#none of them are longfics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fushitoru · 1 month ago

Text

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly.

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid.

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet.

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?”

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

#aashi writes #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

11K notes · View notes

axkirak · 2 months ago

Text

Old Dog

(𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings: Silco x f!reader

Fandom : Arcane (TV Series)

Content waring : 18+ smut/nsfw, huge age gap(reader is 20 and Silco is around 44-45), a bit of manipulate, a lot of teasing, fingering, p in v, dub-con, drunk sex, also save sex (Educated women are smart. So use condoms and don’t go raw.)

tags : porn with plot, It's set after season 1 but before season 2, reader’s lowkey like Viktor (didn’t mean to, just noticed after I finished it lol), canon compliant, heartbroken reader, drunkenness, a lot of smoking, sexual tension, flirting, hook up, one night stands (english isn't my first language)

Summary: You’re a Zaunite who got a scholarship to University of Piltover. You wanted to escape this messed-up city for a better life, but Piltover wasn’t what you expected. You got looked down on and a Piltovan guy broke your heart

So you went back home, crying and drinking alone at The Last Drop, before a random middle-aged stranger showed up and everything changed

A/N : I’m kinda late to the party (just finished Arcane). I meant to write a short Silco fic, but it ended up being 7k smut instead lol. I got inspired by ROSÉ’s song Messy when writing this fic. Gotta give her some credit for it.

I’m also thinking of doing a longfic for him (Peaky Blinders AU). No idea if anyone’s into it, so lmk and I’ll start.

Everyone knows Zaun is beyond saving.

The air is toxic, the water contaminated, and crime runs rampant. Drug outbreaks are common, and junkies linger in alleyways. Danger hides around every corner in this city, which is rotting from the inside out, waiting for the day it collapses.

The only question is whether you'll collapse with it or find a way out.

Of course, you chose the second option.

Not many people from Zaun are fortunate enough to rise above and make their way to the Upper City, and you happen to be one of the fortunate few. It wasn’t luck that brought you here. It was your sharp intellect and your relentless hunger for knowledge that pushed you far beyond what anyone had expected. You clawed your way out of the depths of Zaun and earned a place as a promising scholarship student at the prestigious University of Piltover, a place most Zaunites could only dream of.

After your mother passed away from lung cancer(caused by the toxic air in Zaun), you had no reason to stay in that godforsaken city. Once your scholarship was secured, you left Zaun for good. You moved to Piltover and began dreaming of a life of comfort and luxury like the Topsiders. You were convinced your future would be bright.

You pictured yourself graduating with top honors, inventing something groundbreaking that would stun the world. Maybe, just maybe, you'd catch the eye of a wealthy patron willing to fund your work and change your life forever. You imagined recognition, success, and a life far removed from the misery you'd left behind.

But reality rarely follows the script of your dreams.

During your time in Piltover, you painfully realized that you would never truly belong to this society. The other students kept their distance, quietly judging you for being from Zaun. Every time you ranked first in exams, their resentment only grew stronger.

There was no direct bullying, but most chose to ignore you. Their silence made it clear that you weren’t accepted. A few spoke to you like a normal person, yet even they remained distant. None of them ever felt like a real friend to you.

The dreams you had once painted began to crack and slowly crumble. You felt empty, melancholic, and drained in the midst of this large, bustling city, the very city you had once believed to be the city of your dreams, only to realize it was more of a nightmare.

But you knew you couldn’t turn back, so you had no choice but to keep pushing forward at the university where you constantly felt like an outsider. You tried everything you could to gain even a small sense of belonging. You made yourself more approachable, reached out to others, and even downloaded a dating app just to have someone to talk to.

And it worked.

You met a guy who was a fellow classmate. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he wasn’t unattractive either. He seemed kind and easy to talk to, so you decided to give it a shot. You started seeing each other, going on what passed for dates, usually study sessions in the library or working on assignments together, with you often helping by doing most of his work (since your boyfriend wasn’t as good at studying as you were)

It was one of the happiest times in your life, a kind of happiness that blossoms in the heart of a young girl experiencing love for the very first time. The relationship between you two flourished for months, growing steadily and sweetly, until it abruptly ended right after the final exams. He left you with a single parting sentence:

"To be honest, I never really liked you like that. I just saw you were smart and thought you could help me study, that’s all."

In the end, everything you had shared with him, including every tender moment and every deep connection, was nothing more than a convenient lie, a calculated act of using you.

That heartbreak became your final breaking point.

You cried for days, sobbing as if your chest would burst open, the pain so sharp and consuming that you couldn’t bear to stay in this city of illusions any longer. It was that grief that pushed you to make the most reckless decision of your life: returning to Zaun.

You knew perfectly well that Zaun was no place to live. But you didn’t know any other city as well as you knew Zaun. For all its faults, for all the darkness and danger it held, it was still your birthplace. Your childhood memories were rooted in its alleyways and smog. You hated that city just as fiercely as you loved it. And so, it became the only place that felt right to retreat to while you nursed your broken heart.

Still, you never imagined just how much it had changed while you were gone. It had changed so much that you could hardly recognize it anymore.

It was dirtier than before, filled with more criminals than before, and even more chaotic than you remembered.

What the hell is going on here?

That question lingers in your mind as you sit at the bar counter of The Last Drop, a once-renowned nightlife spot that had been the safest and most peaceful place to gather in the entire city. Back then, it was under the watchful eye of Vander, a burly, kind-hearted man who served as both bartender and owner of the place long before you were even born.

But Vander isn't here anymore. He's been replaced by a tall, tan-skinned young man with a scowling face who now tends the bar, swearing at customers every other sentence. He looks more like a thug than a bartender. The patrons aren’t any better either. Rough-faced types with tattoos crawling over their bodies, dressed in garish outfits and loud hairstyles, dance wildly to the deafening EDM pounding from the speakers. Those who aren’t dancing are either slamming down shots until they can’t sit upright or openly doing drugs without a care. The air reeks of illegal booze, smoke, and sharp, acrid sweat that turns your stomach.

You let out a long, weary sigh. All you wanted tonight was a quiet drink to drown your post-breakup blues. But in this place, it’s impossible to feel anything even close to melancholy. And you can’t exactly go somewhere else with a better atmosphere either, because The Last Drop is the only bar in all of Zaun. So here you are, forcing down whiskey straight with a lump in your throat, surrounded by EDM basslines that shake you from your head to your toes.

Fucking hell. What a vibe. (Not.)

But even that isn’t the worst part of the night.

The worst part begins when he walks into the bar.

You can feel the weight in the air shift the moment he steps inside, as if the entire world holds its breath. The music keeps playing, but not a single soul dares to dance. Every head turns toward him. Yours included.

He looks like a man in his forties, tall and wiry, with short, neatly styled black hair streaked with grey. His skin is pale, almost ashen. But what truly catches your eye is his outfit—luxurious, far beyond anything typical in Zaun. He wears a deep burgundy shirt beneath a black waistcoat trimmed with gold, an ensemble you instantly recognize as the signature style of Piltover's elites.

How strange, you think. You’ve never seen a Zaunite dressed like a Topsider before, not just because Piltover is wealthier, but because of the long, bitter history between the two cities. The people above look down on those below, and the ones below resent those above. The hatred runs deep. You know it all too well.

Yet more striking than his clothes or the unsettling air he carries is the ruined side of his face. The entire left half bears the remnants of a violent past, disfigured and scarred in a way no makeup could ever fully conceal. He tries, clearly, but the damage remains visible.

And then there’s his left eye: unnaturally large, dark like polished marble, with an iris that glows faintly orange. It looks just as broken as the skin surrounding it. In contrast, the right eye is perfectly intact, a piercing, vivid blue. It might even be beautiful if his presence weren’t so terrifying.

You don’t know who this man is, but you’re certain of one thing. He’s not just some random local. That much is clear from the way everyone reacts. Even the foul-mouthed bartender straightens up and falls silent the moment he walks in. Everyone seems oddly deferential to this new arrival. And when he lifts a gloved hand and gives a small, casual wave, a silent signal for the others to stop staring, the room hesitantly returns to its earlier rhythm.

Or at least pretends to. Because you can still feel the tension humming beneath the surface.

If this were any other time, you’d probably be just as nervous and intimidated as everyone else. But right now, you’re three shots deep into cheap whiskey, drifting somewhere between tipsy and numb.

You glance at the man for only a moment, then shrug indifferently and turn back to your glass. The sharp burn of alcohol keeps sliding down your throat, dulling your thoughts and making the ache in your chest just a little easier to bear.

You sip absently, lost in your own sorrow. The noise around you fades into the background; none of it matters. Right now, the only thing that holds any meaning is the glass in front of you.

You don’t even realize you’ve caught the man’s attention.

And that’s when you meet him. For the very first time.

Silco—he introduces himself with that name, after striding up and taking the seat beside you without asking, like he owns the place. His gloved hand reaches out in greeting as he casually asks, “You’re not from around here, are you, Kid?”

You turn to look at him, suddenly aware of how sharp and unrelenting his gaze is. His right eye, vivid and piercing blue, seems to look straight through you. The left, darker and unnatural, makes your skin crawl.

You ignore his outstretched hand, choosing rudeness over risk. Even in your drunken state, you're still sober enough to stay cautious, especially around someone like him. “Why do you ask?” you reply, your voice steady but tinged with suspicion.

Silco smirks, clearly amused by your guarded reaction. He lowers his hand, then pulls a cigar from his coat, places it between his lips, and lights it with a golden lighter. He takes a slow drag, blowing smoke into the air without taking his eyes off you. His mismatched gaze drifts from your face down to your shoes and back again, studying every detail. Then he finally answers, though it sounds more like a critique than a response.

“Everything about you screams out of place. Neat. Clean. Untouched.” That last word comes out softer, almost whispered, and it sends a chill down your spine. “Like one of those Pilties.”

The way he says the word 'Pilties' drips with open contempt, his disdain for people from Piltover crystal clear.

That’s when you start to understand why he approached you.

He’s just as suspicious of you as you are of him.

“I’m a Zaunite, same as everyone else,” you explain quickly before he gets the wrong idea. “I got a scholarship to study at the University of Piltover, so I had to move up there. But today’s the first time I’ve been back.”

He raises an eyebrow, visibly surprised. Then his smirk deepens.

“Well then, welcome home,” he says, his tone far too friendly to be genuine. “So, how does it feel to be back where you came from?”

You can tell he’s only teasing, but the question lingers. Ever since you set foot here, you’ve been struck by how much everything has changed.

“It’s different,” you admit, grimacing as you take another sip. “Not in a good way. The whole place is crawling with junkies and thugs now. Even in here.” You gesture around The Last Drop, a bar that once had a reputation for safety, but clearly no longer. “What happened to Vander? He owns this place. Why’d he let it fall apart like this?”

The moment Vander’s name leaves your lips, Silco’s expression shifts. His gaze darkens, and his jaw tightens for just a second before his mask returns.

“You knew Vander?” he asks, pausing to savor the smoke curling around his lips. There’s a flicker of something stormy in his eyes. “Well... things have changed. Vander doesn’t run this place anymore, sweetheart. This city’s entered a new era. My era. And it’d be best if you didn’t go digging up the past.”

He speaks with a calm voice and lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s a sharp edge in his words that makes you pause. A flicker of suspicion rises in you, but you choose not to press further.

“So... you're the new owner of The Last Drop?” you ask, piecing it together from what he said. It catches you off guard. Silco certainly looks like someone with money, but it never crossed your mind that he might own this place.

He chuckles and shakes his head, clearly amused by your naïveté. Tapping the ash of his cigar into a glass ashtray on the counter, he says, “Of course not just this place. I own the whole city.” The smugness in his voice makes you want to roll your eyes.

Then he snaps his fingers, signaling the scowling bartender to come over. “Get another glass of whiskey for my new friend. And keep it coming. This one’s on me.”

Silco turns back to you, his thin lips curling into a faint, unreadable smile. His gaze sweeps across your face, now flushed from the alcohol and cheeks still stained with tears.

“All right, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Tell me, why is a pretty girl like you sitting here crying her heart out, instead of being out there, having fun like everyone else?”

You narrow your eyes, starting to get a read on him. “Are you trying to hit on me?” you blurt out, incredulous. “’Cause if you are, it’s not working. You’re old enough to be my dad.” The alcohol in your system lends your voice a certain boldness. You wave him off without an ounce of courtesy, owner or not. “Just leave me alone, will you?”

Silco pauses. For a moment, his face hardens. Then a quiet laugh escapes, deep and dry. He leans forward, propping one elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. His eyes stay fixed on you, sharp and unsettling, like he’s trying to read your soul.

“Hitting on you? Not quite,” he says smoothly. “I just can’t stand seeing a beautiful girl sitting here crying. I’ve always had a soft spot for tears, you see.” He takes another drag of his cigar, slow and deliberate. “Besides, a girl like you really shouldn’t be drinking alone in a place like this. It’s not safe. There are dangerous men here. They wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of a vulnerable young woman. You’re lucky I found you first.”

He pauses again, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips, then shifts even closer, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours.

“As for the age thing... it’s just a number, sweetheart. And with age comes experience. That should be a plus, shouldn’t it?”

His long fingers trail along your jawline with a casual air, teasing as if to provoke a stray cat. When you jerk your face away in obvious displeasure, it only seems to amuse him even more. Something about your defiance reminds him of a feline’s untamed grace.

“Hey! Don’t touch me without permission.”

Silco raises both hands in mock surrender, chuckling softly as he shakes his head with what almost looks like affection. There’s no trace of anger at your blunt rejection, even though he's not the kind of man who typically tolerates disrespect, especially not in his own territory.

But you, it seems, are an exception. Perhaps it’s because you clearly have no idea who he is, and that, to him, is strangely refreshing. Most people in Zaun wouldn’t dare come within five meters of him, let alone talk back like you do.

"My bad, sweetheart. Just old habits from old dogs, you know." His apology doesn’t carry a hint of sincerity. “Now, why don’t you tell Uncle Silco what’s really bothering you? Maybe this old man can help.”

He continues to coax you, maintaining the facade of a kind-hearted stranger, trying to appear like someone you can lean on.

But the truth is, everything about him contradicts the idea of kindness. Everyone in Zaun knows that all too well.

You’re probably the only one who doesn’t realize yet.

That Silco is the one—the most powerful crime lord who controls the vast underworld of the city

You let out a long sigh, already knowing he isn't going to leave you alone like you asked. Sure, he’s a pain, but deep down, you can’t lie to yourself. You need someone to talk to. Someone to pour it all out to before it explodes inside and drives you mad.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s just frustration. Whatever it is, it makes you spill everything to him without holding back. The words tumble out of you like a stream, an unfiltered flood of pent-up emotion spilling into the ears of a man you don’t even know. You rant about the crushing pressure at the academy, the way people sneer at you just for being Zaunite, and your shitty ex who only pretended to love you for his own benefit before stabbing you in the back. And now, here you are, drunk and crying like a lunatic at The Last Drop.

You’re not sure if you're imagining it, but when you finally glance at him after rambling on for so long, his expression seems softer somehow. His eyes no longer hold that sharp, unreadable edge they had when he first approached you. You’re not sure which is stronger in them now, pity or sympathy?

"I know what it feels like," he finally says, his voice thoughtful, as if dredging something up from deep within. "To be betrayed by someone you trusted." You notice a fleeting trace of pain on his face, a shadow that appears and fades so quickly it's almost invisible unless you're really paying attention. "But believe me, drowning yourself in alcohol won’t fix anything."

Silco places a hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing it in what seems to be an attempt at comfort.

"Why don’t you let me help you?" he asks, his tone careful, testing the waters.

You snort softly into your glass, take another swig, and let out a sarcastic scoff. “What are you gonna do? Beat up my ex for me? Get revenge in my name?”

For a split second, there’s a glint in his eyes. Cold. Calculated. Like the suggestion doesn’t sound too bad to him.

But just as quickly, it’s gone. Silco chuckles softly and offers you a wry smile.

"Nothing so dramatic, sweetheart," he assures you. "My offers are much simpler than that. Just the two of us, somewhere quiet. No distractions."

His voice dips low, almost into a whisper, and there's something dangerously enticing in the way he leans in close, speaking near your ear. "Let me keep you company tonight. And maybe, just maybe, I can help you forget all about your pain and your pathetic ex too.”

His hand still lingers on your shoulder, his touch gentle but firm. The light pressure of his fingers sends a strange jolt through your body, making you flinch just a little.

“Come on now, sweetheart.” He rises to his full height and takes your hand, giving it a light tug, coaxing you to stand as well. "Give yourself a chance to experience something new. What have you got to lose?”

You’re not naïve. You know that if you go with him, it’s not going to be just 'talking.'

You want to push him away, to snap at him and tell him to leave you the hell alone. But you’re drunk, and your thoughts aren’t exactly clear right now. Logic is buried under a mess of emotion: irritation, anger, sorrow, resentment. You’re falling apart, and the only thing that crosses your mind is: Fuck it.

You know this is a reckless way of lashing out, but honestly, even if tonight ends with you sleeping with a man old enough to be your father, does it really matter? You’re single. You’re free. And it’s not like you have a problem with one-night stands. In a way, maybe this is your twisted version of payback for that bastard ex.

Back when you were together, he wouldn’t even let you stand next to another man. He hated it when you wore makeup and said, "Only sluts do that." He insisted that your clothes stay modest, made sure your skirts went past your knees, controlled every little thing you did.

So maybe now, it’s time to finally be free.

Silco is right. You’ve got nothing to lose.

You press your lips into a tight line and turn to look at him, silently hoping this isn’t a mistake.

"...Fine. Just for tonight," you mutter and slowly push yourself up, swaying slightly from all the alcohol. "Lead the way." You try to sound confident, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Silco, on the other hand, is nothing but confidence. That smug, victorious smile creeps across his face as he grabs your arm to steady you and gently helps guide you out of the bar.

"Oh... just for tonight?" he murmurs beside your ear, his tone playfully mocking. "Let’s see how far tonight takes us, then."

"Welcome to my humble abode,"

Silco says as he leads you into his private quarters, a place that you quickly realize is anything but humble.

The room is vast and dimly lit. The soft glow from small lamps casts a warm, intimate ambiance. At the center stands a large desk, cluttered with books, maps, and curiosities gathered from all over the city. A plush red velvet sofa rests against one wall, paired with a nearby bookshelf, while the opposite side of the room features a bar lined with rows of expensive liquor bottles. Every corner exudes luxury, which feels like a world away from your cramped student dorm.

What draws your eye most is the bookshelf. You find yourself walking toward it as if enchanted, your fingertips grazing the spines of rare books with a mix of awe and wonder. The collection is meticulously maintained, showcasing a wealth of knowledge.

"You like to read?" you ask, still staring at the books.

"Of course. I believe knowledge is power. And in a place like Zaun, power is everything."

You flinch slightly as his warm breath brushes your ear. You have no idea when he moved to stand behind you, close enough that your bodies nearly touch. He holds two glasses of liquor, freshly poured from the bar. As you turn to face him, he hands one to you.

"Try it. This one’s a special blend, imported from Runeterra. I think you'll like it."

You accept the drink, sniffing it cautiously before taking a small sip. Your eyes widen slightly as the complex flavors dance across your tongue, leaving a lingering warmth in your mouth. It's stronger than anything you've had before, and far more exquisite. The quality is leagues above what they serve at The Last Drop. Clearly, this is the kind of liquor an ordinary Zaunite could never afford.

Suddenly, a wave of nervousness washes over you. You’re struck by the sheer distance between you and this man, as if you come from two entirely different worlds. You’re just a broke student. He, on the other hand, seems rich, powerful, and completely out of reach. You can’t imagine what someone like him could possibly want with someone like you.

You set the glass down on a nearby table and meet his gaze. The height difference only makes you feel smaller. He towers over you, and your head comes just up to his shoulder.

"Why me?" you ask plainly. "I’m not suspicious or anything, but… you look like you could have anyone you want. So why would you waste your time on a stranger like me?"

Silco’s good eye narrows slightly with amusement. He takes a sip from his own glass before placing it beside yours, feigning contemplation.

"Why you?" he echoes. "Maybe because you're different. Innocent..."

His eyes travel slowly over you, from the plain blouse and muted brown skirt to your unadorned, makeup-free face. Nothing about you stands out. And yet, that’s exactly what makes you stand out in a place like Zaun, where everything is loud, brash, and glaring.

"You're not the kind of woman I usually see in Zaun," he adds.

His tone sounds playful, almost teasing, but there’s not a trace of humor in his gaze.

"To put it simply, I'm not just looking for someone to pass the time with. And you happen to be exactly what I want. Does that make sense, sweetheart?"

You flinch slightly as his fingertip brushes the tip of your chin, tracing the line of your jaw with slow, deliberate pressure, just enough to send a shiver racing down your spine.

"Wow… uh, you're very direct,"

You laugh awkwardly, your breath catching. Your throat suddenly feels dry, and you reach for the glass, downing it in one go. The bitter burn of alcohol floods your senses, drowning the unease stirring in your chest.

You’re beginning to wonder if it was a mistake to come here. This feels exactly like walking into a lion’s den.

But whatever the case, it’s too late to turn back now.

You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to face Silco once more. Your eyes flick to his lips for a brief moment before locking with his gaze. The air is thick with tension, a silence heavy with invisible pull.

Without breaking eye contact, you step closer, close enough to catch the intoxicating scent of alcohol and expensive cigars lacing his breath. It makes your head spin even more than the liquor coursing through your veins.

“You said power is everything in Zaun...” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. “Well, I’d like to get to know your power a little better. Care to show me?"

A slow, sharp smile curves across Silco’s lips. His eyes glint with understanding, catching the unspoken meaning behind your words. One arm wraps around your waist, his large hand sliding down your back, settling on your hip with a teasing squeeze before pulling you tightly against him. The movement is swift enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips. Your hands fly up to grip his shoulders instinctively to steady yourself, feeling the heat of his body seep through the thin fabric of his shirt.

His lips brush your ear as he leans in, his voice low and rough. “Sweetheart, I promise you’ll get to know every inch of my power. All night long.”

In the blink of an eye, he drives you backward until your back hits the wall. His mouth crashes onto yours in a searing kiss. You taste the faint bitterness of cigar on his tongue as it invades your mouth, tangling with yours in a hungry dance. Every movement is laced with raw desire. His hands roam freely over your body, exploring every curve with a possessive touch as the kiss deepens, stealing your breath and swallowing your every sound. All you can do is moan softly into his mouth, clinging to him for dear life, as if he's the only thing keeping you grounded.

The kiss steals the breath from your lungs and leaves your legs trembling. When he finally pulls away, your knees give out beneath you. You’ve never been kissed like this before, never been devoured so completely. Embarrassment flushes your cheeks as a low chuckle rumbles from his throat, clearly amused by your breathless, weakened state.

You try to say something, anything at all to regain your composure, but the words dissolve into a whimper when his lips shift to your neck, biting and sucking along your delicate skin, leaving behind pink marks that will surely linger for days.

"Let’s move to the sofa," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, making you shiver. "Wouldn’t want you passing out before we’ve even started."

He kisses you again as he guides you toward the sofa in the corner of the room. Gently, he pushes you down onto the cushions, then climbs over you, fully in control. His hands slide beneath the hem of your skirt, caressing the soft skin of your inner thighs, inching higher until he reaches your panties. With a sudden tug, he strips them away before you even have time to react.

Your breath catches as the cool air brushes over your now-exposed sex. The way he looks at you, like he’s starving, makes you blush. You instinctively try to close your legs, but Silco doesn’t let you. He parts your knees with ease, holding you open as he lifts his head to meet your eyes, as if seeking permission.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice a mix of challenge and teasing intent.

"Honestly? Not really," you whisper between ragged breaths, trembling with anticipation. "So you'd better hurry before I change my mind."

A wicked grin spreads across his face, clearly pleased by your bold response. "With pleasure, sweetheart," he says.

His hand glides between your thighs and finds your slick center with practiced ease. His thumb presses against your clit in slow, deliberate circles, rubbing and teasing, drawing shivers of pleasure from you with every stroke that makes you jerk and moan.

Your mind begins to drift, overwhelmed by the rough texture of his fingers playing mercilessly with your cunt. Your fingers dig into the cushions. Your mouth falls open, and a helpless cry slips out.

He hasn’t even fucked you yet, but you already feel like you’re unraveling.

Your moans rise again the moment he slides his middle finger deep inside you. Every motion is precise, as though he knows exactly where to touch. He curls his fingers and hits that elusive spot with unnerving accuracy, each stroke sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your trembling body. The sensation is so intense it makes you writhe beneath him, but you can’t move far with his other hand gripping your hip, holding you in place as he adds another finger, plunging into your tight channel with a steady, relentless rhythm.

Your body is fully awakened, flushed and burning. Sting and bliss entwine, flooding through your core and making you tremble. You begin to grind your hips against his hand, chasing more of that exquisite friction, whimpering as he picks up the pace, thrusting deeper and faster until the wet, obscene sounds echo through the room.

His thumb circles your swollen clit in maddening patterns, each pass winding the tension tighter until it’s unbearable. When it finally snaps, you shatter.

Your body convulses with the force of your climax, vision blurring as pleasure surges through you in blinding waves. Your inner muscles spasm around his fingers, pulsing in the aftermath. You cling to him, gasping for air, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

His fingers keep moving, slower now, gentler, easing you down from the high and drawing out the bliss just enough to leave you melting beneath his touch.

The entire time, Silco never takes his eyes off you. He watches every flicker of expression, every twitch of your lips and flutter of your lashes, waiting until you begin to settle. Only then does he pull his fingers free, lifts them to his lips, and licks them clean, tasting the slick sheen on his skin. A satisfied smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Tastes pretty good,” he says flatly, completely unfazed.

You, on the other hand, want to disappear into the floor.

He lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. “Not used to people being that blunt, huh?” he teases, already knowing the answer.

One look is all it takes to read you. You're the type who always plays by the rules, never straying from the path. If it weren’t for a broken heart and the urge to rebel, you never would’ve agreed to a one-night stand with a stranger like him.

Silco makes quick work of your blouse buttons, revealing just enough to expose your lace-covered breasts to the air. You help him eagerly, reaching up to unhook your bra and letting the delicate thing slide from your shoulders. Yet your skirt stays on. You’re not quite ready to be fully naked in front of someone you barely know, and neither is he. He shrugs off his suit jacket, lets it fall to the floor, and remains in a dark red shirt, unbuttoned nearly to his abdomen. Then, he turns to his trousers.

You lift your head, watching as he pushes them down. Even with your thoughts spinning and your body burning, you manage to speak with firm clarity.

“Don’t forget the condom.”

Silco nods, not planning to take that risk either. He retrieves one from the pocket of his discarded pants, tears the wrapper open with his teeth, then rolls it smoothly onto his fully erect length. The latex snaps softly at the base. His eyes return to you, gleaming with hunger as they rake over your disheveled form. Your tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, and flushed cheeks form a vision of raw, aching need.

His breathing grows heavier without him realizing, the last threads of control fraying, just one heartbeat away from snapping.

Without hesitation, Silco grabs your thighs and pulls you toward him, settling between your legs. The tip of his cock presses against your slick entrance, and he deliberately runs it along your folds, teasing you until you’re trembling with need.

"Ready, sweetheart?" he asks, though he has no intention of waiting for your reply.The moment the words leave his lips, he thrusts forward in a single, solid stroke, filling you to the brim.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your brows draw tight. The stretch is intense, your body struggling to take him in. But the tension doesn’t last. Slowly, your inner muscles begin to relax, the discomfort fading into a pulsing fullness that leaves you breathless. Silco moves with surprising control, his pace slow and each motion deliberate, a stark contrast to the ruthless man he’s known to be.

You open your eyes to find his gaze locked on yours. The fire in those mismatched irises draws you in, sets your pulse racing. You lift your head to kiss him, no longer shy, your hands roaming over his shoulders and down his back as if you never want to let him go.

The boldness catches him off guard, but he returns the kiss hungrily, his thrusts gaining force. When he finally pulls back, his eyes drop to your breasts, bouncing with each deep stroke. He reaches for them, hands full of soft flesh, thumbs teasing your nipples until they harden beneath his touch.

The dual sensation of his cock driving deep while his hands knead and tease your hardened nipples pushes you dangerously close to the edge. Moans spill from your lips, echoing through the room as the rhythm between you grows frantic and desperate.

Silco doesn’t hold back. Now that your body has fully yielded, he takes everything you offer. His hips slam into yours with rising force, each thrust angled to go deeper. He lifts your legs, hooking them around his waist, and fucks into you harder, faster, finding the secret spot that makes your whole body jolt. Ecstasy sparks through your limbs, your toes curling, every nerve lit up with punishing pleasure.

Your mind drifts, lost in the haze. The world shrinks to nothing but the two of you. A few tears of rapture slip from the corners of your eyes, and Silco leans down to lick them away. He feels the way your walls start to flutter around him, your voice rising in helpless cries as you teeter on the edge. He knows you're close, just as he is. A low growl escapes his throat, tension coiling in his loins as he nears his own breaking point.

He pounds into you with reckless abandon, chasing release. His rhythm stutters, but it’s enough to send you both spiraling into climax together.

With one final, brutal thrust, your vision whites out. Your body convulses, locking up as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. The second orgasm hits harder than the first, ripping through you with raw, unrelenting force.

Deep inside, Silco pulses within you, spilling into the condom in hot, thick spurts of cum. He gasps for air, forehead resting against yours, both of you panting in sync, wrecked and breathless from the intensity of your coupling.

As the storm of lust begins to fade, neither of you moves. Silence settles over the room like a warm blanket, broken only by the slow return of steady breaths. Your limbs feel heavy, spent, and satisfied.

In the quiet, Silco reaches out to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. His gaze meets yours, and for a moment, something unexpectedly tender flickers in his eyes. A rare, unguarded smile softens his scarred features before he leans in and kisses you again.

This final kiss is soft, almost reverent. You trade slow, lingering kisses, your tongues dancing lazily until he finally, reluctantly pulls away. He rolls off of you, slips off the condom, tosses it into the nearby trash, then begins to reassemble himself, piece by piece.

The heat between you lifts with the return of your senses, leaving behind nothing but a stifling awkwardness. You rise from the sofa and reach for your discarded underwear, slipping it on before buttoning your blouse and tugging your skirt back into place. You run your fingers through your tangled hair, trying to restore some semblance of composure.

Then, after a long pause, you turn to Silco.

"Um... I think I should go."

You don’t have the courage to stay the night, not because you feel awkward or don’t want to impose, but because, deep down, you feel it too. Just like he does.

This wasn’t just casual sex.

Something about it feels different. Something deeper. Something neither of you can name.

It was good. Too good. So good it terrifies you. Because the longer you stay, the harder it’ll be to pretend this is only a one-night stand.

Silco says nothing for a long moment. He simply watches you, as though weighing something in his mind, before finally nodding.

"I’ll have my men take you back to Piltover."

He remains seated on the same sofa, lighting a fresh cigar, his eyes never leaving your face. Just as you start walking toward the door, he reaches out and grabs your arm.

"Will I see you again?"

It isn’t a command. Not even a proper question. Just a quiet request, with no pressure and no expectation.

You pause and glance back at him, meeting his gaze as you absorb the unspoken weight behind those words. Your lips press into a thin line as you weigh your heart against your better judgment.

"I don’t know... I have classes in Piltover. I probably won’t be coming down here often."

You choose your words carefully. Not shutting the door completely, but not leaving it open either.

Your worlds are too different. The gap between you isn’t just age. He belongs to the Undercity. You belong to the Uppercity. The chances of your paths crossing again are almost nonexistent. And you have too much at stake: your education, your future. It isn’t worth gambling all that on a fleeting connection with a man you barely know.

Maybe it’s better to cut things off now, before they get messy and spiral into something far more complicated.

Silco frowns at your answer. For a brief moment, something like disappointment seems to flicker across his face, quickly hidden beneath a casual smile.

"If that’s what you want," he says with a smile that tries to look understanding but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "And remember, sweetheart... whatever happens in the shadows, let it stay in the shadows."

His voice is gentle, almost a whisper of suggestion, but the message is unmistakably clear. Silco wants this night to remain a secret. No stories. No rumors. Nothing that could smear his name in Zaun.

Then he rises to his full height, steps closer, and reaches out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger a second too long against your skin, and his gaze softens just slightly.

"Good luck. Until then."

His touch sends a sharp jolt through you. You flinch, your cheeks flushing once more. Swallowing hard, you nod and whisper softly, "Goodbye."

You turn away before you can change your mind and walk out swiftly. Your heart pounds, and you can still feel his eyes on you even after the door clicks shut behind you.

You hope you won’t see him again.

...But things probably won’t go the way you hope.

Especially when the man you spent the night with isn’t just some stranger—he’s the most feared crime lord in all of Zaun.

Silco stands silently, watching you disappear through the door. A faint smile curves his lips as he recalls every detail of the time you spent together: the warmth of your touch, the softness of your skin, the way your body seemed to fit so perfectly against his. Like a puzzle piece made just for him.

This won’t be the last time he sees you—He’ll make sure of it.

A dangerous glint flickers in his eyes as he exhales a slow stream of cigar smoke, letting the thin gray haze drift lazily through the air. His thoughts move in silence, already shaping plans with you at the very center.

And Silco is a patient man.

He’ll wait.

Until the day you come crawling back to him.

#silco #arcane silco #silco arcane #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x y/n #silco arcane x reader #silco fanfic #arcane x reader #arcane smut #arcane x you #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #arcane fandom #reader insert #x reader #fem reader

256 notes · View notes

aethon-recs · 2 months ago

Text

This Week (x3) in Tomarrymort (22 April – 17 May 2025)

Some lovely fics completed over the last few weeks. Added some thoughts below on why I highly recommend checking them out!

Splitting this post up into 2 parts because it got so long. Sorry, I know I said I would not let this get to 4 weeks again between posts (or 3.5 weeks in this case...), but I lagged for a bit, and the updates burning a hole in my inbox piled up 😭 So on the the one hand, I apologize that it's in 2 parts, but on the other hand, isn't it so amazing what our ship produced in just over 3 weeks? 🤗🥰🤍

Tomarrymort Completed Must Reads

⭐ you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria (M, 137k, complete)

Harry finds a Horcrux the summer before his sixth year. A deal is struck. (Or, when Harry wakes a seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle from the Gaunt's Ring, it is to a world where his future self has achieved none of their goals except one. Harry is proof that he's a great wizard after all.)

Why you should read it: This is a snappy, fast-paced, and super fun longfic featuring Harry and one of the horcruxes (the Ring horcrux in this case) teaming up to hunt down the other horcruxes. Harry’s snark had me laughing out loud in literally every chapter, and I love fics featuring Tom in Harry’s time. I can definitely see this fic becoming one of the classics of the ship.

⭐ paint your eyes with sunsets by @boyneptunee (T, 7k, complete)

Tom Riddle moves to a new building. Harry Potter is his new neighbour. That's it, that's the story. Or: Modern!Au where Tom moves to a new apartment building where he more or less gets himself a boyfriend and a family. Oh, and there's also a cat. OR: A stray cat gets adopted by an entire building. Chaos ensues.

Why you should read it: Humorous modern AU with adorable slice-of-life scenes between Harry and Tom and their adopted cat.

⭐ Hogwarts Valley by @aitafrog @chaos-bear @cindle-writes @curioushabitforarivergod @known-concepts Lytri @take-the-unknow-road-now @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger @tommarvoloriddlesdiary @valkyrie-chemist (M, 17k, complete)

Hogwarts Valley— a cozy life-sim where players rebuild a magical village, befriend quirky townsfolk, and maybe even find true love. You’ve just started getting into the game, and like all hyper fixations, it’s taken you to tumblr dot com—but what’s this? A post catches your eye; you don’t remember a “forest beast” in your play-through… but now that they mention it, one of your favorite characters, Harry Potter, has been acting a little odd. Maybe you can figure out why?

Why you should read it: This is one of the most creative pieces of meta I’ve ever seen in the Tomarry ship. It’s less a traditional fic, per se, and more a social media commentary/collage, comprised of creatively formatted posts about a Hogwarts-meets-Stardew-Valley style game, with a Harrymort love story at its center 🤍 If you’ve ever played Stardew Valley or dreamed about romancing a farmer like Harry, you need to run to read this!

Tomarrymort One-Shot Must Reads

One Shot | growing pains by @curioushabitforarivergod

One Shot | An Alley & Anal by @known-concepts

One Shot | The Thing Is by @chaos-bear

One Shot | A wild ride by @sri-verse

One Shot | boys will be boys by @cindle-writes

One Shot | anchor by @1300marshall

One Shot | ... I can explain by @l-archiduchesse

One Shot | Small white flowers by @chaos-bear

One Shot | with a slip of the moon in his hair (nerves) by @curioushabitforarivergod

One Shot | Die Alive by @katsitting

One Shot | wrong cauldron by @cindle-writes

One Shot | Love You to Death (Just Like a Fool) by @allthesmilesxo

(continued in Part 2...)

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #tomarrymort recs #aethon recs #tomarry recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #hp fic recs #harrymort recs #tomarry weekly #this week in tomarrymort

208 notes · View notes

rednightmare18 · 5 months ago

Text

I will write a post at some point about how fucking fantastic all of it is, but in case anybody missed this motif or how HUGE and revolutionary this romance is:

A few years ago (sorry sorry) I published a few chapters of a Kingdom Come Deliverance longfic called Fortune Favors the Bold. It went on (SORRY) lengthy hiatus due to general writer sluggishness and some twists in my life, but the idea was that the "boldness" theme would explicitly shake out to Henry firmly deciding to move on with life, to seek joy and thereby open himself to further grief after his incredible canon loss at Skalitz (and a fic-based incident of nearly losing Hans during a nasty separation period). It all culminated in a scene where Henry & Hans, whom I chose to depict as already romantically entangled (if somewhat ambiguously) in kcd1, finally exchange difficult verbal I-love-yous, far more difficult for Henry due to the above.

None of this big scene made it out of WIP. I'm explaining it now, before it is published, to express my amazement and gobsmacked appreciation at what Warhorse set up in kcd1.

Hans's final words in kcd1 and first in kcd2 are the "audentes fortuna iuvat," which is said so much between he and Henry through the latter that it begins to chafe the audience. Boldness in the face of overwhelming odds will yield reward and a future worthwhile.

This is the verbal indicator and tone-setter for their entire relationship arc. It is about them, specifically, growing into who they will become in life and with each other.

"Fortune favors the brave," the motto of the two lead characters and kcd2 itself, is in every way about the kiss scene and whether or not buckwild firebrand Hans, the primary mouthpiece of this motto, will feel loved enough to do the bravest thing he's ever done. It is about the culmination of embracing this mentality and the natural resolution, for good or ill, of the dynamics between these two people from the start. It is in many ways why it is so critical the cutscene deliberately breaks the kiss to show enough of Hans's face to reveal his astonished smile; bravery leads to triumph, even if it risks ruin, as in the story of the starcrossed knights he has only just shared with Henry.

It was all lovingly planted there, in kcd1. It was there so well that I picked up on it, somehow, years and years ago, even though I was joking meanly about how "Warhorse would never have the guts to really do it, it's just me reaching, they don't understand what they set up."

They did understand.

"Audentes" is overused, yes. But of course it is. It is their I love you.

And it is the tagline of the entire game.

Hooooooly shit. Audentes fortuna iuvat, Warhorse. Damn!!!!

#kingdom come deliverance #kcd #redmeta #hans capon #henry of skalitz #kcd spoilers /spoilerish

187 notes · View notes

pretty-circa006 · 10 months ago

Text

Unhealthy Attachments pt.1

Coach! Negan x Student! F! Reader

summary Negan, your gym coach, takes pity on you after seeing the way your peers treat you. tags mentions of bullying/ mild bullying, second person pov (sorry lol this is old pls forgive me) note this is an old WIP that i'm choosing to post because i haven't had time to write anything new (I WILL EVENTUALLY, I PROMISE, BUT COLLEGE IS DRAINING MY FREE TIME). this is part one of a multi-part series, maybe it'll even evolve into a longfic, who knows. btw you guys will have to pry coach negan x student reader fics from my cold dead hands bc i loooove writing these.

wc 1.3k

*you are responsible for your own content consumption. if this is something you DO NOT like, simply DO NOT read or interact! :) *

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆

You stood lined up with the other students in your PE class, waiting to be chosen by the team captains for this class' soccer game. It didn't even phase you how every other student was picked before you, leaving you the last one standing until one unlucky captain had to pick you. That's just how things went, you were always the odd one out. Even now, everyone wore the usual school issued PE uniform of a t-shirt and shorts, while you had on the sweater and sweatpants version- in ninety degree weather. You were just honoring your father's, the town's local pastor, principles of modesty. Being the pastor's daughter felt isolating. Nobody invited you to things or wanted to be friends with you for fear that the indecencies of their typical teenage behavior would get back to their parents by way of the pastor; and of course he'd get that information from none other than you, his daughter. You never would, though. In middle school, you learned the hard way to not be such a narc, but by then it was too late and nobody trusted you or even wanted to be near you.

"Over here!" you shouted to your teammates, wanting them to pass you the ball. You had a perfect shot to the other team's goal. Like always, they ignored you, but it didn't matter because they scored anyway. You didn't give up on trying to be a team player, though. The gym coach, Negan, was watching the game closely and you wanted him to see that you cared and tried to put effort into his class. Maybe it was because he was the only person who ever paid you any attention, but the fear of letting the handsome man down weighed heavily on you.

"Guys, I'm open!" you yelled. Your desperation to be a part of things was becoming so pathetic that Negan had to direct his focus elsewhere. Maybe it was by mistake, but the ball came rolling your way. Hope blossomed within you. It sounded silly, but you hoped that even something as little as you scoring a goal would make your class like you again. You kicked the ball, sending it flying to the opposing team's goal. It would have made it in if someone didn't intercept- someone from your own team, you notice- and kick it directly at you. You didn't have time to dodge it because it had already smacked you square in the face, knocking you over. You clutched your nose as you writhed on the floor in pain, salt being rubbed even further into your wound by the snickers of your classmates.

Negan blew his whistle and called a foul. He profanely scolded the students about their bad sportsmanship and lectured them on treating their teammates fairly. He helped you up off the floor and led you to his office with an arm wrapped around your shoulder. You sat in one of the chairs with your nose plugged up with tissues per Negan's orders after it started bleeding. It didn't seem broken, so he didn't deem your injury bad enough to send you to the nurse.

"You can go back now," he told you once fresh blood stopped flowing from your nose between tissue changes.

"Do I have to?" you asked with teary eyes. You were tired of all the bullying and just ready to graduate already. Your senior year was almost over and you were legally an adult, so why did you still have to put up with everyone else's childish behavior.

"You're all healed up. Don't see why you needa be in here any longer." It was obvious that he wanted you out of his office, probably feeling the same way your classmates felt about you. It shouldn't have surprised you, yet it stabbed you in the heart. Your chin and lips quivered as you blinked back the tears burning in your eyes.

"C-can I just stay in here?" you cringed at the way your voice cracked. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Just because your sucky ass team is losing doesn't mean you can hide out here and skip class."

"That's not why!" you pleaded.

"Then why?" he asked.

"Everybody hates me!" You couldn't keep it together after finally saying it out loud. You sobbed like a baby, tears streaming down your face and snot dripping from your nose. You were ugly crying but you didn't even care, it wasn't like you had anyone else's respect to lose. Negan got up and closed the door in an attempt to save you some dignity. Your breathing became short and rapid as your bawling made it difficult to take in oxygen.

"Teenagers are so goddamn hormonal and dramatic. Nobody hates you, kid," he said disinterested.

"E-even you d-d-do!" you choked out before going back to wailing. He felt bad for you. He saw the way others treated you and it made him feel worse seeing you long for the acceptance of people who rejected you and took pleasure in your pain. But that's high school for you.

"What makes you think I hate you?" he asked, genuinely curious. He didn't hate you, not even close. He just couldn't stand seeing you walking around like a kicked puppy-dog, it was pitiful. You tried to explain your reasoning, but everything that came out of your mouth was an incoherent blubbering, stuttering, and hyperventilating. He pulled you up from the chair and cradled you in his chest, just letting you sob into his sweater. He hushed you and rubbed your back in soothing circles. It was the best he could do, he knew his words sure as hell couldn't offer the comfort he wanted to give you. Your sobbing eventually calmed into small hiccups and occasional sniffles.

"Why does everyone hate me?" you whispered. He wanted to tell you that they didn't and that's just how high schoolers are, but he didn't want to lie to you.

"You're almost outta this goddamn shit hole, kid. Jus' keep your head held up high and finish the year off strong." He clapped a strong hand on your shoulder for added reassurance. You gave him a small smile before trudging out of his classroom and to the locker room now that the class was over.

...

Negan comforting you in his office that day made you feel like he was a safe space. He seemed to be the only person who cared, or bothered to do anything about how others treated you, even if it was just the bare minimum, you felt it was better than nothing.

"Coach," you muttered shyly, standing outside his open office door in the gym. He glanced up at you from whatever work he was doing and immediately sighed. It was a miracle to him that you were oblivious as to why people bullied you. Here you were, dressed so matronly in a long floral skirt that resembled an old woman’s wallpaper and an awful knitted sweater. He knew you were a pastor’s daughter, but did you really need to dress the part.

“What do you need, kid?” He asked, focusing on his work again. “Can I eat lunch in here?”

“Why? The bathroom crowded or somethin’?” He joked. When you nodded your head yes, he immediately felt guilty. He motioned with his hand for you to sit in one of the chairs before his desk. You happily took a seat before offering him half of your sandwich.

“It’s turkey,” you said when he looked at you strangely. He accepted the half and ate it while he worked and you sat in silence enjoying the change of scenery.

“You don’t actually eat lunch in the bathroom, do you?” He asked.

“There’s nowhere else for me to sit,” you admitted shamefully.

“That is fuckin’ disgusting!” You shrugged your shoulders and went back to your sandwich, embarrassed to let Negan see how pathetic your life really was. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Look, if you have nowhere else to sit, you can eat lunch in here.” You visibly perked up, a your face splitting into a joyous smile.

“Really?”

“Don’t make me fuckin’ regret it.”

next part ▶︎

224 notes · View notes

myokk · 8 months ago

Text

✨MASTERLIST✨

(fanart, longfics, oneshots)

Welcome to my blog!!! Here is my masterlist of ALL of my little sketches, artwork, writing, and general brainrot related to Hogwarts Legacy💘

🌿 - Madeleine / Maddy / myokk

🌱 - AO3

🌿 - likes and follows come from my main blog, @oerflink, because this is a sideblog (🥲)

🌱 - Eloise Babbit, my MC and basically the whole reason for this blog🫶 I don’t necessarily view her as the game’s MC, as my fic is quite canon-divergent and she is sweeter than the evil gremlin I played in-game😆💓 [link to her character sheet]

🌿 - my art tag🫶🫶🫶 here you can see basically every drawing I've done since joining the fandom!

💫 - COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN♥️ you can find more information here, and here you can see all of the commissions I’ve already done♥️

🌱 - tag for all of the art the lovely people here have gifted me🥹🥹🥹 I feel SO honored whenever anyone takes time out of their day to think of me and draw my little gremlin♥️♥️

🌿 - I am taking oneshot requests! The link gives a bit of my guidelines, if you’re interested send me an ask🫶

Writing:

Before It Felt Like A Sin (AO3 / tumblr - ongoing)

Sebastian Sallow x F!MC, canon divergent, longfic, wip, dual pov Eloise/Sebastian

Summary: Eloise never wanted to be different.

And yet, her differences are what have defined her life up until this point: growing up as a squib in one of the most prominent wizarding families, being exiled to muggle society, and then attending Hogwarts at the age of sixteen.

She finds herself thrust into the life she should have been prepared for from birth but was denied. As she navigates this new life and her new precarious position in her family, she must come to terms with the fact that maybe what she dreamed of her whole life isn't turning out how she ever expected it would.

Tags: slow burn, angst, magical theory, mythology references, pureblood culture, occlumency, legilimency, hurt/comfort, family dynamics, eventual romance, eventual smut, sacrificial magic, blood magic, dark magic rituals, implied/referenced child abuse

[coming soon] - an excerpt from the Ominis longfic I’m working on💘

Oneshots:

clumsy (AO3 / tumblr)

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 9,1k

rating: E

summary: sebastian is clumsy.

or: two stubborn brats make things more difficult than they have to be.

cw: fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, two really stubborn idiots in love to be exact, sir cadogan guest appearance, anne and imelda are the gremlin best friends every girl needs, smut (18+ ONLY), oral (f. recieving), no y/n

note-taking (AO3 / tumblr)

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 3,6k

rating: M (language and sexual themes)

summary: mc loves flustering sebastian with her notes during class😇

cw: NONE this is just fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, it takes a while for them to admit their feelings, I rated it M for some language/sexual themes

marry me (AO3 / tumblr)

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 5,4k

rating: M (not really explicit loss of virginity)

summary: in which Garreth Weasley has a potions mishap that causes MC to become incomprehensibly proper, and Sebastian is going mad.

cw: fluff, mutual pining, giant squid guest appearance, marriage proposal, loss of virginity RATED M (not *really* explicit) smut (18+ ONLY)

different (AO3 / tumblr)

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 4,2k

rating: E 🫠

summary: Sebastian is not as she remembered.

cw: enemies to lovers, dark sebastian (I guess?), relic!Sebastian, smut (18+ ONLY), unprotected sex, wall sex, maybe he has a breeding kink...I just don't know what to tag this it's angsty

legilimency (AO3 / tumblr)

pairing: Ominis Gaunt x f!MC

word count: 1,7k

rating: M (language)

summary: (His parents and Marvolo insist it’s a gift handed down from Slytherin himself, just like the Parseltongue Ominis despises. It is not. It is a curse.)

or: The Gryffindor student has caught on that Ominis can read her thoughts and decides to get her revenge.

tags: ominis is a natural legilimens, he is entirely too introspective, fluff, no y/n

remembering the snow (AO3 / tumblr / tumblr (old))

pairing: Imelda Reyes x Poppy Sweeting

word count: 3,3k

rating: G

summary: Imelda remembers the first time she saw snow.

Her parents always started the story telling her that she cried and cried and cried.

or: a character study on Imelda and how she grew up because I love her & she doesn't get enough appreciation :)

tags: character study, fluff, romance, first kiss, emotional hurt/comfort, I just wanted to write a sweet story & explore Imelda as a character

Illustrated scenes:

(aka where I illustrate little scenes from my longfic and oneshots💓)

🌿 - the summer before Sebastian and Anne’s first year at Hogwarts🥺💓

🌱 - Sebastian hates Eloise’s guts😳

🌿 - Eloise is really, really bad at chess😔 (this scene always makes me laugh SO MUCH)

🌱 - right after the pensieve scene🫶🫶🫶

🌿 - Eloise and Sebastian’s first kiss😇😇😇

🌱 - some angst after their first kiss😇😇😇

🌿 - sebastian overthinks things a lot😔

🌱 - an excerpt from my oneshot, clumsy💘

🌿 - another scene from my clumsy 🫶 I really love writing Sebastian’s pov & this was just so much fun to paint and write😫💓

🌱 - Eloise and her mother😔

🌿 - Eloise is NOT flustered by Sebastian😤

🌱 - late night in the common room 🫠

🌿 - comic of note-taking 😇

🌱 - right before *that* scene in clumsy 🫶 (as requested by Mallow bc of the lighting🤭)

#hmmmmm I had a lot of fun making this & obviously I need to actually sort through my disaster blog and add more links/organuzation/etc #this is what 6 months of procrastination gets you🥲🥲#when I started posting in April I didn’t care but now it kind of stresses me out #also I chose this picture bc a) it’s horizontal; but b) choccy said it was one of her favorites #and it IS cute #and drooling Sebastian deserves to be my header for a bit😤😤#ok im going to organize my art later😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫#also maybe there is a better way to do this??? idk I’m just making things up😭😭😭#I literally have gone quite crazy no chill since I started posting and there is SIX MONTHS WORTH OF BRAIN ROT TO SORT THROUGH!!!!!!!!!!!!#i just focused on the writing for now bc it’s a) what I like the best and b) easiest to sort through #but I really want to put links to all of my art & organize it #& ALSO put links to all of the amazing art I’ve been gifted🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 even if it’s just for me to go back and look through😌🙏#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanart #hphl #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy oc #eloise babbit #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow fanart #sebastian sallow x mc #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt fanfiction #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow fic

138 notes · View notes

kurtsvonneslut · 6 months ago

Note

Wait... what was the swanqueen fic recs? ...and are there more (...esp if theyre smutty) 👀👀👀

oh there are more!!!

first of all i'm just going to plug myself because why not. i have 78 swan queen works up - mostly oneshots, a couple longfics, including the fic i'm currently writing, change with the seasons. a lot of my fics are older (for example my 52 weeks of swan queen series was written in 2015) and i was a teenager when i wrote them, but i still find a lot of joy in them!!

now for the rest of the recs, i'm going to organize them as best i can into a few categories. also, a lot of these recs will be a bit older as i've been away from the fandom for a while, and am only just now coming back again. this is an open question if anyone else has recommendations to add in the reblogs!!!

longfics:

satin town by @coalitiongirl is probably my all time favorite fanfic, period. everything she's written for the fandom is incredible, but this one has always stuck with me. the dynamic between emma and regina (who is in full on evil queen mode) is just DELICIOUS and i love how she worked henry into the story. an absolute must as far as i'm concerned. PLUS she has a whole NOVEL out now, so go support that if you like the fic!!!!

the secret's in the telling by @the-pyrophoric-one is another classic in the fandom, and for good reason. the characterization is so spot on, and i absolutely love the arc of this story. the chapters are suuuuuper long though so it's a time investment!!

somewhere, someone must know the ending by maleficently who is not on tumblr as far as i'm aware is a divorce au. lots of angst with a happy ending. the same author also wrote an incredible three-part series called the fatal plunge, which remains, tragically, unfinished.

you gotta play dirty by amycarey who i'm not tagging because they don't write fic anymore. there's so many fics by amycarey that i absolutely adore (temporary distractions and keep the wolves outside by living well are also up there!!) but i chose this one because it's so unique to me. it's an au in which emma and regina are in a concert band together. i was a band kid myself, specifically a clarinetist, so i was pretty geeked over this!!

all that glitters is not (olypmic) gold by @queststar is another super niche but super fun and well-written au. in this one, emma and regina are olympic speed skaters. i just love the competitive energy between the two of them and the arc as they grow closer and eventually fall for each other. the author even got elizabeth mitchell to read some of it which is just. next level.

one fine star away by @bytherosebushlaughing is another au that gets a little meta, but it's sooooo much fun. in this fic, once upon a time is a tv show that regina, emma, and the others starred in. 20 some years later, the cast is reuniting, and the reunion is being covered by none other than one henry mills. it's such a clever fic, and i absolutely love it so far!!

oneshots:

of love and loss and love again by @snowivyimconfusi oh this one. this one is so bittersweet. emma and regina, grieving the losses of their partners, find comfort in each other. and more. it's so beautifully done, and i just adore ivy's writing style!!

what you thought you had to do by hoovahhoopah is the very first fic i read after making my ao3 account and it's still one that i love!! it's part of a six part series of oneshots called ill fitting pieces, but it also stands on its own just as well. just a beautiful, classic, canon-but-make-it-better kind of fic.

a woman moves when her heart has been broken by etotheswan because who among us wasn't absolutely destroyed by the season 3 finale???? this offered a lot of swan queen based catharsis while we waited for season 4.

monster-in-law by seriousfic is just a funny, light-hearted little oneshot about mary margaret trying to stop emma and regina's wedding by reminding them that they're all sort of related. a big departure from the seriousfic work we all know and miss dearly..... but enjoyable nonetheless thanks to their talent!!

and now, the moment we've all been waiting for, smut:

top of the list is, of course, our prophet of swan queen smut @angstbotfic. the making amends series is my all time favorite, and one that i recommended to my dear friend 27, but you can't go wrong with literally anything they've written.

wicked games by @starsthatburn is so. is so. it left me basically speechless. also recommended this one to 27, and i believe this is the one referenced in the ask they sent. it's the most insanely hot BDSM fantasy. if you like domme regina, look no further.

the thing she won't admit by beattheodds if you like butt stuff, here's swan queen butt stuff. need i say more?

paint it black by wily_one24 heed the warnings, this one is pretty dark. but if that's what you're into, this is the one. it's like if 50 shades of grey was swan queen and also good.

of love and loathing by morganlegaye and its sequel, transgressions of the heart are a hatefuck lover's dream. transgressions of the heart remains unfinished, but god is it good.

fealty by standbackufools you like throne sex? you like honorifics? you like D/s dynamic? enjoy :)

thank god it's BDSM friday by carrotlucky13 this one covers soooooo many kinks. emma and regina enter into a 24/7 BDSM lifestyle. for 95k words. i don't know what else to say but WOWOWOWOW. even if you're not into every kink in here it's still hot af.

emma's little problem by juicecup it's a magic!cock story with a slight humiliation kink if you squint, but otherwise mostly vanilla sex to round out a very kinky rec list.

go give these incredible creators some love!!! and remember, nothing motivates a fic writer quite like a nice comment :)

#answered #swan queen #sq fanfic #swen #ouat #once upon a time #femslash #f/f #ao3

118 notes · View notes

voxceleste · 6 months ago

Note

hiiiii you’re one of my favorite fic writers ever and i admire you so much. i wondered if you had any advice for other writers of how to improve? especially for someone who has been writing for years but feels like they’ve hit a point of stagnation/knows they’re “good” at writing but feels like they’re just not hitting their full potential. also, if you had any advice for the differences in working on shorter pieces vs longfics, any guidance or methods that worked for you would be so appreciated!! your work has been very genuinely inspirational to me and i hope you have a great day <3

thank you for your kind words! <3

mileage varies more with regards to writing advice than maybe anything else, so it's possible none of this will work for you.

a common framework in education theory/neurobiology/psychology/etc is that there's a goldilocks zone between comfort and frustration wherein most learning happens. games studies has a similar idea, that a game has to be mentally engaging enough to keep the player invested without making it so punishingly hard that they quit.

writing is pretty much free. unlike most other creative mediums, the scope of a project has no relationship to the value of the materials or tools needed to produce it. you're only limited by your own energy, time, and effort--which can be formidable restrictions, to be fair, but it's not like being a filmmaker, where good-quality equipment and collaborators simply take more resources to afford. writers should take advantage of this. we're really lucky in this way.

the best thing you can do to improve your writing is to attempt projects that feel a little too big for you, or that you're not confident you can pull off. it doesn't have to be "big" in terms of length; a short piece could qualify if the style, tone, structure, subject matter, etc is outside of your comfort zone, but in my experience this has often looked like longer and more complex projects. then again, i love writing long stuff, so take it with a grain of salt--some people just don't, but you mention wanting to try your hand at longfic, so i assume it's relevant. the point is that in order to grow your skills, you have to stretch them.

past fic projects that stick out in my mind for having pushed me to grow as a writer:

story with 4 POV characters, alternating POVs at a regular cadence, where goings-on in each section would affect the other chapters

story with a real-world historical setting that required research wrt material culture as well as timeline/"who was where when"

story that blended a codified and formulaic genre template (het romance novel) with seemingly incongruous story elements (protag being a passively suicidal closeted trans woman and ex-evil mastermind)

the common denominator is having a very specific story i wanted to tell about these specific characters, and digging my teeth into how to do that in a way that felt specific and not just a recycling of common fanficisms… though in all cases, there were at least one or two other fics i looked at for inspiration, if only in a distant way. (those fics, in turn, are often what i'd consider examples of "fanfic that is also just good, ambitious writing," whether or not they would stand alone as original fiction--but that's a different post that's already been made by others.) (they are also full of tropes and are very fanficcy in their own ways!) i had to put a lot of thought into how to approach them in a way that was most true to what they wanted to be in my heart, and usually had one or two specific touchpoints of non-fanfic media that i used to get my bearings, which is a good habit to get into whether or not you're interested in branching out into original fiction writing.

with regards to the transition into longfic writing… writing processes are idiosyncratic and whatever advice i give you has a good chance of being totally useless. it'll probably involve a lot of trial and error, unfortunately. some tidbits:

the worst thing a story can be is boring and this is doubly true for long stuff. i would always rather an author turn the dial a little too far than not far enough to be impactful

can't overstate the utility of a good beta reader as well as a good cheerleader or two to whom you can dump your 2am story thoughts and troubleshoot your plot issues

start the story at the latest possible point in time; many a longfic idea dies on the vine because the author thinks they have to do way more setup than is actually required. this doesn't mean you have to open in medias res with an action sequence, but if you're opening on something more quiet or "expositiony," you should know *why* you're starting there, and should be able to draw up that scene vividly and characterfully

putting a little bit of effort into fleshing out your setting and side characters can help you a ton if you write yourself into a corner. if you're stuck, it's hard to come up with a story element from nothing when your story revolves around two floating heads in featureless rooms

the period between being 1/3-2/3 done is the actual fucking worst. it's miserable every time. the story is no longer a beautiful shining thing in your head, it's an ugly blob of misshapen clay, and you haven't seen it all start to come together yet. it's not you or your project, it just sucks and there's no way out but through

trust your idea! trust your own ability! trust the magic that can be worked in the edit!

if you bite off more than you can chew with a project and aren't able to finish it, or you're disappointed by how it turns out, that's really disappointing and difficult, which i don't want to downplay. but it's not wasted time, even if no one else sees the results of your work. that effort and experience will make you a better writer.

other advice that may or may not work for you:

read a lot of fiction; read fiction that is not fanfiction, especially; read outside of your usual genres/favourite authors; read authors who are known for unusual or singular styles. challenge yourself to write something imitating one of their styles, even for a page or two. what are the characteristics of a paragraph by octavia butler? how does she approach sentences? how is that different from a similar length of text by victor hugo?

read about writing craft, not from bloggers but via well-regarded books. even if you don't agree with all the advice (which you probably won't) or it's not all directly relevant to you, these texts will address fundamentals that apply to almost all kinds of prose and prompt you to develop unglamorous good habits. steering the craft by ursula k. le guin spends each chapter on an element of writing, such as sound & rhythm or punctuation, and includes exercises to put her principles into practice. on writing well by william zinsser is a classic--its focus is nonfiction, but much of the advice is widely applicable. both of these texts are full of example excerpts from great english prose stylists. books like this aren't likely to introduce groundbreaking new ideas so much as train you to become more consciously aware of elements of style you may be less attentive to than you could be.

your only hard limitation as a writer is your own creativity; drive your stories like cars in GTA. you're here for a wild time, not a long time, and if it blows up you can just get a new one.

94 notes · View notes

tociminna · 6 months ago

Text

Pent

This is the first time I've posted a fic in its entirety on Tumblr, so naturally it is ~*dirty*~

Summary: Now that the orb has been temporarily silenced, Gale finds himself in a bit of a dilemma. A man cannot wander the Shadow-Cursed Lands in a constant haze of arousal, can he? No, quite impractical. Possibly unsafe.

He retreats to the privacy of his tent to... address the problem.

(This oneshot takes place between chapters 19-20 of my longfic, The Loom of Fate , but you don't need to have read it for this to be enjoyable. Niamh (mentioned) is my Tav, but I've left her undescribed.)

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 2,539

Pairing(s): Gale/his imagination/a custom Mage Hand 🥵😇

Tags: Masturbation, Fantasizing, Inappropriate Use of Mage Hand, Inappropriate Use of Grease Spell (I think they're completely appropriate uses tbh)

AO3 link: Pent (comments much appreciated!)

Story is under the cut! I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!!

He had walked for the better part of an hour, making several circuits of camp, the graveyard, the inn, with the goal of calming the wayward urges that insisted on rising in him. Scratch had followed, for the first lap, until he realized there would be no throwing of the ball and retired in disgust.

The dog was wiser than he was, Gale thought, returning. The walk had done very little good - the exuberant lovemaking still happening in the little room over the forge could be heard for a considerable distance. The entrance to his tent closed behind him with a faint swish, hardly audible over the crackle of torchlight. Camp, at least, was silent - Karlach was with Dammon in said room over the forge, Halsin was with his patient in the inn, and everyone else was asleep or in reverie.

He dropped to sit on his bedroll, running his hands through his hair, removing the tie that held it back. This was getting ridiculous, he thought, glancing down at the barely visible ripple of light emanating from the orb mark. He had always spent a rather outsized portion of his free time thinking of Niamh, looking at her - perfectly normal for one's romantic interest, he reasoned - but since the orb had been quelled his impulses had become quite absurd.

It was beyond time to do something about it. His plans would take a few days to complete; he would not approach her empty-handed. But he could not walk around in a perpetual fog of lust in the meantime. It was a distraction none of them could afford.

He lay back, head on his arm, his other hand lying on his stomach. There was the obvious route, of course. An old method, tried and true, inelegant, a bit messy, but effective. He had alternatives, as well - there were charms that could soothe desire, or remove it entirely. That… didn't feel right, somehow. At some point in the next few days he would declare himself. He would tell her how he felt, and if she felt the same then they might…

Oh no. They might… but he hadn't. Not since before Mystra, and that had been what, four years ago? Five? He'd be lucky to last thirty seconds, if he didn't fall apart and embarrass himself entirely. No, that would not do. That would not be nearly good enough for Niamh. There was only one way to prevent it.

Gale laughed at himself, under his breath. He'd always been very good at rationalizing the things he wanted to do. And he wanted to do this. For the last year he hadn't even been able to think about it without the threat of death and destruction. It had taken every scrap of magical creativity and willpower he'd had. Now all he had to do was… take the matter in hand, as it were.

He was already half-hard as he moved to undo the laces to his pants. He was slow, deliberate - now that he'd committed to it he had all night, after all. The laces came loose easily, and with a lift of his hips and a brief push he was free. The orb mark glowed steadily, with that strange underwater dimness he’d noticed in the last day or two. It wasn’t bright enough to be seen through his tent; that would have to do.

He found himself nearly trembling as he traced his fingertips between his ribs, down the skin of his side, across a hipbone, slowly getting to know his body again. The hair on his stomach was soft; he followed the trail of it down, to gently encircle his forefinger and thumb around the base of his cock.

He hissed in a breath, and brought that circle up, slowly up, as he hardened, barely making contact with the sensitive skin of his shaft. This was not a grip; it was a guide, and when he reached the head he was fully rigid, cock standing at attention.

It leaked, already, drops beading on the slit. He worked those drops in with his thumb and gasped as a spike of familiar pleasure went through him.

Too much, too fast. Gale took his hand away, and swiftly removed his clothes. Might as well get fully reacquainted, he figured. The light in the tent was dim, but enough to see by, and suddenly he wondered what Niamh was doing, alone in her tent. Was she asleep?

He had a sudden vision of her, lying on her bedroll, fully clothed but disheveled and flushed as she worked a hand between her legs, into the half-open front of her pants. What if, he thought, stroking an open palm down his chest, his stomach. His cock stood stiff on its own, angled up toward his navel, bobbing lightly with his heartbeat.

What if she was as overcome with desire as he was? He knew she felt it - she’d said so, more than once. Sweetheart , she’d called him. Tease . Shameless, he’d called her, delighted with her lack of inhibition. His hand wandered, past his hip. What if she tore those pants off in her frustration, ran her hands down her waist, her thighs… he stifled a moan as he pictured her spreading her legs, sliding her fingers inside herself, visibly glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

His hand moved, both hands, now moving up and down his own thighs. What if she took that lovely wetness and slid her fingers over her clit, he wondered, and gently cupped his balls in one hand. A low moan escaped him at this and he clapped his free hand over his mouth.

Quiet, you ass, he thought. He'd spent years living in a dormitory. He could do this silently if he had to. Had done many times.

Gale closed his eyes and gave himself to visions of her. He rolled his balls lightly in his palm - gods it felt good, it felt incredible - and ran the fingers of his other hand up his shaft, finally taking his erection in a firm grip.

He stroked, slow, as he thought of her, thought of how she might bite her lip in pleasure, thought of how she would raise those lovely hips to meet her hands, both hands now. The mark brightened, dimmed, brightened again, following the rhythm of his accelerating pulse.

He stroked faster, panting a little, wondering what sounds she would make. Wondering what sounds might he pull from her with his hands and his tongue and his cock - and in no time he was pumping in earnest, rocking his hips as he fucked his hand. He should slow down, he should, this was too fast, but gods it felt good. Too soon, almost immediately, a white curtain fell over his vision and he came, the spasms nearly folding him in half. He propped himself on an elbow, gasping ragged breaths as his spend shot freely, painting his chest and stomach and the bedroll.

Gale fell onto his back, breathless and a little disappointed. He dragged his fingers through the come on his chest - goodness, but there was a lot of it - before vanishing it with a gesture. That had been far too quick. He supposed it was to be expected, after more than a year of enforced abstinence.

His thoughts wandered again… would she finish too soon, as well? She had not been constrained as he had. Gale felt a grin spreading across his face as he thought of her in the last month or so, in her tent in the Underdark, suppressing moans of pleasure as she touched herself and thought of him.

If she had done so she'd been very quiet about it - he was a light sleeper, since the orb. But it was a pleasant fantasy, to be sure, and he followed the thread of it for several sweetly enticing minutes until he found himself stirring again.

He had not been quite sure he'd get a second pass at this so soon - he was not a young man, not any longer. But it had been a long time, and gods did he want her. He couldn't remember ever being this consumed by desire, with any other partner. She was different - the way he felt about her was different - and it added a depth and savor to every thought, every moment.

This time he did mean to make it last, at least for longer than a few minutes. He concentrated for a moment, entwining a pair of disparate spells, compressing here and extending there, and… there it was.

A Mage Hand hovered over his thigh, barely visible. He'd found while developing this spell that a glowing spectral hand was not much of a mood enhancer, at least not for him. Thankfully he'd recovered enough of his talents to make this work again.

Gale relaxed, fully, throwing an arm behind his head. He meant to enjoy this, to recover some stamina, to remember what it was like to have a body that was a pleasure to live in. The mage hand stroked his thigh, gripping lightly, and he eased his legs apart enough to give it some access.

It was tempting to throw caution to the wind and let the hand take him in every possible way. It had been an even longer time since he had received, outside the Weave, and he had always loved it. He imagined the hand opening him up, slipping inside him, stroking and working against that hidden sweet spot - best not. That would stretch even his ability to keep quiet.

Instead, the hand stroked him softly from knee to hip, alternating legs, until he was fully hard again. It avoided his cock, still, for the moment, squeezing the meat of his inner thigh, brushing lightly against his balls so that he arched slightly. It teased, played, and he closed his eyes and thought of Niamh again.

She was kneeling next to him, now, naked and splendid with her hair down, her eyes wide with arousal and her lips sweetly parted around the syllable of his name. It was her hand that touched him - her hand that stroked and petted, her hand that wandered over the planes of his chest and stomach, her hand that finally closed around his achingly hard length.

This hand was a special one. He'd designed it to self-lubricate, and it did now, a warm welling of oil that let the hand slide perfectly up and down his shaft. His mouth opened in a silent moan as the heat of it took over his senses, calling an answering fire from within.

His eyes were still closed. It was her hand that glided so smoothly… wait, no, even better - not her hand. In his mind's eye now she rode him, those plush, muscled thighs flush against him, the perfect curve of her hips rolling as she slowly lifted herself and sank again onto his hard cock.

“Oh gods,” he whispered, falling into the fantasy, the hand working, shifting its grip to match the images in his mind. She rocked against him a little faster now, almost too tight, so incredibly wet. Rivulets of warm oil pooled, his balls and the hair on his stomach damp with it, and he put a hand over his mouth again to catch the groan rumbling out of his throat.

If only he could feel the weight of her on him, feel the heat of her skin, see the little frown of concentration on her face as she rode him. Oh, if only he could hear her, put his hands on her, put his mouth on her… the hand sped in its strokes, audible now with a faint squelching sound, incredibly lewd for how quiet it was.

His breath was coming in irregular gasps as the hand worked, varying its grip, tight at the base and a looser, swirling pull at the head. His hips were moving now of their own volition and he let go a helpless whimper at the thought of her sitting on his face while the hand pumped his cock, imagining her luscious scent and taste as he licked her until she begged for release.

He was close now, close, hands clutching the fabric of the bedroll as his hips bucked, the hand motionless now as he thrust upward into it. A coil of heat wound itself inside him, little shocks of intense pleasure coursing down every nerve to feed the tension until he thought he might snap with it.

The coil wound in him, tighter, as he thought of tasting her, his beard soaked as she ground against his tongue and his chin, as her thighs tensed around his face and she called his name, hips convulsing.

The coil snapped and he came, his back arching entirely off the bedroll, letting loose a sharp cry as he spilled into the hand’s pistoning grasp. He managed to muffle any further sound into his closed fist as the hand slowed its strokes, grip still firm, easing him through the deep shudders of his aftershocks.

A moment later and he sank back into the ground, breathing heavily, dismissing the hand. The chill in the air reasserted itself, stealing the heat of his body through the light sheen of sweat that covered him.

Well. That had been… educational, he thought, cleaning the mess and pulling his sleep clothes on. The stamina improvement had been quite satisfactory; if time allowed he’d have to continue, to stay in practice.

He laughed at himself again, at this transparent attempt at justification. It had felt good, so good, in a way that probably had much to do with his year-long deprivation. It was natural to want to do it again.

Gale rolled onto his side, pulling the covers with him, thinking. It had been more than a year, if he thought purely in terms of the physical. During his time with Mystra he had forsworn all corporeal forms of sex, including any self-satisfaction. She had not preferred it and therefore it was not preferable - or that was what he’d told himself.

It could not be that way with Niamh. He would give her all he had - in the Weave or out of it - body, mind and soul, if only she would take it. A tremor of uncertainty went through him. If only she would take it.

Another tremor, deeper, of self-doubt, as he wondered whether it was right to even try. He didn't want to leave her, to leave any of them, but if he had to… would he be the author of unnecessary pain, by drawing closer to her before dying? The thought of hurting her was painful, nearly intolerable.

He remembered what Karlach had said: have you asked her what she wants? It had been a straightforward bit of insight, upending all his useless speculation and rationalizing, all his attempts to anticipate every possible outcome. Moreover, it had been correct. He would abide by his original intention and ask.

Sleep passed by his tent for the next several hours, ignored, as he thought and planned and prepared. It had to be right for her. It had to be perfect. He could not give her less.

#gale smut #gale dekarios #bg3 fanfic #gale fanfic #gale of waterdeep #smut #bg3 smut

47 notes · View notes