pull is punctuated with an obscene squelch that leaves your face feeling hot. You can't control your whimper as you feel it drip from the curve of your ass and onto the sheets below, no doubt creating a wet spot that you're both going to be annoyed about later.

But then, he's finding that spot inside of you that has you singing for him. Presses right into it and starts rubbing these quick little circles that make you cry out his name over and over again until your voice finally gives out and you can only whine with every breath.

And, that asshole, is grinning down at you again. 

With clumsy hands, you reach out to him. Shaky fingers tangle into the curls on the back of his head, and you do your very best not to pull when you guide him down into a desperate kiss that's more tongue and teeth than anything else. The weight of his body bears down upon you- does the job of keeping that leg to your chest even after his free hand moves up to brace himself.

Your hole clenches around him when he comes to you without a fight, sucking him in deeper as a result, and he moans, unabashed into your open mouth like he's fucking you proper. Your breath hitches-- cuts off completely for a moment along with your brain.

But, you're listening, now.

"I know, love. There you are." Astarion guides your focus back to him with a coo so sweet, then licks a stripe up your jawline to tug at your earlobe between those teeth again just to make you squirm.

You're on the brink of an orgasm that's going to wipe you off the face of the planet, and he's laughing at you again. Although, without humor this time. Incredulous, almost, as he watches- feels you come for so long that it'd probably be worrisome to anyone else.

He sucks in a hiss as you gush around him one last time, so hot and tight that he has to take a moment to steady himself before he gets too carried away.

"I've got you, darling." He assures as you shiver beneath him, cool hands soothing your heated skin as they knead at your (no doubt) tired muscles and rub away at more goosebumps as they form.

When you finally crack open an eye, he's smiling at you again. A small, but genuine little thing that you can't help but find contagious. You pull him down for another kiss before he can say anything about it, though. Smart ass.

[luveline]

extremely random thought for shy friday: r works up the courage and bakes steve some kind of baked good. little do they know it’s with the one ingredient steve absolutely HATES (idk man like grapes or something) and he feels bad so he doesn’t tell them and eats it until dustin or someone walks in and is like 🤨🤨🤨 ur eating that???

thank you for your request! steve x shy!reader

Steve knows that while you may not seem nervous on the surface, you're a shy girl. You're always overthinking things, always watching people out of the corner of your eye so you can respond to their behaviour. You minimise yourself.

It's why he can't tell you he doesn't like raisins. You've made him something, expressed your creativity, your passion, and your feelings (he thinks) through baked goods. Steve's sure your German apple strudel would be delicious if he could stand raisins. He does a great approximation of a smile as he eats one.

"You like it?" you ask hopefully.

"Who doesn't?" he asks, clumsily avoiding the question. "Everybody likes strudel. Thanks, Germany."

Your smile cleaves him open. It's a mixture of incredible sweetness in line with your proferred treats, a hint of bashfulness he adores, and your usual go-to grin. It's familiar and new at once, and Steve wants to take a photo.

"I promised some to your friend," you say, closing the lid of the tuppperware you'd brought with you, "but what he doesn't take you can have. I kind of made them for you, anyways."

Steve melts. He's cool and sophisticated, obviously, but his stomach goes molten at the idea that someone would care about him enough to make him food from scratch without his having to ask, and that someone being you makes it all the more warming. He feels like jelly.

He's slow on the upkeep, and doesn't know who you mean until Dustin and co. are peddling up to the bench you're sitting at full pelt. Steve curses under his breath as they come to a slow, and Dustin's eyes hone in on your box.

"You have the goods?" he asks, like this is some box office drug deal, and not like he's interrupting your almost-date.

You shake your box gently. Lucas and Will share an enthusiastic, "Nice!"

Mike, less prone to distractions that aren't his girlfriend, nods at Steve's hand. He's frowning. "What are you doing?"

Four sets of eyes move between Mike's stare and Steve's hand like spectators at a tennis match. Steve can't tell him to cut it out while you're looking, so he polishes off the apple strudel, feels sick at the wrinkly, gelatinous texture of the raisins as they go down, and glares at the kids full force. "What, you're so greedy you need them all?"

"You don't like raisins," Mike says.

Dustin blinks at him. "You actually ate one of those?" He shifts on his bike, foot on the ground so he doesn't fall. "You said raisins are the evil cousin of a chocolate chip."

Steve doesn't know what's worse, the embarrassment of being caught red-handed or your tiny pout.

"Sorry," he says to you quickly, uncool, so uncool, "I mean. No, I don't like raisins. But they were still good!"

You're expressionless despite his insistence. "It's okay," you say, and there, a twitch to your brow he actually understands for once. You're amused.

You dole sweet treats out to the boys and they bike off calling thank yous and giggling like idiots at the mess they've made, no doubt. You smile down into your almost empty box, one remaining strudel with nowhere to go.

"Steve," you murmur, sounding pleased, "why didn't you say something?"

He hooks his elbow over the back of the bench. "And tell you to your face I don't like what you made for me? I know I fell off the wagon, but I'm not hopeless. You don't do that to girls."

"Well. Next time, you should. Is there anything else you don't, uh, don't like?" Steve can't hide his surprise. You drop your gaze to your lap. "You know, so I can make you something else?"

"You want to?"

You rub your thumb against the opposite index finger. You can't meet his eyes, but Steve knows you're alright.

"Yeah, I'd love to make you something you'll actually enjoy. Was kinda the whole point."

Steve places his hands between yours where they worry in your lap, dipping his head to the side hoping it'll encourage you to look up. You do, and he can practically see the heat emanating from your face, even if there's no evidence of blush.

"Anything you make I'll like."

"So long as it doesn't have raisins," you say.

He squeezes your hand gently. "Exactly. And maybe not too much cinnamon. It makes me think about my great grandma's house. Which wouldn't matter, but she totally died choking on a snickerdoodle."

You laugh, and you clamp your free hand over your mouth.

"That's terrible," you say between your fingers.

He elbows you gently. "You laughed. Makes you the terrible one." He thinks about your offer, and how sweet you are, and how horribly he fucked it up by pretending to like something he didn't. "Thank you. For the thought."

You take your hand from your cheek and place it over his. It's practically aflame it's so hot, and your lips are worse when you dot forward to kiss him. You were likely aiming for his cheek, but he turned a little and it ended up a centimetre from his closed mouth.

You sit back sharply.

"You're welcome," you say, eyes widened.

"Thanks," he says again. He clears his throat.

He pretends not to notice how flustered you are from your almost kiss. Maybe he should poke a little fun at you, call you forward or eager or in a rush, but he doesn't.

He'd be a hypocrite to make fun of you, because Steve's flustered too. Your lips are the sweetest treat you could give.

[metafoldmaze]

Day 19: Favorite "Alt" Hermit [Evil Xisuma, Last Avatar of the First Memory]

today, i've got a drawing and a short piece of writing containing a bit of my Xisuma lore!

warning for... death and the existential horror of knowing you're the last of your kind?

Xisuma emerged from the portal like a bolt, hurtling into the Nascent with enough force to fire them into the opposite wall—that is, until their boot caught on a fabricator, wrenching its delicate cage out of shape and pitching them into the stairs face-first.

Their Avatar caught himself early, slipping into the ethereal so as not to meet their Arbiter’s fate. He steeled himself for the pain as he took a cautious look around—ouch!—and saw…

Ruins. The outpost was shattered, ceiling bowing, bricks fallen out of the walls or covered with algae where water leaked in, illuminated only by the molten rock flowing through the portal chamber.

He had just enough time to take in his surroundings before a wave of psychic torment brought him to his knees.

Xisuma’s Arbiter clumsily hefted himself to his feet, silently thanking the Slayer that he had his helmet on. Shaking off the dizziness of portal travel and the additional disorientation of their unpleasant egress, he turned around to check on their Avatar.

In that moment, the Avatar let him in.

A crushing wave of confusion and horror overwhelmed Xisuma: the desperate wail of the entire Memory. There were no words, only a stampeding nightmare, raging, overwhelming, a boiling surge of loss. They sifted through the feedback to find any dregs of connection, any sense in the caterwaul, but only fell deeper into the abyss.

The barrage carved a truth out of their mind with the precision of a sculptor and the violence of a siltstorm. This was it. This was the dying howl of their people. 

But… why? How?

Reuniting as one, they dragged themselves, prone, to the edge of the portal. It was sparking, flashing in and out; the foci were rattling in the frame. They had to go back. They had to do something—this couldn’t be it. 

The waves of horror were physical, something they had to fight with every fibre in their bodies. They reached out to the surface of the portal, like boiling ink—boiling sky—and reached through.

A surge of searing pain shot through their Arbiter’s right arm as the foci shattered, severing the connection between worlds. They were left dangling over the roiling lava, arm spasming from dimension shock, buffeted by heated air that was now as trapped as they were.

Not even seconds after the portal broke, the entire outpost shook, tremors from deep within the earth further fracturing the brickwork.

With the tremors, the Memory hushed, as if witnessing this with rapt horror. Xisuma was alone, and if they died here, the Archonate died with them.

They rolled over and looked at the ceiling, taking quick stock of the fractures thereupon—they had to get out of this room. Clambering to their feet with the help of their good arms, they stayed low as they scrambled out of the portal chamber. A cacophony of clattering rock behind them confirmed their worst suspicions. 

Only able to move on their hands and knees, and even then only barely, they dragged themselves into the corner of the next room and huddled there. Their Avatar petrified his arms and folded them over the back of their head as their Arbiter clutched his wounded arm close to his chest.

The world shook around them for some time, and the cold panic did not subside even in the stillest of moments. They sat there through the rest of the quake, and through the worst of the aftershocks, paralyzed by fear.

Their Avatar stirred first, reaching out into the Memory alone. The prior silence had since been fogged by the hushed weeping of the dead—the grief of minds that knew themselves to have become but hollow simulacra.

Grimly, they hailed him: Knight-Regent of the Nascent, Xisúma, scion of Aquhúo.

The Arbiter started at the thin sound of their Avatar’s joyless chuckle—punctuated by a pained keening.

“They promoted us. We’ve been promoted…”

[fanstuffrantings]

I'm almost finished with season 3, and I have to say, Gertrude Robinson is by far my favorite character in the Magnus Archives. She's so endlessly fascinating and every time we get any focus on her she just becomes more layered and interesting.

Yes I know she did bad things, but I like that (at least from where we currently are) you know she's justifying it all as a way to save more people. She's pitting one life against the world. There's no maliciousness in the actions she takes, it's calculated risks where all she can do is cut herself off.

The way she parallels and foils John is so cool as well. How John was clearly the one the Eye wanted because of his willingness to feed his desire vs Gertrude who was aware of the entity and actively did as little as possible to sate it ensuring her survival and the ability to continue to work towards her goals.

Both of them force others to remain at a distance, they're cold and often cruel to people, and while Gertrude maintained this until her death, we can see John struggle to try to do the same.

Gertrude Robinson is a complex and flawed woman that I adore.