#seeing it in the flesh is something else Fr

[rye-kin]

Highlight of my life was seeing the portrait of my favorite author by my favorite artist of all time…bro!!!

(Honestly I’m still gagged bro,,, I seen her leik twice or three times already… jaw was on the floor made my parents bring me all the way back in 2020 and I think sometimes I can’t fully comprehend what I saw LOL)

RLS and John Singer Sargent fan girls UNITE

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Sub!armin x reader collegeau

(PLEASE BABES IM BEGGNG YOUUUU🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾)

For Free

Tags: Sub!Armin x Fem!Reader, college!au, modern!au, nsfw, mdni, virgin!armin, overstimulation, light choking, vaginal sex, face riding, a small side of eremika,

Synopsis: Virgin!Armin doesn’t know how to get his dick wet :)

An: I’d love to start writing more for AOT if anyone else has any reqs they wanna see me flesh out <3 I don’t write sub men that often, so I hope this was satisfactory. Also, can we be so fr rn? Men who are nerdy and have nerdy interests are sooooo 🤭

"So, as I was saying. The artic also produces icebergs, so hypothetically speaking, if we could cut down on pollution and light pollution, we could have a slim shot of repairing-"

"Armin, I am begging you. Please shut the fuck up and eat your food." Eren annoyingly snaps at him while rolling his eyes. He was currently stabbing at his portion of chicken aggressively with his fork.

"I was listening to him. Don't be an ass." You retort while elbowing Eren in his side. Your eyes then fixate back on Armin. "You're saying that we potentially could repair the artic to an extent?" You prompt for him to go on his little tangent about the artic and ocean.

If someone asked you why you were so interested, you'd make up some lie about how you're writing a paper on the effects of pollution and global warming. In reality, you actually just loved listening to your cute blonde friend spill his heart out about his hyper fixations.

Your eyes glass over as Armin goes back to explaining to you the intricacies of the environment and global warming. Your mind wanders to how he’d look if you just got on your knees for him and gave him the best head of his life. You could almost bet that he’d be the type to whimper.

“You need to get laid like it’s detrimental at this point.” Eren grumbles while shaking his head. “You quite literally are putting off an energy that scares away the hoes.”

“And what hoes are you trying to attract?” Mikasa asks as she finally settles in next to Eren. She was running late to lunch after helping Historia out carrying somethings to the teacher’s lounge.

“None-! But if I were, Armin would scare them away.” Eren replies, and you notice how his hand snaked underneath the table towards Mikasa’s thigh.

“Stop being such an ass. He’s just passionate about something. No one treated you like shit when you went through your little skating phase.” You speak up once again, getting real sick of Eren’s pissy attitude.

“It’s okay, yn. We can talk about this later.” Armin finally speaks up, giving you a small defeated smile that crushes your soul. Underneath the table, you gently bump your foot against his foot.

His face doesn’t show it, but his heart flutters in his chest as he bumps his foot back against yours. It’s such a small act of affection, but it’s your guy’s way of just checking in with each other. Essentially, it was a way to silently say, “I’m here for you.”

“Armin, you’re still a virgin, aren’t you?” Eren asks as he takes an aggressive bite from his food.

Your foot ever so gently slides up Armin’s leg, making his breath hitch in his throat. His face flushes a bright red as he avoids everyone’s gaze.

“I don’t know why that matters.” He mutters quietly, not liking where Eren was going with this.

“I’m taking that as a yes then.” Eren continues. “Any reason in particular why you haven’t slept with anyone yet?”

Your eyes focus on Armin’s face as you’re curious as well. Armin isn’t ugly. He’s sweet, smart, and incredibly patient. Girls have approached him in the past, but he always just opts to keep them at arms length.

“I just..” Your foot gently presses into his inner thigh, seeing how far he’d let you take this. Armin immediately coughs as if trying to hide his reaction to your blatant flirting. “… haven’t found the right one.. I guess.”

“The right one? Armin, you need to just get it out of the way. I’ll literally pay someone to sleep with you.” Eren half-laughs, which means he’s probably only half-joking.

“That’s prostitution, Eren, and it’s illegal.” Armin replies with a small frown, not liking that his best friend is quite literally offering to pay for his virginity to be taken.

“I’d do it for free.” You casually offer with a small shrug. Armin’s eyes go wide as he stares at you from across the table, and Eren chokes on his soda. Mikasa just has a calm smile on her face as she watches this all go down.

“Of course you would. You’re practically riding his dick all the time anyways.” Eren retorts after he gains his composure back.

“Yep, you’re right. Now, I’m going to go do it for real too.” You respond as you stand from your chair. Your hand reaches over and grabs Armin’s hand before leading him out of the mess hall.

His hand is trembling in yours, and he can’t find the words to say right now. His heart is beating so loudly that he almost can’t hear. The only thing on his mind was that you’re finally noticing him.

Armin turned down the girls who tried to flirt with him because he has his eyes set on you. He’s had the fattest crush on you since you met their little friend group in college.

Not knowing how to handle his feelings, he had once confided in Eren and Mikasa. Both of them said it was stupid obvious that you liked him back, but he refused to believe it. How could a girl as pretty and confident as you like him??

You let out an exasperated sigh as you shut your dorm door behind you, locking it so no one else can bother you too. Armin’s entire face is red, and he’s fumbling with his fingers.

“You don’t have to be so nervous. You know I was kidding, right?” You softly laugh at him while taking your shoes off. You then crawl up onto your bed and settle down. “I just was tired of listening to Eren, and I figured you needed a break too…”

Armin can’t help the way his demeanor subtly drops. He feels so naive for thinking you were actually going to take his virginity. You probably detested the thought of doing so- He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly before he also sits down on your bed.

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” He mumbles quietly, and he keeps his gaze away from you.

You quickly pick up on his change in attitude. He almost seems… disappointed? Your eyes lock for a moment, and you observe his pretty blue eyes looking back into yours. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he's giving you puppy dog eyes.

"Don't tell me you're disappointed." You lightly joke, lips curling into a smile as you gently nudge him.

Armin lets out a soft exhale of amusement, and he clams up for a moment. "Well.. I.. can't say that I wasn't a little bit excited." He admits sheepishly.

"Excited for me to take your virginity?" You prompt, shifting your position on your bed to where you and Armin's faces are a few inches apart. "I didn't think you really cared about that sort of thing."

"Sex?" Armin asks while his eyebrows pinch together slightly. He's giving a small cute pout. "I know it's hard to believe, but I am still a guy.."

"Oh? Is this when you give me the spill about having urges and desires too?" You tease him, and he's slowly leaning back against your pillows. Your body carefully shifts on top of his.

His heart is hammering through his chest - his nervousness and excitement making him feel like he's going to explode. He just hoped you didn't notice how painfully hard he was already. He had been subtly concealing a boner since you offered to take his virginity.

"Is that what you want to hear?" He asks as he gazes up at you. At this point you're straddling his waist. Your hands are pressed to his chest.

"You know... yeah, tell me what urges and desires the infamous nerdy Armin Arlert has." You raise an eyebrow at him with a lopsided grin, excited to hear about what fantasies he conjures up in that cute head of his.

"Well... I think a lot about you..."

"Yeah..? What about me?" Your hands slowly rub up and down his chest, and you can feel his hard on pressing desperately against your thigh.

"J-just about..." He's stuttering now, and his face is flushing a deep red as you're not giving him must leeway to escape this. "Your lips... how soft they'd feel."

"You think about kissing me?" Your hips shift ever so subtly, causing a small gasp from Armin.

"Amongst other things..." He breathes out, but he's given no chance to gather himself before you take his wrists and pin them to the sides of his head.

You lean down over him, hovering your lips right over his. "If you want it... take it." You whisper softly, your breath ghosting over his lips, causing him to shiver.

A small whimper escapes him before he leans up, and he captures your lips in a sweet, innocent kiss. You ease up on his lap, allowing for him to control the kiss for a moment.

He kisses you needily - so desperate to feel more, but he isn't quite sure on how to initiate that. Your lips are as soft as he imagined, and you taste like strawberry poundcake. He's already so addicted. It was his first kiss, and you were already rotting him from the inside out.

Your hands release his wrists, and you cup his jaw instead, taking control of the kiss. Your teeth tease his bottom lip, showing him exactly how to achieve what he wants. Your tongues clash together, and his hands find your hips. His thumbs rub into your hip bones, loving the feeling of you in his lap.

After a while, you finally part from him. A small thin string of saliva connects you two as you're both panting, trying to recover from the steamy kiss.

"What else is do you want?" You whisper softly, intending to give this man whatever he so asks for.

"I- I want..." His voice is breathy, overcome with intense lust as he lifts his hips up, hoping you'll get the memo.

"Sayy it." You taunt with an evil smile.

"Please- I... I want you to use me." He whines, and he tilts his head back slightly as his bulge grinds so nicely against your core.

Your hips begin to roll, adding on to the fiction for both of you. You can tell through his pants that Armin isn't exactly small like most people would believe him to be since he's not exactly tall.

"Mmmnph~" His breathing is labored as he feels his tip already making a mess in his boxers. He quickly grabs your hips and stills them before he can make a real mess.

"What is it-? Did I do something wrong?" You ask in a concerned tone before you realize just how red his face his. He looks so disheveled already. His blonde hair was a mess upon his head.

"N-no... it was really good." He admits quietly. "Too good... I didn't want to..." His voice trails off, and he looks away from you with an embarrassed look.

"Oh.. I see.." You reply with a small grin, finding it cute how worked up he gets. You slowly ease your pants and panties down your legs, and you toss them onto the ground.

“Do you ever watch porn while thinking about these things?” You ask, going back to his fantasies.

“Mmm.. sometimes, but the mental image is enough most times.” His eyes glance down towards your thighs and lower half. “Some… sometimes I imagine you riding my face…”

“Oh?” You prompt with a small smile. “Do you want me to sit on your face?”

Armin nods his head quickly, and he scoots his body down lower, already prepping for you to take your rightful seat on his tongue. He’s nervous about eating you out for the first time, but he’s nearly drooling at the thought of you putting your weight down on his head. He wonders just how sweet you’ll taste.

“Is that a yes?”

“Please..” He asks so sweetly. You have to reward him.

You crawl up to where his head is laid back against your mattress, placing your legs on either side of his face, and your fingers comb through his messy blonde hair. He looks up at you through his eyelashes with a truly pitiful gaze.

“Tap my thigh three times if you can’t breathe, okay sweet boy?” You ask to make sure he understands. He nods his head without a second thought before leaning up to press a kiss against your cunt.

Eren had talked about eating Mikasa out before to Armin… despite Armin’s many, many attempts to make him shut up. Eren would tell Armin that he wouldn’t stop until she was a shaky mess on top of him. That was Armin’s goal. He wanted to feel your thighs tremble from his tongue.

“Good boy…” You purr as you slowly lower yourself onto his mouth. Armin immediately seems to just know what to do as if it was pure instincts coursing through him.

He starts off slow, pressing gentle kisses against your cunt before he starts to lap at you. A hum fleas him as he savors the taste of you. Just as sweet as he imagined.

With his tongue, he finds the small button of nerves at the top of your cunt. He immediately knows what it is by the way your body jolts upwards a bit, and a small whine falls from your lips.

He reaches up, and he pulls a bit more down onto his tongue. He doesn’t like how you’re hovering — as if you’re scared to hurt him. He wants to feel you sit - not hover.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” You murmur quietly to him, which only makes him more determined to make you sit.

“You’re not going to hurt me. Please, I want you to sit.” He pulls your hips again. “Use me.” He whines as he starts to gently suckle on your clit, making you jolt again.

His hands massage the flesh of your ass, and he starts to force your hips to rock back and forth while he flattens his tongue against your slippery folds.

You taste so fucking divine. Armin’s completely lost in your essence. His eyes are fluttered shut as he’s licking, kissing, suckling every thing you’ll allow him to.

Your hand is entangled in his pretty blonde hair as your hips are rolling back and forth. His nose bumps against your swollen clit, making you clench around nothing. You’ve never experienced head like this — not when most men make it sound like a chore. Armin sees it as a blessing.

The sounds in the room sound like they’re straight from a porno as your cunt sounds so sticky and drenched. Armin’s making soft hums and whines as he’s eating you like a starved man. Your moans fill the room — not caring if anyone could hear you next door.

“Just like that.. f-fuck.. gonna make me finish.” You pant, unable to even think straight while he’s plunging is tongue in and out of you.

Armin flutters his eyes open to look up at you. You’re so fucking pretty. How did he get so lucky? The way you’re completely coming undone on top of him has him literally trying to hump the air. His neglected cock sits flush against his tummy, leaking clear pre-cum all over himself and his clothes.

“Armin-!” You cry his name as you clench around air. More juices seep from your weeping hole, and he’s quick to clean you up with his tongue.

Your breath staggers as you come down from your orgasm. Of all people, Armin Arlert was the first to make you finish off head.

He’s not done though. Your thighs haven’t trembled yet. His hands grip around you, forcing you to keep gyrating on his tongue. He’s getting absolutely nasty with it, desperate to make you spent.

“O-oh god- wait, Armin— I f-finished.” You try to tell him, thinking he didn’t catch on, but he doesn’t relent.

His eyes almost have a smoldering gaze as he looks up at you with his mouth occupied with your cunt. His hands are kneading at the fat of your ass before he drags one finger towards your entrance.

“H-hold on. Wait- I-“ You’re nervously babbling, already feeling overstimulated. So when he slips his digit deep into your sopping wet cunt, and he curls it juuust right… you’re a shaking mess on top of him.

He smiles against your core, knowing now that he can stop. He slips his finger out, and he pressed a saccharine kiss to your pussy before tapping on your thigh.

Your body is trembling as you slowly lean up from his face, and you’re trying to stabilize your breath.

Armin just looks up at you, waiting for feedback on his little performance.

“You did such a good job. Good boy.” You praise before pressing light kisses along his cheeks. You can feel the way his face heats up when you praise him like that.

You finally press a kiss to his lips after a few moments, tasting yourself on his tongue. Armin lifts his hips up again, reminding you that he’s so painfully pent up. He’s aching for release.

Your hands find the waistband of his jeans, and you carefully unbutton them while continuing to intertwine your lips with his. He whines when you part from the kiss.

Once his jeans and boxers are off, you finally get to admire his pretty cock slapped against his tummy. His tip was coated in sweltering pre-cum. Just to tease him, you scoot down and give his tip a small kitten lick, tasting the sweet and salty taste of his arousal.

“Mmph- yn-“ Your name sounds like a plea when he whines it. His cock immediately flexes underneath your tongue. You giggle and give him another small kitten lick. “Ah~ please…”

“Please what?” You ask, looking up at him with a mischievous grin.

“Need to b-be inside you.. please miss.” He whines so shamelessly, abandoning all his previous embarrassment. He can’t afford to be shy when he’s craving the feeling of your gummy walls tightening around him.

“Since you asked so nicely.” You scoot your hips back up, and you grind against him a few times, getting his cock nice and coated in your slick.

Armin’s practically fisting at the bedsheets. Feeling your bare pussy rubbing against him was soooo much better than when you were still clothed.

“Miss..” He whimpers softly as his hips flutter upwards to rub against you in an act of desperation. “Miss, can you… take your shirt off please..?”

You gaze at him puzzled for a moment. It was an odd time to make that sort of request, but who were you to deny such a needy plea?

Your hands pull your shirt above your head, and you toss it off the side of your bed. Your hips go back to rocking against him as his tip is kissing strings of pre-cum to your clit.

He admires the way your black lacy bra sits flush against your skin. It only solidifies in his mind just how out of his league you are. He’ll never be able to comprehend just why you’re deciding to give him a chance.

“M-may I..?” He asks as his hands reach for the backside of your bra. As much as he loves the way the fabric cups your breasts so beautifully, he’s after something else.

“Go ahead, baby.” You answer him, and he’s quick to unhook your bra as if he had practiced before.

Eren definitely taught him how, but you don’t need to know that!

Armin watches with wide, excited eyes are your breasts bounce from the confines of your bra. His hand gently kneads on one, loving how your soft pillowy flesh filled his hand.

His eyes gaze upward at you as he leans in and captures your nipple into his mouth. His mouth feels attentive as he carefully swirls his tongue around the pebble, and he gently sucks on it while his eyes fall shut.

Maybe he’s died. This must be what heaven feels like. The only thing that’ll make this better is if..

One of your hands entangle in his hair, and the other hand reaches behind you. Your fingers wrap around his length before guiding him inside you.

Armin immediately moans pitifully around your mound. He has to detach from you to focus all his attention on not busting inside you immediately like the pathetic virgin he is.

“Are you alright, baby?” You ask him with a devious grin. If you weren’t focused on teasing him so much, you’d probably be as much of a mess as he is.

“S-so tight.. fuck yn- I can’t-!” He’s nearly crying as you sink yourself down on top of him, until he’s buried to the hilt.

You try to lift your hips up, but Armin’s hands wrap around your hips, and he forces you right back down onto his lap. “N-not yet. Please miss-“ You’re honestly taken aback by how strong he is. Even though he doesn’t look it, he could overpower you if he wanted. “D-don’t wanna come yet.”

“So sensitive.” You purr as you lean down towards him. Your hand cups his cheek, and you stroke his face with your thumb. “I thought you wanted to be used, baby.”

“I do.. I just… don’t want to leave you unsatisfied.”

“Oh, what a gentleman.” You laugh softly before pressing a kiss to his nose. “Well, if you finish and I’m not done yet, I’ll just keep going. I’ll use you again and again until I’m spent.”

His cock literally twitches inside of you from your words, and he looks up at you with wide eyes. He feels nervous yet so damn excited. His legs are literally flinching from his nerves.

His hand loosen up, and you get to work, riding him like you two wouldn’t see each other tomorrow.

You’re just so fucking wet and tight. Armin knows there’s no way he’s going to last long, not when you feel like paradise between your legs.

Within the minute, Armin is emptying himself deep inside you. “G-gods! Fuck, miss… ‘m sorry.” You give him an understanding smile, and you help ride out his orgasm. “‘m sorry.” He whimpers again before he takes your nipple back into his mouth, showing you just how sorry he is.

He’s a sorry man who can’t get enough of your delicious cunt milking him until you’re done for.

His cum seeps out and coats his cock as you continue to bounce yourself up and down. Armin’s a complete whiny mess as he’s trying to cope with how completely sensitive his cock is.

“Ah~ fuck miss… mmmph~ sooo good.” He’s completely babbling praises to your sopping wet cunt.

“You… ngh.. like being used like this?” You ask, and your hand lightly wraps around his neck, testing the waters. You don’t squeeze at all, just showing that you could if you wanted to.

“I love it.. wanna be yours, miss. Please, make me yours.” He pleas. You’re completely enamored with how much of a mess he is. He’s truly begging to be yours.

“Mine.” You mumble as you feel your stomach beginning to coil. With each rock of your hips, you’re growing closer and closer.

Unlatching your hand from his neck, you lean in and suck love bites into his neck, laying your claim on him.

Armin doesn’t ever cuss, but he has a complete sailor’s mouth when he’s balls deep inside you. “F-fuck.. miss-! cumming!” He warns before his cock is shooting into you once again.

His legs are shaking beneath you as his orgasm washes over him completely once again. His cock is weakly twitching inside you, so terribly sensitive that it almost hurts.

“Wan’ me to finish on you?” You whisper into his ear while your hips are desperately moving up and down. Your poor bed is creaking with each movement, and Armin’s just barely hanging onto his sanity by a thread.

“P-please… please cum on me.. wan’ to feel you.” His voice is a mere whimper, and he carefully reaches between your two. His thumb presses against your clit before he rubs in slow circles.

“Fuck— just like that.. goood boy..” You can’t even find your breath as you’re chasing after your high.

Your entire body gyrates on top of him once your orgasm finally crashes over you. Your vision is nearly doubled from how hard you finish on top of him.

A whiny groan leaves Armin’s lips as he feels you clenching around him. His body is so hyper sensitive. He feels like a million little lightning bolts are striking him all over. His skin feels like electricity against yours.

You take a moment to catch your breath finally as you stay on his lap. Both of you are completely disheveled together.

“Did I… do good?” He quietly asks you, hoping that it was as good for you as it was for him.

“Did soooo good.” You smile and press a kiss to his cheek.

He smiles softly, and he leans into your touch. “Can we get cleaned up now..? I had a thought provoking epiphany while I was coming inside you about how we could help the atmosphere.”

Oh, to be loved by a nerdy man.

[yanderes-galore]

Having thoughts about Overblotting in Twisted Wonderland causing darling's regular lover to turn yandere, a bit like the yandere infection AU. Can I get a version of that for Idia Shroud?

So it looks like this doesn't take place in the main story... So I'll see what I can put together for this AU? Here's my favorite TWST character ever... He just like me fr 🤭

IF ANYONE HAS IDEAS TO PROPERLY FLESH OUT THIS AU, LET ME KNOW, I LIKE THE THOUGHT OF IT. I HAVE SOME IDEAS FOR THE ORIGIN OF IT BUT I THINK I'LL WAIT FOR THIS TO POST FIRST.

❗️Possible TWST Book 6 Spoilers Below❗️

Yandere! Overblot! Idia Shroud

(Yandere Infection AU Version)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Violence, Stalking, Kidnapping, Clingy behavior, Attempted murder briefly mentioned, Consensual turned forced relationship.

If we're to make an AU centered around this... Maybe more blot occurs from a magic user's obsession?

Blot itself is already tied to emotional connections if not artificially started.

So... Maybe characters overblotting due to their obsession starts due to being given something?

For example, love potions or some sort of magic enhancement that has severe side effects?

I like to imagine maybe this infection started because Idia was researching blot.

His curse naturally makes him burn off blot... yet maybe while testing some or trying a new enhancement, he starts to act weird.

Idia doesn't interact with people much.

The only people close to him are Ortho... and you.

In this AU, you and Idia are in an established relationship.

He doesn't have many friends due to his job and antisocial nature.

Yet you still managed to connect with him, perhaps another soul similar to him in interests and nature?

Idia didn't think he'd fall for anyone that isn't fictional.

But he somehow managed to score you, someone he can't help but feel giddy around.

Maybe you're the prefect sent from another world?

You have no idea when you'll be getting home... So you decided to befriend Idia in a club.

Then said meetings eventually became hang outs...

Then Idia found himself catching feelings.

He was no doubt a mess when confessing, too.

He knows he probably shouldn't fall for someone from another world... but it's right out of an isekai plot and he can't help it...!

You're so cute too... He just had to make a move before anyone else did...!

Even if Idia knew a relationship with you wouldn't last long, it's the best thing that's ever happened to him.

You bring him out to places other than clubs at school, you make him come out of his shell...

He even often invites you to Ignihyde just so he can have your attention.

Something tells me Idia enjoys private cuddles with you while gaming or watching something.

You never judge him... and that's only one of the reasons he adores you.

So, honestly, your relationship starts mutual.

You and Idia love each other, Idia even using his tech to watch your every move and help with the recent overblotting situation.

Yet he never thought he could overblot with his curse.

It burns too fast in his system, if anything it should just power him.

However... What if Idia was researching blot to find better ways to help you defend yourself against it....

He knows you aren't as affected by it as magic users, but the miasma and strength of phantoms can still harm you.

Last thing Idia wants is you being harmed.

So, in secret, Idia starts finding ways to benefit you due to the recent Overblot issues.

At first it's mostly easy since he's connected to S.T.Y.X.

Yet maybe for this AU... Things start going wrong.

While researching one of the Overblot stones Grim is so fond of to try and weaponize blot, Idia ends up catching something.

It's... a different sort of blot than the others, maybe?

Even the stone has a strange pink tint when he collects it before Grim gobbles it.

Idia doesn't notice the effects at first.

Sure, he's a bit lethargic... but that could just be his sleep schedule.

Plus... All symptoms seem to go away when he's with you.

Idia's not worried, if blot is truly the issue then his curse should take care of it.

Yet... That doesn't seem to be the issue completely.

Idia's symptoms get worse the longer he's away from you.

It's akin to a lovesickness... Making Idia miss you more and more.

It starts as yearning, a more intense feeling than what he's used to.

Idia often watches your every move through his tech... trying his hardest to distract himself with his games.

Yet he keeps trying to experiment with that strange Overblot stone... and he can't get you out of his head.

He suddenly becomes more clingy too.

Idia is normally never seen out of his dorm until you visit him or go to clubs.

When you try to go to class, Idia slips in to sit by you.

Your boyfriend barely uses the tablet at times, just leaning against you like a lovesick puppy.

If you look closely, his golden eyes swirl a certain darkness in them... but you can mistake it for something else.

A trick of the mind, maybe....

During lunch Idia cuddles against you, whining about just heading back to his dorm.

Perhaps he even attempts PDA due to the needy nature he's developing, kissing your neck gently as he begs for your attention.

You can barely go to Ramshackle with how intense Idia becomes.

You're always dragged to Ignihyde, Idia pushing you on his bed and cuddling up to you.

Ortho is no doubt going to notice something is up, yet even he struggles to comprehend it.

His brother has a strangely high amount of blot accumulation in his system... Yet that shouldn't be the case?

The curse should burn it away... yet this blot clings to his system, maybe even around his heart.

Idia's behavior is far from normal for a boyfriend.

You can barely pry him off you nowadays, the man clinging to you and kissing you as he whispers about needing you.

Later, violence develops.

Suddenly Ace, Deuce, and even Grim are threats.

Soon other dorm leaders are trying to steal you.

To Idia, everyone becomes an enemy but you.

Ortho tries to help diagnose Idia running scans and tests, maybe even suggesting Idia get himself checked at S.T.Y.X.

Idia, however, despises the idea of leaving you at NRC.

Is he an idiot or something? Letting others run off with you?

No, to Idia, the perfect love story would involve locking you away with him.

If he goes to S.T.Y.X... You'll be coming with him.

Which means, no one else will get to have you.

Surely Ortho will understand his older brother's plight?

Honestly, when you refuse to go with him to S.T.Y.X or someone pushes things too far by doing something as simple as asking to hang out...

Idia may just Overblot.

It's... Almost unlike his Overblot in Book 6.

To make it different for this new AU, the nlot that comes from him holds a pinkish color mixed with the black.

It's an Overblot made from negative emotions still... but this time it's obsession or jealousy.

Idia has a vague sense of awareness.

All he really cares about is finding you and preventing others from having you.

He burns hot, his curse finally feeding off the blot he's creating.

The miasma that soaks the air contains the same weird tint... maybe it even has a sickly sweet smell.

It makes everyone around him tired... Yet it's just as toxic as other Overblots.

Idia isn't going to calm down until he finds you.

Even then, he won't be knocked out of his Overblot until someone forces him... or his curse finally burns it all.

In the meantime... There's a good chance Idia might accidentally poison his partner due to his Overblot.

He's aware this is wrong... but can't seem to control it.

This isn't a normal Overblot... It's something different.

It... almost feels tamed once he has you in his sights.

I can see Idia trapping you against his overheating body, growling through his mask as he fully intends to level NRC if they get too close.

The phantom he creates probably still resembles Ortho or Hades... but that's up to you.

Either way, It's going to take some strong magic to soothe him... Even then, a cure is still needed.

You heard that right... I feel Idia would be able to be cleansed of his blot... but would still need a cure.

This love sickness still clings to him... Without purification, he'll just Overblot again.

Idia ends up being dragged off to S.T.Y.X... Probably due to his parents' order.

After all... The Shroud Family isn't supposed to Overblot.

This... is strange.

You yourself are probably taken in because it's assumed you were the cause.

You're researching the traces of blot on you collected and studied.

If they're lucky... They'll take the odd stone with you to lock away and study.

Meanwhile, you and Idia are kept away from one another.

Idia keeps crying out, begging to see you.

He claims this is betrayal, that he'll figure something out!

No one lets him out of his cell....

This leads Idia stew in his bitter obsession... Practically growling like an animal.

If not properly vented or purified... He could overblot again.

Part of Idia yearns for it... It felt surprisingly pleasurable.

Plus... if he Overblots again... Then he can take you back.

Not even S.T.Y.X will hold him back forever...

So hopefully a cure is made soon for the sake of both of you.

"You don't get it...! THEY'RE. MINE!"

[hivemuthur]

Okay, admittedly I kinda got some brain issues and forgot that Viktor was supposed to be shy in this, so he is not :v But yeh, I'm mish-mashing things again, here's how it went:

Ebb and Flow

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! okay I'm gonna say this once: this has a lot of ass in it. It also has Viktor being pegged, but he is sort of a power bottom and sort of not, I truly do not know who acts as who here. Also rimming and fingering. These are all my sins, for now :v

word count: 4K

author’s note: THANKS Reagan, I had no interest in pegging in my life and now I DO. If you receive anonymous threats it's my boyfriend :') But fr, thank you @a-babe-without-a-name for trusting me and being so brave and making me brave in the process lol. And Anon, uh, what can I say, if you had something cute in mind, sorry for disgracing your request like this. Also I know it's not Freakday yet. That's it, I have nothing to justify this.

—

It’s hard to decide which phase of getting to know someone is the best. The beginning is, of course, exciting—thrilling in its novelty—caught between the pressure of doing your absolute best without overdoing it, and the giddy pleasure of peeling back the layers of someone else, who’s doing exactly the same.

But then, when the dust settles and a few things fall into place, there’s the feeling of mutual agreement—the ever-growing filling each other’s gaps phenomenon, the question of where I end, and you begin quieting the turbulent waters. That’s when the real unpeeling begins.

So when Viktor asked for the first time, you weren’t surprised. It felt akin to pride—or maybe accomplishment—the way the question landed: unabashed, trusting. A noncommittal offer at first, something for you to think about, though it had long been foreshadowed by the press of his ass into your face and the sounds his mouth made, etched in your brain as favourites.

The conjoined open-heart surgery—where you are both the one doing the slicing and the one being sliced open—started long ago. Possibly that one time Viktor’s tongue strayed from your clit, lower, then even lower, and didn’t stop. You gasped, hips stilling. That’s when he said, “Relax. It’s nice, trust me.” Seeing your expression—caught between curiosity and complete bafflement—he added, “Do I have your consent or not?”

And you’re still not sure if it was the eagerness in his eyes or the virtue of his tone that convinced you. But you nodded and shifted, hugging your legs beneath the crease of your knees, and let him in.

Since then, a few more things have been uncovered—scrubbed clean, one layer at a time. For Viktor, it was the revelation that you were willing to go anywhere, as long as he was holding your hand. For you, it was the quiet surprise that he was never opposed to your wandering fingers—one, sometimes two—so long as he could pay you in the currency of startled gasps and broken moans.

Another realisation, more private: having your face hugged by his ass cheeks, your nose breathing in the scent at the base of his spine, your mouth planting soft kisses where his flesh was most tender—that has become one of your most sacred places to dwell. To breathe in those spaces that no one else has wandered into—absolute blessing.

How has this gone from gentle teasing and suggestive purrs to this—you’d lie if you said you hadn’t the faintest idea. Somewhere between Viktor’s breathy touch me and the first time he said, “that feels good,” until it finally became a carefully weaved, “how would you feel about…”—that’s when expectation began to root itself in your mind. Slowly, at first, like a seed pressed into the dark. By now it’s bloomed into something very much alive and kicking.

You’re still in your safe space, for now—on your knees, hands firm on Viktor’s angular hips, thumbs spreading one of the very few soft venues of him open. Your neck aches from the angle, but it’s a dull thing, drowned out by the heat licking at your belly. You hold him there, balanced carefully against the dresser’s edge, and your tongue glides another slow, reverent circle around his entrance.

He twitches, shoulders rippling compulsively every time you hum. One hand braces against the top of the dresser, the other curling back to sink into your hair. He grabs a handful of it, the contrast between wood and softness under his fingers adding to the tension burning through his spine. And oh, he doesn’t mean to, but he pushes you in, unable to help it.

“Mmnh…” Viktor breathes, his hips shifting—subtle, barely-there, but still chasing. “You’re… very good at this.” His voice stumbles over a moan, turned more breath than words. “Do not—don’t stop.”

You hum in response, a sound that makes his thighs tense and one heel lift just slightly off the floor. He’s trembling—such a small gesture you might miss it, if you weren’t pressed this close. You lick again, flatter this time, then push the tip of your tongue in, just a little breach, feeling him shudder and moan, soft and high.

The harness at your hips feels heavy, weighty with promise. The cock attached—a beautiful unfleshed contradiction of confidence and untested nerves—rests against your thigh, forgotten for the moment, though you’re achingly aware of it. And Viktor is too. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens in your hair when your nose brushes the base of his spine. In the way he looks over his shoulder, mouth slack, eyes dark with something hungry and unsure all at once.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, a sliver of laughter in it—tender, breathless. “On your knees for me.”

It’s not mocking. It’s not even cocky. If anything, he sounds… grateful. Awed. Like he’s marvelling at you as much as what you’re doing. And you, flushed and panting and so far gone on him it’s disgraceful, bite the inside of your cheek and let your hands roam up his back, steadying him as he begins to tremble in earnest.

“Relax,” you murmur, a smile positively wicked blooming on your lips. “It’s nice, trust me.”

That earns you a shaky breath, then a choked little chuckle. “You are horrible,” he says, and pushes back into your mouth again. “But do not stop.”

He won’t come from this alone, and you know it. Refusing to ease his untouched cock, you hear it slap against his stomach each time his hips roll into your mouth. And for Viktor—oh, were he guaranteed that this sweet torture would remain endless—he’d probably be ready to forsake the feeling of coming altogether.

You place one last kiss on his entrance—tender, a parting promise—and then slowly rise, hands trailing up the back of his thighs, his hips, his waist. He breathes out shakily and turns to look at your glistening mouth, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his lips already searching for yours.

His arms come to drape around you and the kiss he gives you is slow—unhurried, deep, full of gratitude and something dangerously close to worship. He tastes like breathlessness and want, and when his arms slip around you, he pulls you in until your bodies meet flush. His cock, sticky and blushed, presses insistently against the base of your stomach, nestled next to the firm ridge of yours, and he gasps softly into your mouth as the two rub together.

“Come,” he murmurs, voice low, one hand sliding down to trace the length strapped to your hips. “Bed.”

Before you can tease on how needy he is, Viktor leans into you on the way to the bed, one arm slung around your shoulder, the other braced loosely at your waist, letting his weight drag a little with every step. It’s not weakness—just indulgence. A touch of deliberate drama, maybe. You let him, eating up the way he holds you, like you’re a pillar he trusts not to crumble.

When he sits on the mattress, it’s with a slow exhale, legs parted, back propped on his elbows. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, mouth red and slightly parted, a smear of damp sweat curling the hair at his temples. He’s all flushed skin and brash silence, stretched out like some self-satisfied portrait. His cock rests heavily against his thigh, still slick, twitching slightly as he watches you.

You hum, tilting your head as you drink him in. “You’re so pretty.”

He scoffs, the corners of his mouth curling. “It’s my job to tell you this.”

You reach for the nightstand, fingers curling around the bottle of lube. “Well, why don’t you get on with it then?”

But before you can move back between his legs, he seizes your wrist and pulls you in hard, thighs snapping around your hips as he traps you flush against him. His mouth finds yours in a rush—eager, a little desperate—and he moans against your lips as he grinds up into your stomach.

“You are so fucking pretty I cannot bear it,” he mutters, voice hoarse and aching. “My beautiful girl.” His grip is firm and loving, the kind that says stay. The kind that says please. A hand brushes the hair off your face, gentle, reverent, and you are momentarily rendered stupid, unable to remember who’s in charge.

Then your gaze drops, and you remember. You settle between his legs again, kissing the inside of his thigh as you reach for the bottle. The click of the cap sounds almost obscene in the quiet, broken only by Viktor’s breath. You tip a bit into your palm and rub it between your fingers first, letting it warm, your other hand resting over the jut of his hip.

Schooling your face into something resembling composure, you find it hard to stop the insistent twitch of your palm. Heart pounding in your chest, between your ears—the only thing anchoring you is the sound of air leaving and entering Viktor’s mouth.

His mouth cracks into a shaky smile even as his brows knit together, his whole expression a portrait of disbelief and pleasure. “You’re being too gentle,” he says, voice catching. “It’s unfair.”

“Should I be mean?”

He watches you, hand curling slowly around his cock, just enough to stroke himself through the growing ache. “No. But you don’t have to be so delicate.”

When your fingers trace lower, back to where he’s still soft and sensitive, he gasps, his back arching slightly. You take your time, pressing against his entrance. His stomach flexes, sucks inward with every stroke until finally, you ease one finger inside and pause there, letting him breathe as the tight ring of muscle takes you in.

You glance up at him. He already looks wrecked—blushed and damp and trembling, his abdomen fluttering with each breath. “I’m not sure this is allowed,” you murmur, nodding toward the hand working at his cock.

“Would you look at that,” he pants, mouth twitching. “A little bit of power and already bossing me around.”

“I’ve learned from the best,” you reply, pressing in a little deeper. He groans, hips shifting toward your hand. “How was it?” you continue, in a tone that tries its best to sound teasing, though a needy breath trembles somewhere in the back your throat. “You don’t come unless I’m inside you?”

“Something like that,” he grits out. “Except I don’t recall being quite this cruel about it.”

You laugh softly, leaning in to kiss the top of his thigh. “I’m only doing what I was asked for,” you whisper against his skin. “I live to serve, remember?”

Viktor lifts his hands in mock surrender and places them firmly on the sheets beside him, fingers curling into the linen like he’s bracing for impact. His chest rises with a slow, trembling breath.

“See?” he says, voice warm and hoarse. “I am being good.”

“Oh, are you?” you ask, tone laced with false doubt as you twist your wrist slightly. His legs shift wider in response. “You think this earns you something?”

He tilts his head toward you, hair stuck to his temple, a faint sheen of sweat along his collarbone. “I’m going to need more,” he says, low, raw. “You cannot expect me to behave for this little.”

“You’re terrible at bargaining,” you say, but oblige anyway.

Your fingers retreat briefly, only to return with a second joining the first, the stretch making his body tense and then melt all over again. He moans, soft and ragged, thighs twitching around you as he exhales hard through his nose. “Fuck,” he breathes, “that’s—yes. Just like that.”

You keep the pressure steady, curling your fingers just enough to draw out a strangled sound from deep in his throat. He tries to rock down into it, restrained only by the grip he maintains on the sheets, as if letting go would undo him.

“You’re trying not to move,” you murmur, watching him. “Why?”

“I don’t trust myself,” he pants, eyes barely open, lashes damp. “You’ll mock me.”

You smile, slow and wicked. “Probably. Especially if you come just from my fingers.”

“Wouldn’t that ruin your plans?” he manages, the corner of his mouth twitching into something close to a smirk. But it falters a second later as your fingers stroke just the right spot, and he jerks against the bed, cock twitching on his belly.

“Oh no,” you murmur, breath ghosting his hip as you press a kiss just above it. “I’d love to see it.”

“How perverted,” he says hotly, voice straining around the edges. “What if I beg you to touch me?”

“Begging might get you places,” you reply, dragging your fingers just a little deeper, a little slower. “And I’m speaking from experience.”

Viktor huffs, a laugh or a moan—it’s hard to tell. “Would you like to know why that is?”

You nod, slow and silent, unable to say anything else with your breath caught in your throat.

“Come closer,” he says, propping himself back up on his elbows, eyes gleaming with heat. You lean in, bracing your arm beside his ribs as he curls one hand around the back of your neck. He pulls you in until your mouths nearly brush and then tilts his head, lips skimming the shell of your ear.

“Because there is nothing better,” he whispers, “than hearing you beg for something I’m dying to give you.”

Your breath remains trapped, heart thudding so hard you feel it behind your eyes. But before you can say anything, his mouth finds yours.

“It makes me feel seen like nothing else in this world,” he murmurs against your lips. “ So please, my beloved. Fuck me.”

“Viktor.” It’s all you manage, the word falling out of you, completely stunned.

You retreat slowly, fingers easing out with care, slick sounds swallowed by the silence between your breaths. He shudders beneath you, chest lifting as if to follow your hand. A flush climbs up his throat, eyes lidded and glassy.

You reach for the bottle again and squeeze more lube into your palm, warming it between your fingers as before. He watches the movement like it’s sacred. Like you’re sacred.

You coat yourself thoroughly, breath slowing with the weight of focus, slick pooling warm on your hand as you spread it with care. Then, guiding yourself into place, you line up against him. One palm cradles the bone of his hip, grounding you both, while the other steadies at the base, the head of your cock nudging gently at his entrance.

You pause there, just breathing. Just watching him. Viktor’s thighs tense, the muscles fluttering beneath your touch. His eyes are on yours now, wide and bright, mouth parted around the beginnings of a gasp.

And then you press in—the give is slow, tight, perfect. He sucks air in sharply, his head falling back against the pillows, a wrecked sound pulled straight from his lungs.

“Ah—” His voice falters, body taut for a breathless moment. His hand flies to your forearm simply to hold onto something—someone. You freeze there, barely in, overcome by the heat and pressure of him. He’s trembling and you’re trembling with him.

Your chest aches with how much you feel—how much you want to be careful, want to be good, want to do right by the way he’s opening for you like this. The sheer vulnerability of it has you blinking hard, something heavy and electric pooling low in your belly.

“Is it—” you start to ask, but don’t finish.

“I’m okay,” he says, voice tight against the wall of his throat. His thumb strokes your skin. “It’s just—God—give me a second.”

You nod quickly, staying exactly where you are. Letting him adjust. Letting yourself adjust. All cockiness flees you, replaced by something quieter, heavier. It settles low in your gut and swells in your chest—there’s no better word for it than love, and it rings in your ears like a vow.

Viktor draws a breath through his nose—shaky, but deeper now. When he opens his eyes and finds yours again, there’s no hesitation. “More,” he says. “Please.”

So you give him more.

Another inch. Then another. He gasps, knees drawing in slightly, heels digging into the mattress for purchase. His head tips back against the pillows, mouth slack, eyelids fluttering shut. You watch every shift, every flicker, every tremor. You don't look away, not even when he moans—low and guttural and unguarded. It rolls through him, and he presses the heels of his palms hard into his eyes, arms trembling.

“Viktor?” Your voice barely carries. You pause, hand smoothing over his thigh. “Is it too much?”

He shakes his head, breath catching, too overwhelmed for words. You lean over him, close enough to rest your forehead against the damp skin of his temple.

“You have to tell me,” you whisper. “I can’t feel you the way you feel me.”

He exhales shakily, nodding once. Then—still breathless, still reeling—he manages, “Ha—I bet you wish you could.”

You go still, lips parting in soft surprise. Your brow lifts, eyes wide, caught between awe and a laugh.

“I know,” he groans faintly, like he’s already regretting the joke. His voice breaks around it. “I know.” He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, there’s nothing but raw, naked need in his voice. “Don’t stop. I want you.”

You begin to move only when you’re sure—only when his breath steadies, and he nods faintly into your skin. Each shift of your hips is cautious, shallow. His body yields, warm and trembling beneath you, and you’re aware of every inch of him: the way his thighs tighten around you, the curve of his hands along your spine, the flutter of his pulse where your lips brush his neck.

“God,” you whisper, hardly meaning to speak aloud but can’t help yourself, “you are so pretty like this.”

Viktor exhales a long breath, and his hands find your waist, grip seeping whatever he can’t choke out into your skin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, slick and twitching against your stomach with every draw of air, every subtle motion.

His voice finds you in a ragged whisper. “Please,” he says. “Fuck me, baby.”

The words root you in place. Not with boldness, but something softer. You nod slowly, pressing a kiss just below his ear, and begin again—inching, rocking into him with care and wonder. You listen more than you speak. Each sound from him draws your next motion.

“You’re doing so well,” you murmur eventually, when he’s wrung out beneath you, brows drawn tight with the weight of pleasure. “I hope you know that.”

He doesn’t answer with words—only a breath, nearly a sob, pulled from somewhere deep.

Chest to chest, your foreheads nearly touching. It’s not rhythm that drives you now, but reaction—his body guiding yours, his grip flexing on your hips. You shift one hand to his thigh and squeeze gently, and that’s when he speaks again. Quiet. Defeat admitted. “I think it’s time for me to beg for you to touch me, love.”

“What’s stopping you?” you mutter in his ear, taking that little advantage. And Viktor shudders out a laugh, shaky and breathy but earnest all the same.

“Please,” he hums into your neck, “please, touch me.”

You push yourself up, settling on the balls of your heels. Your temporary cock strains at the new angle, and Viktor’s eyes take a stroll around his skull. He reaches out for your hand in a gesture that would have you melting weren’t you melting already—over the sight of him. His knees relaxed apart, lips outright bitten into ruby, hair wild, strands shaped by dampness of your bodies and eyes nearly entirely vacant, you being the only occupant. Absolute vision.

Your fingers thread with his first and you let them rest there a moment, held between you, heart ticking out of rhythm at the way his grip tightens. The need, both quiet and loud, unspoked by his mouth but thundering in his fingertips, seeps into yours. Then, gently, you draw his hand downward, and Viktor follows, trustful as ever.

You guide him to himself, his hand curling around his cock with yours layered over it. Your touch adds warmth, rhythm. He gasps, his hips twitch, thighs trembling on either side of you.

“That’s it,” you whisper, watching the tension ripple up his abdomen. “Just like that. You are doing great.”

His head tips back, neck long and flushed, lips parted in stunned silence. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, knuckles bone white until red spills over his skin, right beyond the joints.

You lean in to kiss the inside of his thigh, never breaking pace, your strokes patient and steady. Every flicker of his body draws your attention: the way his legs twitch, the way his belly flutters with each breath, the tremble that grows stronger with every pass of your hand over the head. And suddenly you profoundly believe in every praise he’s ever told you because truly having someone like that beneath you is a sight to behold.

Then you shift, subtly, just enough to press deeper inside him—and that pushes him to the edge, where you either break or fall. He arches once, a ragged, punched-out sound spilling from his chest. Your name, maybe, or just a noise—you can’t tell.

“Please,” he says again, and it’s barely a word now, just a breath catching on the edge of a moan. “Please don’t stop.”

Like you would dare. You stroke him faster, cock so hard you’re certain it borders on hurting. His whole body draws taut, thighs shaking, mouth falling open—and you feel it under your hand, under his, the one giving pulse as Viktor comes hard, spilling between your joined hands, over his belly, ribs jutting out, stomach contracting through the aftershocks.

You ease your pace gradually. Let his hand go slack beneath yours. Let him breathe, let his seed cool and turn thin where it drips from your fingers.

Running a hand down the centre of his navel, you carefully pull out and gasp—not knowing why, only that it’s something you’ve seen him do, every time he retreats and leaves you empty.

When his eyes flutter open again, glossed and wide, you’re already there—by his side, nuzzling his face into your neck, your knuckles brushing damp hair off his forehead.

He’s so utterly spent. Worshipped to the point of being boneless. For a moment, all bravado is lost somewhere between shuddery breaths. Despite the wet evidence of your shared perversion dripping down his stomach, he presses it to yours and kisses your throat with his mouth open, each breath warm against your skin.

“What is it that you usually say?” he mutters, the smile already curling under the words. His tone is teasing, but there’s a layer of exhaustion that makes it softer, naked.

“Thank you,” he says, lips brushing against the curve of your jaw. “Thank you,” he repeats quieter, this time next to your ear, his breath warm and shaky, still trying to catch up with the aftermath.

You laugh softly, pulling his hair back. “Did you like it?” You ask, again—same as he always asks. Not missing a beat.

“Eh, it was alright,” he replies, his lips curling up as he pulls back to look at you, eyes gleaming, but the way his features softened is giving him away.

“I see.” You smile, leaning in just enough to brush your lips against his once more. You’d swat his chest, but somehow don’t have it in you. “No way of fucking that attitude out of you, huh?”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “I can’t say,” he murmurs. “Maybe you have to try again.”

One layer less, you think to yourself. So many more parting you from the core of him—and some part of you doesn’t want to get there. The journey, after all, being the best part of it.

[apheliia]

SUFFERING. — In which Yaoshi's child is wounded.

— trigger & content warnings. mildly graphic depictions of wounds, mild blood, mentions of fainting, both yaoshi and the reader operate on questionable morality at best.

— pairings & notes. hurt/comfort. yaoshi & emanator of abundance!reader. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). when yaoshi cries, it has a direct effect on those who have come into contact with the power of abundance, including xianzhou natives. 2.1k words.

— author's thoughts. pov lan and yaoshi are divorced parents and their children are fighting. i am very normal about yaoshi i promise 🫶 i made shit up for this fic fr, i am working with CRUMBS you guys 😔🙏 ik from experience that the yaoshi nation is starving so i offer this to my fellow aeon of abundance enjoyers <3 side note, writing two characters with they/them pronouns is so hard LMAO??!??!?!

       Stars dance behind their eyelids every time they dare to let them drift shut.

       The universe is an ever-expanding blur of stars and planets that seem to dance and spin the longer one gazes at them—that, of course, is a natural given.

       ...The stars behind their eyelids are, however, not a given; those are most certainly not meant to be there.

       Their chest heaves, lungs aching and burning as if lit on fire when they painfully expand to take in as much air as possible, lightning striking across their chest and side when they breathe just the slightest bit too forcefully.

       Blood drips from their side—slowly, thankfully, but they've lost so much at this point that it really could not have mattered less if the flow was slow or rapid. The amount lost would have remained the same, nevertheless, because their body vehemently refused to heal the wound that should have been gone within seconds. Minutes, at the absolute most.

       Whatever the Xianzhou Alliance had done to them was terribly effective, delaying their inhuman capacity to heal instantaneously and causing their body to convulse fiercely whenever they tried to force the healing to proceed. It was... less than ideal, but they'd try not to hold it against their siblings.

       (The Xianzhou Alliance just does not see it, does not see anything, the way they do, unenlightened and led astray by the Aeon Lan. That's fine. Perhaps one day they will all come to their senses, snap out of the misguidance, and recognize Yaoshi's benevolence.)

       The ground sways beneath their feet.

       A gasp is torn from their throat as they trip over themselves, ankles snapping inwards, unable to support the weight of their body any longer. Trembling, bloody hands shoot out in a weak attempt to catch themselves, and—

       "Beloved child..."

       —and they're fine, situated on the floor without ever having to fall to get there. The growing cold knawing at their flesh is chased away. Soothing warmth takes its place, and their wounds don't seem to throb as excruciatingly as they did before.

       They're certain that they are no longer where they were before—not hopelessly, blindly stumbling along a familiar planet in hopes of reaching one of its civilizations before the blood loss got to be too much for their body to handle, before they fell unconscious and helpless to the whims of the universe surrounding them.

       (Of course, it wouldn't have killed them. The fainting alone was fairly harmless. However, doing so out in the middle of nowhere while bleeding and wounded was not an ideal fate for any creature to experience. Maybe the blood loss would not have killed them, but if something else of equal or greater strength to them discovered their unconscious body when they were that vulnerable...)

       They're... elsewhere, now, though they haven't the slightest clue where. Truthfully, it mattered not. All they were concerned with was whose side they were at; they were earnestly grateful that their parent had sensed their suffering and seen it fit to bring them somewhere safer.

       Tones soft and saccharine yet richly smooth and vaguely rumbling with the power of something ancient danced across their skin; the sound alone was enough to send a shiver up their spine and to raise goosebumps on their fragile, bleeding body. Undertones of pity and sorrow overwhelm the voice—if it had belonged to a human, perhaps they might say it sounded more akin to horror and shock.

       Actually, now that they thought about it, the chills may have very well been the blood loss... it was hard—if not downright impossible—to tell at this point.

       ...Not that it mattered, of course. Now that they were here, any suffering their child had unfairly endured would be undone and amended.

       "What have they done to you?"

       An unsteady hand dares to reach out to them, and the deity's face twists, displeased, in a way their child cannot quite describe. The flash of displeasure makes them worry through the dazed fog of blood loss that they gesture was unwelcome. Their gaze is quick to move elsewhere—looking so bodly at Yaoshi's face has always felt rude, anyways, so they're quick to look away at even the most minor allusion to disapproval, even though something at the back of their mind reassures them that their actions are hardly the cause of the Aeon's unrest.

       As fast as the concern arises, it dissloves into nothing.

       They did not even have the chance to shift, to pull their arm back, before Yaoshi takes their hand stained wine red, and bestows a tender kiss upon their aching knuckles. The pain is washed away in an instant; there was no trace of it ever having been there in the first place. No lingering ache, no soreness, just relief.

       Sanctus Medicus' touch alone—let alone their kiss—causes their body to have a reaction. The most concerning wound of all has begun closing, skin stitching itself together anew, even without the Aeon extending any of their power to do so. Simply existing in the deity's presence has already guaranteed the preservation of their life. A concern of death did not exist any longer.

       It was only really a halfhearted concern, anyway. Truly killing something like them would have taken an insurmountable showing of strength and wit. The Alliance only injured them; putting a complete end to their life was something their estranged siblings horribly failed to do.

       "G— Guardian, I—"

       A wave of coughs that they cannot suppress no matter how hard they try wracks their body, and they wince, abdomen sharply crying out in protest of the forceful motions. The healing process has not yet concluded, and any excess force or strain put on their body still causes them great discomfort.

       "Speak not," the Lord of Longevity murmurs, chiding, as their many hands gently guide their little one ever closer to their body until their child is strewn across their lap. Blood soaks into the the Aeon's robes, though they pay it no mind and instead opt to focus on the source of it. "Poor, sweet child... how much suffering have your siblings wrought upon you? How much cruelty have they extended? Limitless child, struck down by your limited siblings..."

       The sulking lasts for quite some time, but they feel no compulsion to complain about it. It doesn't even cross their mind once. If anything, Yaoshi's love for them is communicated perfectly through their distraught musings, and the attention makes their little one feel quite embarrassed, if anything at all.

       Embarrassed for not being able to defend themselves? Perhaps, though they would attribute it more to simply being overcome by the ever-abundant love the Aeon carried for them.

       Merciful nails stroke the hair from their face, and the Aeon's tens of thousands of eyes flick across their body, thoughtful and contemplative yet riddled with monumentally expansive layers of all-consuming pity and sympathy. To some, it may have been deeply unsettling to be stared at by something so unfathomably powerful, but they have long since grown used to being gazed at so intently. Yaoshi's affections are not subtle in any way, so having the Aeon's complete and undivided attention on them was an overwhelming feeling that they have learned to welcome with open arms.

       (Well...

       More or less 'complete and undivided'; they're fairly certain that Sanctus Medicus is still keenly aware of everything going on outside of this little oasis, still hearing prayers sent to them, still feeling the pains of death and sorrow that they'll undoubtedly seek out and quell to the best of their abilities in as many societies as possible once they've handled the nasty wound left on their favored child. An Aeon's attention is always divided at least somewhat, but it was not their place to complain about something so inevitable. Divided attention was only natural for cosmic beings, no?)

       It is warm. Peaceful.

       ...But only for a moment.

       Something—disappointment, sadness, perhaps even what could be described as fury—rolls off of the Aeon's being in suffocating waves undoubtedly capable of drowning entire civilizations. It is hard to breathe, somehow even harder than it was when their ribs were collapsed inwards and poking agonizingly at their viscera.

       This is worse.

       In an instant, something deep inside of them shatters, and their chest is seized by the grief and agony of millions and millions of beings. A wheeze is drawn from their chest as any clarity they had slowly gained back is snatched away in a mere second, replaced with terror and pain and screaming, so much screaming—

       Their head spins.

       If not for the Aeon of Abundance's presence, soft hushes and careful nails dragging soothingly over and across their skin on as many areas as they can reach at once, they're certain that these conditions would have made their mara flare. It doesn't, thankfully.

       Something about being held by the very deity who had given them their immortality in the first place soothes that side of them into submission, like a dog kneeling at its master's feet. If they listen closely, beyond the screaming and wailing and pleading for the agony to cease, they can hear adoring yet vague and indistinguishable whispers in the corners of their mind.

       Their mara is sated for the time being, but the storm of despair rages on.

       When the tears begin to fall, it is far beyond their control, impossible to stop no matter how much effort they put into doing so.

       It is immensely difficult for them to see through the hazy blur of their uncontrollable weeping, but their gaze still instinctively shifts up towards Yaoshi's face, the terror and nervousness swirling in their chest growing to be too much. In that moment, they were hardly any different than a child seeking reassurance from their parent; of course, the Aeon was all too happy to provide that to them.

       However...

       To their absolute dismay, though the Aeon's expression remains detached, soft, and thoughtful as ever, they are crying.

       Whatever cracking bits of their will that were still somehow clinging together were shattered beyond repair in a quick instant, and they sobbed harder, pressing close to their God in a feeble and weak attempt at taking some of the agony that their parent endured away.

       Between the sorrow, Yaoshi's tears ignited rage, boiling just beneath the surface of their skin and threatening to consume those who stood in its way. It is one thing to take up arms against them, but to make the Aeon of Abundance cry? It is nothing short of a crime, unforgivable and worthy of only the greatest punishment. If not for said deity's gentle kneading of their skin, easily making the rage dissolve into dazed serenity, they may have very well cut down entire armies, wounds be damned.

       ...But that is blatantly against Yaoshi's will at the moment (and more than likely in general, for such destruction is not in the nature of the path which they emanate), so they allowed the anger to be soothed.

       Concern—what could possibly have made something as incomprehensible as Yaoshi cry? Was it truly what the Xianzhou Alliance had done? And moreover, what can they do to stop it? To amend it without being disobedient?—was there, but they were moreso overwhelmed by absolute horror.

       ...

       Aeons are far above mortality, so far beyond humans and their concepts of everything. Nothing that applied to mortals applied the same to Aeons. They were concepts personified. Living ideologies.

       Seeing a being they had come to recognize as infallible, as the purest form of existence above all other creatures, a being of love and light crying?

       Oh, it sent endless ripples of fear and uncertainty blazing across their skin.

       If their will—the will of someone with a deep and intimate connection to the Aeon, someone who had been spared a beautiful fraction of their strength—was so effortlessly shattered by the Abundance's tears, what were other beings connected to them feeling in this moment?

       ...Far worse things, no doubt, but maybe some of them deserved it.

       (The distant screams, a cacophany of confusion and horror, of their siblings rang in their head. Sick satisfaction brewed in their chest at the sound. If any of the Alliance's fleets were mid-battle, there is not a single doubt in their mind that the entire fight will now be lost and in vain. It is only a small fraction of the pain that they were put through by those people, but it is more than enough.)

       One of Yaoshi's hands pets over their head fondly, and they hum through the tears and pain, eyelids fluttering closed as they press ever closer against the Aeon's collarbone.

       "The actions of your siblings will not go unpunished, precious one," they murmur, leaning down and pressing tender kisses to the battered flesh of their shoulder. Any bruises or scratches in that area disappear miraculously. "The suffering you have endured is unjust."

       "I trust in your judgement, Guardian."

       They could feel Yaoshi's smile against their skin, a stark contrast from the Aeon's tears, burning and stinging their skin yet somehow perpetuating their healing process.

       "Good."

please consider supporting me if you enjoyed! the best ways to do so are as follows: comments, asks, reblogs, and reblogs with tags. tags: @aviiarie @corpsesticks

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 4 part 3

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

Lilia is bickering with Jen in episode 7. she turns around and SEES ALICE, WHO WAS KILLED IN EPISODE 5

alice, don't try to save agatha! but she's whisked ever further back to episode 2 before she can finish the sentence. imagine having the power of communicating with the past but it's never enough to warn them. seeing the dead and talking to them, knowing what's going to come next. and you wonder why she chose exile and solitude.

meanwhile agatha has collected her wits long enough to decide what her short term strategy with rio is gonna be: keep her distracted, isolate her from the others, keep her away from billy. see how she takes a moment to focus and get into character? she knows rio is about to follow her like a moth to a flame

just going on a trip with my best gal pals and a random teen boy, nothing to see here!!!! and agatha knows that rio knows that she's lying. hello, rio is PERFECTLY aware that there's no Road out there capable of magicking her into a glam rock sex den. but maybe, just maybe, agatha can keep her focused on something else. honestly it would be such a waste to not put all that combined cleavage to good use!

there she was, having a chat with sharon down in the dirt, and you guys went and dragged her up. like perfect morons. I love how she brought the flower along and it ended up working really well with the outfit

oh, rio knows. she knows everything.

and agatha SHOOTS UP and GETS TOO CLOSE and FLIRTS. oh my god this bitch. just like she did in episode 1, except now she's more collected and ever more deliberate. flirting is her best weapon of mass distraction against rio. because look, rio might know all her tricks but she's only (very marginally) human! who can blame her if she lets herself be seduced a little bit, just a little bit! for old times' sake! in rio's defense her wife is very hot and she misses her very much, your honor

rio is like, bitch I got you allllll figured out but also lemme gently caress your thigh. to enhance your acting performance. what's a little supportive yes, and between exes

she's sooo hamming it up. compare her face here with the genuine yearning at the end of the episode

oh this is hilarious. the others hear rio's flirting over the PA and panic, but no, girls, enthusing about murder is legit how they talk dirty!! (lol at lilia being like, right in front of my salad???)

"gasp!!!! that's my coVEN you're talking abOUT!!!! I'm not that kiND OF wiTCH anYMOWRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" the ham! the ham! she might just bring the whole deli cart over at this point

and rio with her lil delighted laugh again. she doesn't get mad for one second, she didn't expect anything else. oh agatha, you silly goose, you're so damaged and so cute

let's recap what this fucker achieved with her latest performance, because it's always fascinating to study what's going on in agatha's ferociously scheming brain. she 1) distracted rio from billy. or at least tried to. 2) hinted at Rio's true nature to the others - who knows, maybe she can manipulate them into allying against her later on? 3) pretended to flirt but also flirted a lil bit forreal because there was a lot of skin showing and the flesh is weak etc etc 4) backpedaled alllllllll the way out when things got too intimate because she's too scared and resentful to get close to rio again. playing with fire as usual. or, as the kids say today, fucking around, about to find out

alice's trial has the best aesthetic fr fr. the 70s font!

I'm not 100% sure bcs it goes by so quickly but I think rio is dancing to the cursed music???

not the turntable!! that shit's vintage!!!!!!!

*brian de palma zoom*

*dramatic pause*

WE'VE BEEN CURSED (I love you patti lupone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

INJECT THIS AESTHETIC DIRECTLY INTO MY VEINS. also alice is red, billy and agatha are blue with purple undertones. the colors in this trial seem very deliberate

"she's a tourist." "she's a PSYCHO." look she never gets to just hang out and do fun things anymore, let her be!!

rio and lilia having a little staring contest as she plays with the knife. doing their own cute archnemeses thing

agatha shaking her head at billy and going shhh when he says 'maybe this curse isn't so bad.' like KID will you stop speaking HORRORS into existence?!?

alice standing with her back straight for the first time since like, ever? or since her mom died? did everyone in the family have their own personal demon or did it switch after killing the previous person? or wait, wait, was the curse only like, a metaphor until billy accidentally turned it into a disgusting 1970s animatronic harpy??

I'm convinced rio could see the demon from the beginning. look at her face here, she's the only one who sees both lilia burning and what's causing it

poor lilia must be thinking, burning witches? soooo original and not traumatic at all (lol at patti being a pro at screaming and writhing in pain on the floor. PROFESSIONAL ACTING)

no no no that's the reaping knife careful careful careful careful

alice's spell: expelle hoc malum, expel this evil. (rio when agatha tries it on her later: WHO ARE YOU CALLING EVIL)

lol. lmao, even. (just don't think about how jen has grown seLFISH TO SURVIVE AFTER HAVING TO LIVE POWERLESS AND DEFENSELESS FOR A CENTURY AND HOW SHE BECOMES MORE AND MORE GENEROUS AS SHE SPENDS TIME WITH ALICE AND LILIA)

oh noes my character just had a beast's giant talons perched on her shoulders i should flash the twins real quick so you can see it better

everyone else: EXTREME PANICKING

rio: stops reading her magazine to glance at the disgusting invisible harpy flapping around the room. goes back to the magazine.

and with this I'm off to my extreme friday night (tea and blankie and a book). ciao!

go to episode 4 part 4

[cheolhub]

sarrrrrrr🩷 happy bday to cheolhub!!! you are fr one of my favourite accounts on here. i always get so happy seeing ur name pop up on the dash whdjshsjs, i hope you’re doing well & drinking your water & looking after yourself 🫶

coulddddd i possibly req ❛ let me come in you, please. i want to fill you up. ❜ & precious vernon for your event? 🫶

8:01 p.m. – hansol vernon chwe

prompt. “let me come in you, please. i want to fill you up.”

wc. 2k+ 

warnings. unprotected sex for the first time, creampie, saying ‘i love you’ during sex, pet names [baby], a very needy couple ^^!!! — MINORS DNI 18+

note. j u are too sweet im gonna cry !!! thank you thank you thank you !!! i love u sm, i hope u like this >< i’ve been wanting to write vernon a lot recently so i went a little bit overboard with this one,,,, and it’s not my best so i apologize bsgsgs [not proofread, kinda rushed]

⇢ ˗ˏˋ join the birthday bash!  ࿐ྂ

hansol vernon chwe has never been one for public displays of affection. any type of affection– kissing, hugging, holding hands, etc. it’s just awkward. it always is and he’d rather keep it to himself. keep you to himself.

and vernon is usually so patient when it comes to his hunger for you. he’s so virtuous and so composed. it’s admirable, really. but there are nights, like this one in particular, where he just wants to sink his teeth into you and mercilessly fuck you into the mattress. 

these nights don’t come by very often. they rarely ever do, honestly. he only thinks tonight is different because he hasn’t touched you in over a week. there was no real reason for it, you just kept missing each other due to your taxing schedules. 

so you planned a date on a night that you knew you were both free. something nice, giving you an excuse to doll yourself up for your boyfriend. 

you did exactly that and vernon’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he picked you up from your apartment. he thought you looked so fucking pretty. you looked so pretty gazing out the window in the passenger seat of his car. you looked so fucking pretty when you kindly laughed at the waiters joke (that wasn’t the slightest bit funny). you look so fucking pretty when you asked him, “are you okay, baby?” 

he wasn’t. how could he be okay when all he wanted was to put his hands on you and inhale the scent of your seductive perfume? how could he be okay when his cock was straining in his pants begging to be inside of you? how the fuck could he be okay when he needed you so fucking bad?  

of course, you could tell he was anything but fine. your boyfriend was stoic sometimes, but he always wears his emotions all over his pretty face. his carnal desire became obvious when he placed his hand on your thigh, squeezing at your flesh. and even more obvious when he pressed a few kisses to your jaw. and then blatantly obvious when he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear and said, “i’d rather eat something else.”

so you ate half your meal, paid the bill, and got the hell out of there because, if you were being completely transparent, you missed the way his cock felt inside of you. you missed tugging at his hair and marking his skin and the messy, messy kisses you always share. you missed him and a week apart from your lover was 5 days way too long. 

he’s already pressing his lips to the back of your neck by the time you get up to your apartment’s door, leaving wet kisses on your scolding hot skin. it’s distracting and your hands keep fumbling the keys, but you eventually get the two of you in. you lock the door and he practically chases you to your room, both of you breathily giggling. 

upon arrival, his hands are grasping and pulling at the clothing on your body in attempts to rip them off while yours do the same with his.

“need you so bad, baby.” he mumbles during his conquest, pulling almost everything off of you. 

when he sees the pretty set underneath your date outfit, he’s left breathless. shocked. and it’s not because he’s never seen you in something this pretty, but it’s that he’s right about to bust a load in his jeans. 

he groans, “fuck, i think i’m gonna cum.” 

“you’re cute.” you smile cheekily, pulling him on the bed with you. “better not be before i get to feel you, though.” 

“i’ll try,” he grunts, his cock twitching and throbbing in what feels like the world’s tightest boxers. 

you lay against your plush pillows, slipping your panties off and throwing them to the side, exposing your soaked pussy to the cool air that circulates through your room. you suck in through your teeth, spreading your legs open. “condom?” you ask expectantly.

he furrows his brows. “you don’t have any?”

you crack a grin at the frown that appears on his face when you shake your head. “you’re the one with a dick here! you should always keep one on you for emergencies. this would’ve been the perfect emergency.” 

“baby, we used all my emergency condoms and i forgot to buy more.” he huffs in frustration. “i can just run to the market and grab some. it’s not that big of a deal.” 

it is a big deal. his cock is aching.

you look at him in awe, “you’re that desperate? you’re gonna go all the way to the store and buy condoms, hansol?”

not that you’re any less desperate the way you clench around nothing and ruin the sheets under you.

he deadpans at your subtle teasing, “yes.” 

you hum, stomach twisting in anticipation at a vulgar thought that pops into your head. 

he could… just not use one.

he could fuck you raw and you could feel everything. “what if…” you shudder before you can even get the thought out. “what if we don’t use one?”

you think his face drains of color. “w-what?” he stutters, unsure if he heard you correctly. “baby… what did you say?”

you bite your lip for a second, feeling heat spread like wildfire through your entire body. “we can do it… without the condom. if you want?”

vernon is going to cum– untouched, in fact–  just at the mere thought of it. of-fucking-course he wants to, what kind of idiot would pass that up? (read: someone who isn’t actually an idiot)

“what about…” he trails off as his wide eyes look at your tummy. 

“i started birth control a while ago, baby, don’t worry.” you whisper. “it’s only if you're comfortable… but i’m okay with it… i trust you. and i wanna feel you.”

his heart pounds erratically and he’s tugging his boxers down before he can even form a proper response. his hard, leaky cock slaps against his abdomen and all either of you can think about is how it’ll feel without the latex barrier. 

he breathes out his words, as he presses against your drooling hole. “i’ll pull out.” 

“okay, baby.” you pant, hands already gripping at the sheets in preparation. 

though, you fear there was nothing you could do to prepare for this moment. feeling vernon’s cock— all of it— is amazing. heavenly… hot. you find yourself wishing you would’ve done this a lot earlier. you can’t believe how much of a difference there is.

you feel all the heat, all the veins that trace through his gorgeous cock, all the delicious friction and you’re fucking addicted to it. 

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” vernon moans, jaw going slack and his face pinching in euphoric pleasure. “baby, fuck, you’re so tight— feels so good.”

vernon has never felt anything so perfect in all his years. he feels your walls flutter around his bare cock as he bottoms out, finally buried deep inside of you. 

you wrap your arms around his neck and bring him down to press his mouth against yours. the entirety of the kiss is intense and passionate and you can’t think of a time you’ve felt this close to a man during sex. you can’t even recall a time you were this in love with a man.

you break, whining against his lips and tightly clenching around him. “move, please. need you to move.” 

he nods hotly, pulling his hips back and pushing them back against yours. he does this a few times, slowly thrusting into you until he builds a steady, consistent speed. the bulbous tip of his cock rams into your sweet spot with every shove. you can’t help the cry that bubbles in your chest or the way your legs wrap around his waist tightly.

“hansol,” you mewl, one of your hands snaking between your bodies and rubbing at your clit. “i-i love you.” 

he delivers a sharp thrust upon hearing your words. “i love you more, baby.” he responds with a wavered voice. “i missed you.”

you nod in agreement, clamping around him again, ultimately making vernon hiss. “me more,” you declare on a whine. 

“not a chance.” he grunts out but it falls on deaf ears. his words are practically silenced by the lewd squelching and your cute sounds that bounce off the four walls. 

and it’s all because vernon fucks you like his life depends on it. he feels your walls tightening around him with every thrust but there isn’t a single ounce of vigilance in his body. he wants to memorize every single second of this. burn all of this into his head. he wants to be able to recall the way your blunt fingernails dig into the smooth skin of his shoulders, your moans that sound even prettier in this moment, how your velvety walls flutter and pulse and grip around him as your cunt swallows him up.

his abdomen tightens, balls drawing up as he nears his desired release. before he can warn you, your breathing alarmingly picks up. your chest rises and falls rapidly, your whines and mewls get louder, you trap his cock in a tight grip, refusing to let him go, all the telltale signs of your impending orgasm. 

“vern–vernon, baby,” you gasp, back arching off the bed and heels of your feet digging into his back. “baby, ‘m-m gonna cum. keep fucking me like that,” you plead, eyebrows coming together in gratification. 

he obliges, snapping his hips against yours over and over till the tightrope in your tummy snaps. you come undone choking on a dry sob as your body seizes underneath his. you’re panting unevenly as you go lax, limp body weakly clinging to his as you attempt to come down from your high.

your orgasm is almost too much. too overstimulating for how high strung vernon is. he’s just about ready to explode, but he can’t bear to leave your spasming cunt. 

“baby, i— god, i-i know it’s not safe— fuck—“ he babbles, anxiously panting out his words. “i know… know it’s not safe—but let me cum in you, please. i want to fill you up.” 

you cry, nodding your head and weakly clamping around him at the thought of his warm seed flooding your cunt. “y-yes, fuck yes. please fill me up, ‘sollie!” 

he curses under his breath, his cock twitching and brain fogging over at your permission. he gives you a few sloppy thrusts before he groans noisily, stilling and spilling his cum inside of you. 

he twitches ceaselessly above you as his orgasm washes over him, head digging into the crook of your neck so he can drown out all of his throaty moans. they still echo throughout the room with your whiny pants. 

the sensation of his release has your entire body surging with warmth. it has you feeling nothing but bliss and pure exhilaration— you’re on cloud nine. 

“sorry,” he murmurs into your neck as his body collapses on top of yours. “couldn’t help it.”

your hand comes to thread through his hair, scratching at his head. “‘s okay, ‘sol.”  you mumble back. “felt really good. don’t worry.”

“do you need a plan b?”

you snort, shaking your head. “no, i don’t think so, baby. told you i’m on the pill now.” 

he lets out a breath— probably one of relief— followed by a muffled, “then… can we do this again soon?”

you smile, “yeah, babe, we can do this again soon.” 

© cheolhub — all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[unknownati]

Hello friend!

I LOVE everything you write for Ekko. Like it's always within character but you add a lot of fun layers to him that are just soooo fun to read lol.

I hope this doesn't come off as "hurry up" in any way because I know you're a human behind the screen. You're talents is ABSOLUTELY worth waiting for....

...but lemme just say when requests are open ill be dropping some DIABOLICAL smut requests because I KNOW you're gonna do them justice. Literally can't imagine another writer writing them. So I'll wait for however long you need! There's no one else I want to bring my degeneracy to life LOL! Hope you're up for it!

Until then, be kind to yourself! Can't wait to see what you write in the meantime!

🥹

thank u sm, you're so sweet (like literally keep rereading this cuz whaaaat i can't imagine this is actually towards me lol)

and good cuz this is a safe space. no shame on my blog at all

both my reqs are basically almost done, so i think this'll be me opening them back up :)

if you have a req and are wondering the status or are just curious, here are my current wips:

p.s., i'm rlly sorry if you submitted a request and you don't see it here :( sometimes i'm just not quite sure how to make something into an actual fleshed out fic, but if i find one similar to what you're looking for i'll absolutely respond w/ a link for you 🫶🏾

i fr have something written down!!!:

never lose me (req), smut: he treats you sooo special - super close to finished, just wrapping it up and proofreading

happy birthday (req), fluff + smut: how the two of you make each other's bdays special - also almost finished!

sound on, smut: ekko sends you a video...you know the rest 🤭 - i got an intro and some inspo

tap tap tap, smut: ekko keeps tapping his pencil and it's driving you insane - literally fully complete, just doing some proofreading

shopping, fluff + smut: you and ekko are thrifting gods and he really likes the pants you're trying on - half done

girls, smut: fem!stud!ekko x fem!black!reader (y'all knew this was coming since 'dreamin') - half done, i keep forgetting abt it 🙁

busy, smut: ekko spends too much time working and you need some of his attention - half done

just an idea rn:

current timeline (req) fluff: if ekko came to our timeline (sammycutiepie made a similar one!!)

double trouble, minor angst + smut: au!ekko and ekko tag team you 🙃 (maybe, maybe not? this might be weird idk i'll think abt it)

aphrodisiac, smut: you both take those little chocolates and see how long the two of you can resist each other

🪱 , fluff: you wake up ekko to ask if he'd still love you if you were a worm

[mediumgayitalian]

fic rec friday 17

hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!

Drew Tanaka's True Love Connections by @buoyantsaturn

Will smiled. "I have an appointment next door with the, uh… Matchmaker lady?” He winced at his own awkwardness, trying to bite back the embarrassment he felt. “Well, actually my friend set it up for me, but-- Sorry, do you know anything about her? The matchmaker lady, not my friend, I mean. I’m just not sure what to expect, you know? I’ve never, uh, done something like this before.” 

THIS WAS SO SICK I LOVED IT!!!!!! flowershop au with a twist oh yes ma’am. also im so pumped drew was in this every time i see her im like hello my love how are you

2. just desserts by @thegoldenappleofdiscord

It’s just a cupcake, Nico reminds himself. Surely that justifies breaking into the infirmary at the break of dawn. or: nico's love language is baking and will solace gets a lot of cake as a result.

end note hate me GIGGGGLIIING. also i am OBSESSED with this author but i haven’t read the solangelo book yet so i haven’t read a lot of her stuff and i’m DYING to. this was as sweet as nico's baking fr!! i'm writing less of a note on this fic (altho i love it) bc the WORDS i have to say about the next one,,,

3. caught in the river of tears that i cried by @thegoldenappleofdiscord*

In all honesty, it was really for the best that Will didn’t think about all the strange things that sometimes happened around him. After all, his mama had more than enough on her plate already. He was a good kid, and it was best everything stayed as it were. (Though admittedly, the flock of flesh-eating maniac pigeons, men with hooves, and the growing darkness in his veins might just make this a tiny bit more difficult than he anticipated) or: will can only push down a part of him for so long (will has plague powers, but he's known it from the very start.)

UPDATE WHEN UPDATE WHEN UPDATE WHEN REESE PLEASE 😭😭i am genuinely so obsessed with this fic and the WAY everything is woven together....like fear is a driving force!! you can feel it!! this is one of those starred fics fr bc it Changed the way i wrote and characterized will. he is fr a character who has been controlled by fear his Whole life actually. of the world and what it takes from him. of the Fates that do not care for your fragile love. of the things they are forced to do. of the precarity of life. and perhaps most intimately and ardently Himself, and the abilities he does not want to have, the life he does not want to live. the parts of himself that do not fit in the mold he has Built for himself and Forced himself into. and this fic shows that so so beautifully like this story is Woven.....i think about it literally all the time it's insane

4. a handful of almosts by @thegoldenappleofdiscord

He’d said it so easily: “Best friends don’t do that to each other, Will.” It had been a throwaway comment after Will decimated him in a card game, which was usually Nico’s forte. Following that had been a furious, “Besides, it’s war. Entirely luck-based. Winning this game doesn’t mean anything. Stop laughing – why the hell are you laughing?” He’d mostly been laughing because of Nico’s expression – eyebrows drawn tight, mouth twisted in an adorable scowl – but also because of the sudden elation pumped into him like helium. They were best friends – and maybe someone else would be hopeful for more, and maybe one day he'll pursue it (he did want it, had wanted it for a long time) but for now, he’s content where they are, sitting in Nico’s room and cursing at each other through a deck of cards. or: 5+1 of will solace being a pining loser

A HANDFUL OF ALMOSTS!!! WHAT!!! every once and a while u just hit a title that Hits u u know. like a handful of almosts. yeah. what a deeply poignant and tragic thing. how fitting for the pjoverse, a universe of people who are haunted by their almosts. god. and then to turn around and make this story FLUFFY?? MAKE IT THE CUTEST THING IN THE WORLD??? "will solace and his rose coloured glasses" REESE!!!!!! PLEASE!!!!

5. Damage Control by @nikkira

“I couldn’t save Lee. I couldn’t save Michael. I couldn’t save Silena.” “You saved Annabeth when she was stabbed, right? And Annabeth was kind of imperative to the whole saving the world effort. The people you save go on to do things and help people and save people. When you lose someone, you lose them. But when you save someone, you save a dozen more people.”

"i dream of the people i could not save. they're mad at me." oh i am UNWELL. ill i tell you. i read this line and had to sit down for a little while like actually. one thing about will solace is that he never stops punishing himself and no one got that like this fic nine years ago

thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!

[candyk0rn]

Hello, I hope you’re having a fantastic day today :) please could I request headcanons of Astarion, Gale and Halsin having a crush on Tav/Reader who is shy and insecure 💙💙

Shy-Bg3

Hello! Thank you so much for the request, and I hope you’re having a great day too!!

Before reading: Gn!reader, shy + insecure reader, Astarion x reader, Halsin x reader, Gale x reader

Also sorry for the wait, I’ve been increasingly busy!!

Astarion:

At first, he finds you almost pathetic

Perhaps it’s his way of not seeing himself within you, knowing he used to be just as fearful and timid

He feels a strong duty to protect you the closer you get to him

At first, he uses you as merely a flesh shield lmao

We all know the story, he uses you for protection, although meek you were always considered a stronger type

And his one rule was to not fall for you: that was his number one rule

But of course that all goes to shit pretty quickly

On the topic of insecurities, he knows all too well the feelings you feel

It’s honestly a plus, having someone that just knows

He’s so stupidly in love with you, for a moment he thinks he’s going mad

He’s never met someone as reserved and soft-spoken as you, he thinks it’s great company

After all, opposites attract, right?

Gale:

Like Astarion, he actually is comforted by your shy and quiet nature

He’d much rather stay home in his tower at Waterdeep, away from society

For that is how he lived for quite some time

I’d say Gale is also rather reserved, only opening up to those he trusts

And it just so happens, he learned to trust you more than anyone

Ever since he told you about the orb that was launched into his chest, the way you insisted upon finding another way to save him

It sent his heart to the skies, I stg

Your shy personality is endearing to him, because if you ever need him to speak up for anything he is so willing

Also, in those moments where you have to interact with someone unknown or unfamiliar, he always offers his hand as comfort

Ugh I love that stupid wizard

Halsin:

I don’t think anyone will get mad at me if I say out of these three

Halsin is the best in the situation

Halsin is the best in most situations let’s be real

He’s the most calm and soothing when it comes to your personality

If you ever ever need to be taken somewhere else, if you’re ever too nervous to be around people

He simply excuses you and him both from whatever conversation or interaction is going on

Something that seems so difficult for you, is so easy for him

And he gladly does it each time

Halsin has a very keen eye, he knows every move you make, every fight of your fingers, every worried flutter of your eyes

He knows when and where to comfort every time

In terms of your insecurity, he’s also extremely helpful on that

He always knows just what to say

The perfect man fr

Thank you for reading!

[yoursinisforgiven]

UNSEEN ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: descriptive violence, consumptions of alcohol, reader and isaac are both paranoid.  

last part / series masterlist !

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Blunt force trauma to the head. Three gunshot wounds to the legs. Four missing fingernails. A missing heart.

The words sat before you in neat, clinical type, but they may as well have been carved into flesh for how deeply they unsettled you. This wasn’t just a case. This was suffering made tangible, pain reduced to a list of injuries, yet it refused to be contained by mere ink. Someone had lived through this. They had felt every blow, every shattering impact against their skull, every burning bullet tearing through muscle and bone. They had felt their fingernails ripped from their hands, one by one. Had they screamed? Fought? Or had they been too weak by then?

Your stomach twisted, but you read the words again, as if repetition would dull the sharp edges of the horror they described.

It didn’t.

The folder sat in front of you, thick with crime scene photos and an autopsy report, bound together in quiet violence. There was always a body. Always the cold, clinical dissection of what had once been a person—cataloged, examined, broken down into facts. You needed to see it. The written words weren’t enough. You needed the images, the grotesque reality, the bloodstains, the lifeless stare. You needed to know exactly what you were dealing with, to let the full weight of it sink in.

But before you could reach for it, a firm hand slapped the folder shut.

“No.”

Isaac’s voice was curt, his eyes unreadable. He didn’t need to explain himself. The answer was final.

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “I’ve seen worse.”

The words nearly left your lips, but you swallowed them back. It wouldn’t change his mind.

And even if you said it, would it matter?

Would he even believe you if you told him about the things that haunted you? About the nights when crime scene photos from your past clawed their way into your dreams, distorting, twisting, becoming something worse? About the frozen, blood-slicked bodies of Ivan and Rhene, their deaths forever etched into your mind in vivid, merciless detail?

No. You hadn’t told him about that.

Just like you hadn’t told him about Vic. Or Asriel. Or the voice on the phone—the one that slid through the receiver like silk over a blade, dripping with a quiet, knowing amusement.

The study is quiet as you stand before his desk, but it’s not the kind of silence you’re used to. This time, it’s heavier, weighted with something unspoken, something lingering in the stillness between you. The air feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm splits the sky. You know he feels it too. You can see it in the way his fingers rest just a little too stiffly on the edge of the desk, in the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly.

You decide to be the first to break it.

“What do we—what do we do?” Your voice wavers, not out of fear but out of something else, something tangled between uncertainty and dread. You place the documents back in front of him, watching as his eyes flicker downward, scanning the pages as if he hadn’t already committed every gruesome detail to memory.

But then he looks back up at you, and there’s something resolute in his gaze, something cold.

“We aren’t doing anything.” His voice is steady, deliberate. “I won’t let you get involved. Not in this.”

It’s the answer you expected, and yet it still grates at you.

You exhale sharply, rubbing at the tension in your temple. Of course. Of course, Isaac would do this—this weak attempt at shielding you from something that, in his mind, loomed too close, too dangerous. You knew he was paranoid. You had known that since the moment you met him. He saw shadows where there were none, traced threats in the air long before they took form.

So you don’t argue. Not this time.

Instead, with your legs growing numb from standing too long, you sink into the chair in front of his desk. The cold leather bites at your skin, the rich material stiff beneath your fingertips as you grip the armrest. The room feels colder than before, or maybe that’s just the weight of the case pressing in, curling around you like an unseen hand.

Isaac doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that unreadable expression of his, the papers between you a silent barrier.

Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane, rattling it in its frame.

You don’t know if it’s the case, the tension, or something else entirely, but for the first time in a long while, you feel like there’s something just beyond the edge of your vision—watching, waiting.

With a sharp exhale, Isaac reaches for his phone, his fingers tightening around it as if holding onto something more than just a device. His jaw tenses, eyes flicking toward the door as though already halfway out of the study. Then, without another word, he pushes himself up from the chair, the legs scraping faintly against the polished wood floor. His movements are brisk, controlled—but you can see it, the slight rigidity in his shoulders, the subtle clench of his fist at his side. A tell.

“I need to make a call,” he mutters, voice low and clipped, the weight behind those words pressing heavier than they should.

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

He strides toward the door with purpose, his back to you, and before you can fully process the shift in atmosphere, the old wooden doors groan closed with a soft but decisive slam.

The sound shouldn’t make you flinch. But it does.

You let out a slow breath, willing your pulse to steady, but it does little to stop the way unease creeps along your spine. The study is silent now, save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock nestled in the far corner—a metronome to the quiet dread settling in the air. The dim light from the storm-streaked windows casts distorted shadows along the bookshelves, stretching and shifting with each flicker of lightning outside. The once-warm glow of the desk lamp now feels weak, swallowed by the growing darkness.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That the shift in atmosphere is imagined, a trick of the mind fueled by exhaustion and the weight of the case still heavy in your hands.

And yet.

There’s something about being alone in here that unsettles you. The study, a place that had always been filled with quiet conversation, with Isaac’s presence—a grounding force despite his paranoia—now feels abandoned, hollow. The books stacked on his desk seem untouched, their spines rigid and unmoving. The scent of aged paper and faint cologne lingers, but it does little to chase away the sensation that something unseen lingers just beyond your peripheral vision.

It’s ridiculous. You know that.

And yet the sensation only grows.

Your fingers tighten against the armrests of the chair before you abruptly stand, the movement too sharp, too sudden—as if you’re shaking off an unseen grip. The storm outside howls against the windows, the house settling with a deep groan that sounds too much like something breathing.

You won’t sit here and let your mind twist the shadows into something they’re not.

That would be pathetic.

You roll your shoulders, exhaling slowly through your nose, already forming an excuse in your mind. You aren’t leaving the study because you need more light, because the weight of the silence has begun to feel oppressive. No, of course not. That would be absurd.

You’re leaving because—Isaac needs coffee.

Yes, that’s it. Something warm to steady his nerves, something to distract yourself from whatever this feeling is gnawing at your subconscious.

You turn on your heel, crossing the room with purposeful strides, refusing to acknowledge the way the shadows seem to stretch as you move past them. Your fingers brush against the cold brass of the doorknob, and as you step into the dimly lit hall, the study doors creak shut behind you.

But even as you walk away, each step echoing against the wooden floor, that lingering sense of being watched does not fade.

──

The kitchen had become a sanctuary of sorts—well, a refuge of distraction, at least. It was the one place you could still hide, even if it was only from your own mind. The monotony of cleaning, organizing, slicing fruit, anything really, helped the time slip by. Your hands had found their rhythm, gliding over surfaces, moving jars and spices into place, brushing crumbs off the counters. The act was soothing, though it couldn't stop the creeping sense of dread that lingered in the back of your mind, settling like an unwanted weight on your chest.

The storm had passed, the wind outside dying down, but the atmosphere felt unnervingly still. The sky was an oppressive slate gray, thick with clouds that seemed to press down on the earth as if daring it to break. The air in the estate felt cold, heavy, carrying a damp chill from the rain that had soaked into the stone floors. The silence of the house had changed, too—it wasn't the calm quiet of an empty place but rather a thick, almost suffocating quiet, as though the house itself was holding its breath.

You were almost grateful for the simple task of making Isaac’s coffee. The routine of it was almost comforting in its predictability—black, no sugar, no cream. It was the smallest of rituals, one that Isaac preferred to keep simple. You knew this, of course. You had long learned the subtle ways of his quiet habits. He’d notice if you added anything extra, even the slightest hint of sugar. He'd ask, then raise that brow of his, sharp as a blade, and you'd feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts. No need for that today, though.

As you moved around the kitchen, placing the freshly cut fruit into the fridge and organizing the counters again—again—you tried to shake off the gnawing discomfort settling in the pit of your stomach. The thought of Isaac’s sharp eyes on you, his quiet expectations, seemed to make the air feel even heavier. But before you could shake it, before you could push past the unease, the front door knocked.

Three sharp knocks.

Like the beat of a drum, unmistakable and deliberate.

Your pulse kicked up instantly, a cold sweat dotting your skin despite the warmth of the kitchen. The sound echoed far too loud in the vast quiet of the estate. There was a brief, sickening pause in the air, as if the whole house was holding its breath along with you. Who? Who would be knocking at this hour? No one ever did. Not unless they had something they wanted hidden from view, something they didn’t want known.

You froze, your hand lingering on the coffee mug, your fingers tightening around the ceramic handle as if to ground yourself.

No one knocks.

You had already begun to hear a faint movement from upstairs—the quick, purposeful rhythm of Isaac’s footsteps descending. But you weren’t sure if you should feel relieved or more unsettled. You knew what that knock meant: danger, a threat, someone arriving uninvited.

But it didn’t make sense. You shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Isaac was here, wasn’t he? Isaac was always here.

Still, there was a tightness in your chest, a flutter of something unsettling twisting in your gut.

You watched as Isaac appeared in the hall from above, his expression unreadable. His phone still clutched in one hand, his fingers tapping against the side as if trying to work out some invisible anxiety. But the moment he set his gaze on the door, everything about him tightened, his jaw stiffening. No words were exchanged before he reached out and pulled the door open.

“Vic.”

Isaac’s voice, cool but clipped, rang out in the silence. The name hit you like a brick, unsettling, unfamiliar despite the fact that you knew the person it belonged to. Though oddly enough it brought comfort, he wasn't a threat—was he?

But it wasn’t just him.

As soon as Isaac stepped back, you could see the outline of a second figure standing just behind Vic. A shadowy shape, a silhouette barely visible in the dim light of the porch. But even that small glimpse sent your pulse into overdrive. Your stomach dropped, nausea flooding your senses like a heavy tide.

It wasn’t just Vic at the door.

It was someone else.

The second figure was standing too still, like they were watching the house just as much as they were waiting for Isaac to acknowledge them. The breeze from outside rustled through the hem of their coat, but they didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to mind the chill. 

Your mind raced. Who?

Could it be Asriel? It seemed unlikely, almost absurd, but the shadow felt like him. Like something unfamiliar yet entirely unsettling.

Or worse—could it be them? The thought made your breath catch. There was something about the way the stranger lingered on the threshold, half-hidden by the doorframe, that reminded you of the most dangerous kind of silence. It was a silence that didn’t care about the noise it left in its wake.

A sudden cold wave of nausea flooded you again, stronger this time. You hadn’t even noticed how your hand had tightened around the edge of the counter until the mug nearly slipped from your grasp.

Isaac, however, didn’t seem to notice your distress. His gaze focused on Vic’s, his eyes sharp, demanding. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he stood. Whatever conversation was about to unfold was already hanging in the balance, an invisible thread ready to snap. The feeling in your gut was only growing stronger, more suffocating. What had they come for?

"He...llo."

The voice was hesitant, the syllables stretched just slightly, like they weren’t entirely sure they belonged. The accent was distinct, the English slightly broken, but that wasn’t what made your stomach knot. For a brief, terrifying moment, your mind convinced you that it was them—the voice on the phone given shape, stepping through the doorway like a nightmare made flesh.

But as soon as the thought took root, it crumbled. This wasn’t them. Something was different. And yet, despite that realization, something still felt deeply, inexplicably wrong.

Isaac stood rigid in the doorway, his head tilting just slightly as he looked at the figure. You couldn’t see his face from where you stood in the kitchen, but you knew him well enough to picture his expression—his gaze sharp and assessing, his lips pressed in that firm line he wore when something didn’t sit right with him. Then, his eyes flicked to Vic.

A long, quiet beat passed.

The exchange was silent, yet it carried weight. Isaac studied Vic, who, for once, seemed devoid of his usual playfulness. The easy smirks, the teasing remarks, the knowing glances—none of it was there. Instead, Vic’s face was unreadable, his posture uncharacteristically stiff. The shift unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Isaac turned on his heel, his voice clipped and firm. “Follow me.”

He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge you standing there. He simply started walking, his movements precise, controlled. Vic followed without a word, his usual swagger muted into something far more restrained.

And then, the stranger stepped into view.

Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug, the smooth ceramic pressing into your palm as you finally caught sight of them. At first glance, there was nothing wrong—no visible injuries, no blood, no unnatural distortions in their features. They were composed, their clothing neat, their expression neutral. But the moment your eyes landed on them, something in your gut twisted.

There was something about them that didn’t feel right.

The way they moved was deliberate, calculated, like each step had been measured before their foot even touched the floor. Their presence carried an eerie stillness, the kind that made the air in the room feel heavier, pressing against your skin like an unseen force. It was as if they weren’t just walking through the space—they were observing it, memorizing every detail with quiet intent.

Then, just as they were about to disappear up the stairs, they turned.

The movement was smooth, almost too smooth, as if they had expected you to be looking. Their gaze met yours, unwavering, unreadable.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, they raised a hand.

Their fingers shifted into a precise motion—something small, quick. A gesture.

It wasn’t a wave. It wasn’t a greeting. It was something else entirely.

The shape of it tickled the back of your mind, familiar in a way you couldn’t place. A wordless message, a symbol that meant something, though you had no idea what.

Before you could react, before you could even process the unease clawing at your chest, they turned away and vanished up the stairs, swallowed by the dim light of the hallway.

You remained frozen in place, the mug still clutched tightly in your hands, the coffee inside long forgotten. The storm outside had passed, but the weight in the air hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had only grown heavier.

──

You nearly stumble as you ascend the stairs, the weight of the tray in your hands forcing you to move carefully. Three glasses of whiskey—over ice—rest in a neat row, the amber liquid catching the dim glow of the hallway light. A fourth glass, filled with nothing but water, sits beside them. An afterthought, a precaution. You didn’t know this stranger—not their name, not their demeanor, and, worst of all, not their reason for being here.

At the door to Isaac’s study, you hesitate.

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You lived here. You had every right to walk in without a second thought. And yet, a strange discomfort settled in your chest, making you second-guess every movement. The tray balances precariously in one hand as you lift the other to knock.

But before your knuckles can even brush against the wood, the door swings open.

The stranger stands on the other side.

You freeze.

They say nothing, offering no explanation for how they knew you were there, no indication that they’d even heard you approach. Their face remains unreadable, their posture unnervingly still. The only movement comes when their hands reach out, steadying the tray in your grasp before you can fumble it. Their fingers brush against yours—cold, unnaturally so. A sharp contrast to the warmth of the whiskey glasses.

You swallow down the instinctual shiver that tries to crawl up your spine, forcing yourself to nod. “Thank you.” The words feel oddly formal, but it’s all you can manage.

The stranger steps aside, allowing you to enter. The door clicks shut behind you.

The study feels heavier than usual, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Shadows cling to the corners of the room, deepened by the storm-gray light filtering in from the windows. Isaac and Vic sit across from each other in their usual chairs, but something is different. Vic, who usually lounges with an air of careless amusement, sits upright, his fingers drumming once against the armrest before stilling. Isaac, sharp-eyed as ever, watches you place the tray on the low table between them, his gaze lingering for a beat too long.

You shift, unsure of where to position yourself. The stranger moves past you with effortless grace, their presence ghostly as they lower themselves onto the floor—at the foot of Vic’s legs.

That makes you tense.

Your eyes flick to Isaac instinctively, searching for any reaction, any sign of what this means. But his face gives nothing away.

Instead of sitting, you take a step back, resting your hand lightly on the back of Isaac’s chair, hovering near him rather than claiming a space of your own. It feels safer this way, though you avoid looking at anyone directly, focusing instead on the dark wood of the floorboards beneath you.

Vic exhales softly, reaching for one of the whiskey glasses. He lifts it, taking a slow sip before speaking.

"Asriel was busy with… someone. I'd doubt he had time to overhear the matter.”

He swirls the glass idly, watching the ice shift within it. Then, without ceremony, he delivers the next sentence like a casual observation.

"One of his men was found massacred," Isaac says, his voice even, unwavering. There is no hesitation, no trace of surprise—just cold acknowledgment. Because it isn’t a stretch. Not at all.

A silence follows, thick and oppressive. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in inch by inch. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner fills the space between breaths, between the slow rise and fall of Isaac’s chest, between the tightening of Vic’s jaw.

Vic exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. His grip is so firm that for a moment, you wonder if the glass might crack. He doesn’t sip this time. Doesn’t even glance at Isaac. Instead, his gaze flickers—once, briefly—to the figure at his feet.

"Details?" His voice is rougher now, edged with something unreadable.

Isaac shifts, his hand moving toward the stack of documents on the desk. He flips open a folder with careful precision, his fingers gliding over the pages as if the weight of their contents doesn’t bear down on him. But you know better. You see it in the slight press of his lips, in the way his shoulders hold just a fraction more tension than usual.

"Blunt force trauma to the skull," Isaac begins, reading from the report. "Three gunshot wounds to the legs. Four fingernails removed. And—" he pauses, only for a second, but it’s enough to send a chill down your spine, "the heart was missing."

Vic finally looks at him then, eyes narrowing. The stranger at his feet shifts, their movements fluid but slow, calculated. You still don’t know their name, but you can feel their gaze—measuring, dissecting.

"Let me see the autopsy," Vic says, his tone even but edged with something unreadable.

Isaac doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he turns his gaze to you, saying your name in a way that is both soft and firm, a gentle order. You hesitate only for a moment before moving toward his desk, your fingers grazing the smooth wood as you retrieve the folder. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, the pages thick with something far more sinister than mere ink.

As you walk back to the seating area, you keep your grip firm, careful not to crease the edges. You extend the folder toward Vic, but just as the exchange is about to be made, something cold brushes against your leg.

You freeze.

The touch is fleeting, barely there, but it sends a sharp jolt through you. It isn’t the hesitant brush of fabric or an accidental shift in movement. No, this was deliberate. Calculated.

Your breath hitches, but you force yourself to remain composed. The reaction is subtle—just the briefest hesitation in your step, the smallest intake of breath—but even that feels too much. You glance downward, though not enough to be obvious, catching only the faintest movement from the stranger seated at Vic’s feet.

They’ve already withdrawn their hand, their expression unreadable.

Did they mean to do that?

The question lingers, unwanted and intrusive, yet it burrows into your mind like a splinter. The stranger doesn’t look at you again. Their attention remains fixed elsewhere, their posture relaxed but too controlled, too aware.

If Vic or Isaac noticed, they don’t show it.

Vic takes the folder from your hands, flipping it open with an exhale. His eyes scan the contents, his fingers pressing firmly against the edges of the paper. His jaw tightens as he takes in the details, his expression darkening.

Isaac watches him, but his gaze flickers—just once—toward you.

He saw.

You’re sure of it.

But he says nothing.

You watch in near silence, your breath barely escaping your chest as Vic pours over the autopsy photos, his eyes scanning each gruesome detail. But it’s not just the disturbing images that keep your attention—it’s the figure at his feet, sitting still, too still. They haven’t shifted once since entering the room, their presence as unsettling as the storm now dying outside. The figure remains unnervingly calm, their posture too perfect, their face unreadable.

The figure shifts ever so slightly. A soft tug at Vic’s leg—almost imperceptible—yet, you feel it. Something about it feels like a signal, an invitation to a conversation no one else can hear. They raise their hand, falter, then let it drop like a feather, their movement too deliberate, too careful. There’s a strange kind of precision to them, like everything they do has meaning, like there is a language in their stillness.

Then, they lean in, their face close to Vic’s ear, their lips brushing against his skin. The whisper is low, almost inaudible, but Vic’s brows furrow deeply, his eyes narrowing as he tilts his head towards the photos again. A flicker of tension crosses his face—something in what they said has shifted his focus.

"Who gave you the case?" Vic asks suddenly, his voice low but cutting through the still air like a blade. His eyes don't leave the photos as he speaks, but you feel the question settle in the room like a heavy stone.

Isaac answers without missing a beat, his voice taut, betraying no emotion. "It was an anonymous sender."

Vic’s attention snaps away from the pictures, and he turns to face the figure at his side. His gaze is unwavering, and you can almost hear the unspoken questions between them. “They say it’s a setup,” Vic murmurs, his voice growing darker, more dangerous. He leans forward, studying the photos with a renewed intensity. “The man had at least been dead for three days.”

The words feel like they’re sinking into the air, thickening it with their weight. The implications of them gnaw at you—this wasn’t just a crime scene, wasn’t just a murder. It’s something far more calculated, far more deliberate. The body had been left to be found, yes, but who left it? And why?

Three days. The man had been dead for three days.

The words hang in the room like a bitter taste, and you feel it—the invisible thread of tension that grows tighter with every second. Whoever killed this man didn’t simply leave him to die. They made sure the body was found. Made sure it would be discovered. The meticulousness of it. The planning.

Vic doesn’t speak right away, his mind racing over the new information. He looks back down at the photos, then to the figure beside him, and you notice—just for a split second—the slightest shift in their expression. A flicker of something. Recognition? Concern? It’s too fleeting for you to place, but it’s there, undeniable. And it sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, the figure does something even more unsettling. They lean forward again, their voice a whisper you can’t hear, their words meant only for Vic. You can’t help but strain to catch even a fragment, but nothing. The air feels thick with secrets, suffocating in its quiet.

The room is charged now—silent, expectant, the weight of unanswered questions hanging over all of you. This isn’t just a murder. There’s more beneath the surface, and everyone in this room knows it. The mystery deepens, curling tighter around your throat with every word, every glance exchanged. But it’s the figure—who they are, what they know—that makes your skin crawl the most. They aren’t just here as a passive observer. They’re part of the puzzle, and somehow, you feel they’re the key to unlocking whatever darkness is lurking just out of sight.

But what are they hiding? What is Vic really seeing in those photos? What secrets is he keeping, and how much of it does this figure truly understand? The unsettling quiet that fills the space between them makes your pulse quicken.

Vic stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood floor with a sharp noise that cuts through the tension hanging in the air. He places the folder back on the table, closing it with a deliberate finality, the sound of the paper pressing together sending an unsettling ripple through the room. The figure rises almost simultaneously, their movements fluid, too coordinated, as if they were anticipating every step of Vic's. Their gaze shifts toward Isaac for a brief moment before they silently follow him towards the door.

"Mail me a copy of the documents," Vic's voice is low, the words measured, deliberate. "I’ll make sure it gets to Asriel as soon as possible." His eyes flicker back to the folder, scanning it one last time, his expression unreadable. The weight of the moment seems to settle around him, and his voice drops even further, carrying a subtle but ominous weight. "As for now, don't directly pursue the case. Keep gathering details. I'll see what I can find on my own. Keep me updated."

Isaac nods sharply, his posture stiff, betraying no emotion as he acknowledges Vic's instructions. His eyes flicker briefly to the figure, who stands unmoving, almost too still, a presence that seems to demand attention even without a word. There’s something about the way they stand there, almost as if waiting for something—waiting for you to react, to move, to understand.

Isaac strides toward Vic, his footsteps heavy and firm, the sense of finality in his actions palpable. The silence that follows his departure towards the door is thick, suffocating. It feels like the entire world is holding its breath.

Vic turns his back to you for a moment, heading toward the door. You can’t help but watch the figure as they stand by the doorframe, not moving, not speaking. The air around them seems to hum with an unnerving energy, something sharp and unfamiliar, like the stillness before a storm. You feel as though there is more to them, more lurking just beneath the surface of their unsettling calm.

As Isaac opens the door, a part of you wishes you could stay in this room, away from whatever lurks beyond it. But Vic doesn’t look back, the figure, though, does. Their gaze lands on you briefly, their eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sends a shiver crawling down your spine. For a split second, you wonder if they know something you don’t. If they’ve been watching you, all this time, gathering pieces of a puzzle you can’t quite see.

Then, without a word, the figure raises their hand, moving in the same deliberate way they had earlier when they first arrived. The gesture is eerily familiar, as though it holds a hidden meaning, a language you can’t decode. Their fingers twitch and hover in mid-air, an almost imperceptible motion before they drop their hand quickly. Their eyes flicker one more time toward you before they turn and slip through the door behind Vic.

The door shuts softly behind them, and you are left standing in the study, the weight of their departure settling heavily in the pit of your stomach. For a moment, you simply stand there, uncertain, lost in the echo of silence that now hangs in the room.

The storm outside has cleared, but the air inside feels colder than ever.

You are alone now.

But it doesn’t feel like you’ve been left with peace. Something is off. Something is wrong. The case—the body, the figure, the whispered conversations—all of it has the sharp, jagged edge of a trap, waiting to close in around you. And in the back of your mind, you hear it. The question that refuses to fade: What are they really after?

The quiet stretches out before you, as you stare at the closed door, unsure of what to do next. But you know this much—whatever is coming, it’s far from over. And the next step could be the one that unravels everything.

You don’t know how much longer you can keep running from the truth.

──

author's note: i apologize for the spam posting, i've just found my love and motivation for writing again!

tag list :

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[damien-thedoctor]

"monster you have made me."

damien backstory.

TW: ASSAULT and VIOLENCE

words: 600 - 1k

“HOLD IT DOWN!”

[One guard shouted, grabbing at the chains that bound the struggling person. There were cries of pain and sounds of something thrashing around wildly]

“NONO YOU HAVE THE WRONG PERSON, IT WASN’T ME- IT WASN’T ME-”

[SMACK.]

[The sound echoed throughout the chamber, and a choked sob escaped the poor man’s lips as he was thrown to the floor like he was just a creature to be used and abused.]

“st..op… I didn’...t… do.. Any..thing.. *Hic*….”

[More people entered the room, somebody was carrying a tray which they set down only a few feet away from the raven haired male that was cowering on the floor.]

“Get up.”

[The man who was in front of everyone else said, there was a feeling about him that made Damien’s blood turn to ice.]

“Sir.. p..please.. You know I didn’t do any-”

[SMACK.]

[He was violently thrown against the ground, now being held down in a chokehold by the other scientist. He could feel his tears dripping down his cheeks as he sobbed, it hurt not to breathe. It was like his lungs were on fire. Everything hurts. Damien tried to take one last gulp of air when-]

[He let go and Damien’s head smacked down against the floor, chest heaving desperately]

“We need him alive for this Mr {REDACTED}. We can’t just use his corpse.”

[Great, so it wasn’t only humanity as to why they kept him alive, they needed him for something.]

[Dr {REDACTED} approached Damien and tilted his head up so they were staring eye to eye don’t touch me]

“Now, Mr Scot , do you know what you’re here for?”

[His tone was different, Damien realised. A tone of sweet manipulation.]

[Just nod and behave. Act like you understand, be obedient.]

“..yes sir..”

[He could see just behind Dr {REDACTED} they were prepping a serum. It was a mix of reddish pink. It made Damien’s eyes hurt.]

“If all goes well, you should be free from any punishment today. If not then we’ll have your grave ready for you.”

[And then he was violently held down again-getoffgetoffgetoffgetoff-]

[He saw the doctor raise up the serum and then it was pressed into his neck, everything went black. But he wasn’t unconscious. No he could only see black, it was pain beyond pain he had ever felt, were those claws? He stared down at his hand, there were claws. Fangs? They ripped through part of his lip. Horns? Tail? What was happening. It felt like it was all ripping through his body, shredding his senses apart.]

[There were shouts from all around him, and then something was on top of him- get OFF.]

[He screamed, it felt like his lungs were on fire.]

[He felt hands that grabbed onto his legs, his tail. Feeling him, touching him.]

[He kicked out, felt someone grunt in pain and scrambled to the wall away from everyone as fast as he possibly could. He had hooves. What had these fuckers done. WHAT DID THEY DO.]

 “It worked.”

[He was hungry, he wanted flesh. He craved it.]

[He had given Dr {REDACTED} a nosebleed. That was who had been on top of him- touching him. Grabbing him. He could feel the marks he had left.]

[he snarled, tail lashing furiously. The way Dr {REDACTED} was looking at him made him want to hide. He felt like prey. No. He was prey.]

[He sobbed, blood ran from his mouth as his throat convulsed. There was no vomit only blood.]

[There were more researchers, they had clipboards and were taking notes.]

[Stop looking at me.]

[He wanted to kill but all he could do was cry, it was pathetic. He didn’t want them to touch him. He wanted them to leave him alone.]

[Everything was just ringing inside his ears, he was having trouble hearing. There were alarms blaring, red lights. more guards were grabbing at the chains that bound around his neck. Pulling on it so his already horrible vision blackened worse.]

[He sobbed so hard he passed out, he didn’t know what happened after that.]

[When he woke up, he was in his cell again. Back in hell. He wished that they would have just killed him.]

[There was a note and fresh clothes beside him.]

[He shredded the note to bits.]

[elllisaaa]

hello there!! 🫶🏼 first i wanna thank you so much for reading and rb my gunil fic, i appreciate the support truly 🥹

as i saw your hard thoughts are open i’ll let myself rant about yeonjun, he’s my bias from txt and ughhhhh this man, i go crazy every time i see his pretty face

one thing i LOVE about him is his confidence and how he carries himself it’s so attractive !!! i just need him to fuck me SO rough and deep in doggy style i feel his cock in my throat 😣 and i really really need him to talk cocky behind me the entire time, about how good he’s giving it to me and how no one ever has fucked me this good before, and no one else will 🤤 he’s the only one that can make me cum multiple times till i can’t think straight, and he always makes sure that i don’t forget that

oof, sorry if it’s too much, but it’s what he does to me 😭

hiii sweetie !!

thank you so much for supporting me too, and really i'm so happy to have finally found a blog about xh, and you're also feeding my gunil delulu thoughts so it's a win win 🤭 and it's definitely not too much, because i think this man have such an effect on everyone. even if he's not my bias (i'm a soobin girly), i'm still drooling over him, especially those edits with the weeknd starboy... they have me going feral fr ! thanks for the ask !

and you're definitely right, this man is overly confident and it's hella attractrive. but he has every right to be : one look at him is enough to understand why he's so cocky all the time. this man is talented, successful and so, so attractive. everywhere he goes, he has all eyes on him, including yours, and that's the only thing that really matters to him in the end.

his cockiness translates in the bedroom too, because how could he not when he knows that one word from him gets you on your knees in a matter of seconds ?

yeonjun loves to take you from behind, loves to stare at your ass and loves the way your back arch even more to let him reach deeper into you. with every thrust of his hips, the noise of skin colliding was echoing through the room. every time he got home after a show, he had spare energy to lose, and he was also so cocky, spurred by the way you were crying out his name as he pounded your tight cunt.

"that's it pretty girl, scream my name, let everyone hear how much you love it."

another moan escaped you, and yeonjun answered by a low grunt as he sped up his rhythm, fucking you more and more roughly as you let out more whimpers.

"dumb little slut, cannot think of everything beside my cock, huh ?"

he was so full of himself, borderline degrading you but it made you throb around his dick. if it was every other man, you would've been offended, but when it came out of yeonjun mouth, it was almost a compliment.

"fuck, i'm fucking you too well yeah ? that's why you can't talk anymore ?" and you sobbed at his words, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to hold on to something. "shh baby, i know it's so good, i know… so greedy, you already cum two times and you still want more ?"

you knew better than not answer him without his permission, so you nobbed your head as best you could in your current position and headspace. you mewled when his fingers digged into the flesh of your sides, using your body as leverage to fuck you even harder.

"that's alright, i know no one has ever fucked you like that before. i know no one could ever fuck you like that, i'm the only one that can make you feel like that."

and he's right, he's always right. he fucks you as if he exactly knew the right timing, the right pressure, the right rhythm to make you fold.

"say it. say that i'm the only one. let everyone hear how good i'm fucking you." your lack of answer earned you a harsh slap on your ass, making you moan even louder. "say it, or you're not cumming." "yes junnie ! only you make me feel like that." "good girl, now you can cum."

your orgasm washed over you as soon as you heard his order, pleasure so intense your vision blurred. your body became limp, and if it wasn't for yeonjun holding your hips up, you would've collapsed on the mattress.

"gonna give my cum to you baby, i know you want it."

you could only whine in response, unable to even shake your head yes or no. overstimulation was stinging, but it hurt so good. and yeonjun knew that, he always knew what to do. when he painted your walls white, and you were reaching your climax again, you definitely knew that yeonjun had ruined you for any other men.

[lucabyte]

On the subject of your recent post, do you have any ways to come up with interests/dislikes for your characters? Cause usually characters pop up for me with a personality and background for why they’re Like That and I can vaguely find what they’d like and don’t by tossing them into scenarios and seeing how they respond, but I usually have a way harder time extending that into things like what they’d do in their free time

!! Okay this is something where like, I have trouble with this too? Coming up with what they do on the day-to-day.

I think I mostly try not to sweat this stuff until it's relevant (at which point I'll put myself on the spot and really logic it out. I know recently I was digging into different university timetables for Lavender's subject of Horticulture, which I mostly did by checking out forums like thestudentroom & going on uni websites)

But yeah, no I think I'm a similar way. I can come up with a core for a guy, how they act and then throw them at a bunch of interests or scenarios without having to think too hard.

Generally, though, the process of giving them Interests is an iterative one where I claw outwards from the core Joke or Concept-- Like going from that to related concepts, and then flipping those concepts to find opposites or tangents that feel like they bear fruit. Like a fashion-forward character could be into customisation, or thrifting- or go tangential and say they also enjoy fashion dolls, and then from there go into real life fashion doll wikis for inspiration, then like... Maybe they like horses from those going hand in hand, or maybe they have a complete inverse of hating fashion dolls due to [find a specific pet peeve they have]?

(or, just go wikidiving and play a game of 'ok i have to assign this thing i just found to SOMEONE. who does it fit?')

But as for like. What they *do* with that hobby.... So this is a weakness of mine-- Like I tend to just hope that until I get around to them, it's not *obvious* that characters are lacking Internal Activity Timetables. But whenever I do get around to trying to flesh it out I usually just go hard in on research. This usually means checking out personal blogs of people who have those hobbies, or looking into what jobs entails (THIS PART SUCKS TO RESEARCH SO BAD. hate it). (LIKE FR RESEARCHING FOR CHROME'S MUSIC CAREER IS KILLING ME THE RABBIT HOLE KEEPS GOING LET ME OUT)

Reddit is genuinely not the *worst* place for this-- Stuff like hobbydrama will give you a glance into the shape that some people's lives take in really odd ways. Like you can trace back how people must've gotten into that scenario.

But figuring out a character's like job/student status and how much time must be made up of stuff like that can help.

It doesn't help that as an artist my own "what do i do in my free time" is a lot of sitting on the computer and drawing -_-;;; So i'm not the best model for it all.

I do have some characters that intentionally do jackall though so I try to write them to be different to characters who have internal lives that just haven't been fleshed out yet LOL. (Which I did by giving them the like... Handful of 'hobbies' those scary Whole Ass Adults will have to the exclusion of any actual joy. Just implying they let a lot of the day pass them by without doing much.)

But yeah no don't feel like that you're the only one that struggles here. And I fear the main solution here is researching and reading about the lives of real people and just trying to transfer that knowledge. (I'd love some quick fixes if anybody else has them but I feel like theremay not be many LOL)

[varilien]

(character uses they/it) i keep wanting to start posting my ocs over here again and then Just Not Doing It so uhhhh !!! some stuff from february, had a dream about knives that made me think of a plant oc with a constant power output so extreme that it generates a deadly radiation field around them. because of that they've been living alone this whole time, avoiding contact with other living things, and over the years they've learned how to suppress that output for short spans of time or "safely" pour out the excess in order to be safe to be around, though they ultimately prefer their solitude due to a history of bad experiences with humans. they're very blunt, spiteful, and curious

@whatever-you-can-give-me suggested lr would make good friends for them since they are 🤝 about being extremely hard to hurt lol

also! wrote like 2k about they and razlo's first meeting below the cut if anyone's interested in some good ol violence + gore :3

that was a fr content warning btw read at ur own discretion:

Chance encounters with violent strangers out in the open desert are nothing new to LR, even when Livio purposefully had tried to find the quietest possible route to travel.  It’s not even necessarily surprising to run into someone a little to the left of human, someone a bit bigger or stronger or more durable than they really have any right to be.  The Eye aren’t the only ones designing freaks on this planet, that much is obvious, evidenced sufficiently by the odder fights LR have ever gotten in.  

And this one is shaping up to be one of their oddest fights yet.

Livio hadn’t seen the fucker coming, occupied as he was with the slow realization of why this stretch of road doesn’t see much use anymore: a creeping heat across his nerve endings unrelated to the overcast, evening suns, the taste of metal in his mouth, and a deep-rooted nausea twisting up his guts.  Radiation sickness.  He’s dealt with it before, and as unpleasant as it is, it’s hardly enough to slow him down too bad.  

It’s damn distracting, though.  A good enough excuse for not noticing them hiding up along the rockface above his head.  Not a good enough excuse to keep Razlo from tagging in, especially after something’s pierced straight through the back of his neck, nearly taking his head clean off.  

Razlo rolls for cover with a strangled sound, blood gushing from his forced-out throat and foaming at his lips.  Even with his senses jarred and his vision blurred, it'd take more than a near-decapitation for his instincts to be overridden.  He's slinging out a Punisher before he even knows what he's up against.  

There's a blur of motion to his right as soon as his sights are raised.  They're probably surprised Razlo's still standing, but so was everyone else who's gotten a lucky shot at him.

He can track their motion by sound alone.  They're sloppy.  Feet hitting the cracked earth in hard thumps, every one a warning that Razlo can aim a spray of bullets at.  And by now Razlo's healed enough to notice and wonder why the hell his head is still so fucked up.

At least now he can mostly see them when he turns, hanging back a ways, out of Razlo's reach.  Shorter than him by a head and a half, covered toe to tip in layers of sun-bleached rags, save for their face.  That's hidden behind a tall, curved mask, shaped in a way that looks an awful lot like a tomas' crest, with the false eye markings to match.  Even the glass for the lenses is opaque.  The only part of them that’s exposed is their left hand, extended delicately aside to keep Razlo’s blood dripping off it from getting on their clothes.

Razlo physically tries to shake out the buzzing in his skull that only gets worse by the second, only to notice the foul smell of burning meat and risk an instinctive glance down at his arm, where his flesh has started to bubble and steam seemingly on its own.  He looks between his arm and his opponent, the way their body tenses and head begins to tip, shaking hard, simultaneous with his skin boiling that much more fiercely.  

Something clicks in his brain.  There’s no way.

And no time to find out.  This time when they dart in he’s expecting it; he takes a swing at their head, and they dodge right into his follow-through, slamming his Punisher into their skull with a crunch and a wet sound from their throat.  They drop, like he’d expect them to, like anyone would.  And like no one does, they just roll out of the way and onto their back, braced to spring back up again.  Razlo puts his boot through their ribcage before they get the chance to.  That should be the end of it, too, but the fucker just keeps kicking, trying to get away, the only sound they make being the gurgle of their lungs filling with blood, and they keep kicking.

At this point Razlo doesn’t even have a plan anymore.  Needless to say, he doesn’t go up against an awful lot of guys who match him in the department of being a pain in the ass to take down.  Razlo's just starting to come up with a new idea when those long arms swing up, claws digging into and making ribbons of his right leg.

Razlo curses and tries to pull away, which only makes them hold on even tighter.  He's staring that four-eyed glare down when that burning feeling across his whole body raises in pitch again, and it's the sight of his flesh starting to disintegrate around their fingers that finally makes him back off.

Razlo rather gracelessly falls on his ass in trying to take a step back, not expecting his right leg to simply break off halfway down his thigh.  He scrambles back a ways, ready to keep going, missing limb or no, but— they aren't following him.  They're collapsed in the sand, limbs akimbo as they fight to draw a full breath.  Razlo watches with morbid curiosity as his severed leg dissolves into nothing more than an off-colored patch of sand beside them.

All that angry tension has gone out of their body, leaving them limp and motionless except for the stutter of their chest, and Razlo can hear the damp gasps muffled behind their mask.  By all rights, it should look like more of a struggle.  They should be dead, really, but from where Razlo is sitting, it looks a lot more like they’re just taking a rest.  He feels more sure of that when they roll their shoulders back a bit, arms braced in the dirt as they delicately arch their spine.  There’s some sharp popping sounds, and a little exhale from them; setting their ribs, Razlo figures.  He’s had to do the same thing before.  Once they can move their arms more effectively, they start to gather themself up into a seated position, bones and joints still crackling like popcorn here and there as they go, til they’re all the way up, with their hands resting in their lap, looking far too fucking comfortable for the fight they’d just had.

"You're not dead."

Their voice startles Razlo despite being as soft as it is, and his gaze flicks up to that mask, just slightly tilted to the side, orange lenses glinting in the harsh sunlight.  They don't move at all that Razlo can see.  Even their breathing has evened out enough to have become imperceptible under their heavy shroud; if they're in any pain still, Razlo sure can't tell.

"Nope," is all he says, or can manage to say.

He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking hard a couple times to scrunch up his face in the hopes his nerves might start feeling right again soon.

Another wave of nausea hits him, but his stomach was empty before the fight even started, so he leans forward to put his head between his knees and dry heave for a while.

The whole time, he's aware of his little opponent continuing to sit in silence, watching and eerily unmoving, even when Razlo manages to sit up again and wipe his mouth with his wrist.

"The fuck's yer deal, anyways?"  Razlo asks.

"'Deal'...?"  They echo.

"Couldn't exactly kill you, either."

He wasn't expecting them to spill their life story or something, but he was thinking he'd get something more of a response than their head tilting back the opposite way.  There's not a lot to work with here in trying to get a read on them, but Razlo feels it's safe to hazard they're probably just pretty damn confused, the same as him.

"You kinda smell like a Plant.  M'not an expert, but I've met two others."

Now that gets something out of them.  A tiny wiggle of their head that makes the pieces in their mask rattle.

"I wouldn't know.  I've only met me."

“Huh.”  

Whether it’s a confirmation or rebuttal hardly matters at this point.  He’s feeling sure enough that his assumption was correct, now, anyways.

"You, uh…"  Razlo has to pause for breath.  Unlike the thing across from him, he's having a hell of a time getting his back.  "You're the one making this radiation field?"

"Yes."

"Any way you could turn it down?"

They say nothing, though Razlo feels suddenly that he's being studied very intently.  And shortly after, slowly, slowly the fire in his cells begins to go out, and he can spit the worst of the sourness off his tongue.  Eventually he can't feel any radiation left at all, though his body's had a rough enough time from the dose he got, he'll be getting the sickness out of his system for a while yet.

Regardless, Razlo’s fingers twitch against the triggers when he hears that mask rattle again, and his eyes are on it in an instant.

"You didn't answer my first question," Razlo reminds, cautiously.

More silence, for a while.

"You wanted to hurt me."

There's no malice in the statement, at least that Razlo can tell.  Just the simple facts.  Still, he narrows his eyes.

"You started it.  Figured it was mutual."

"That's true."

Razlo grins.

"So, what now?  Regrow my leg, and get back to not killing each other?"

"If you'd like to."

That gets a laugh out of him.

"Nah, I think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is.”

That much is obvious.  They stay put, seeming transfixed on watching Razlo’s leg grow back, only a little more slowly than any of his other injuries, now that he doesn’t have the radiation to slow him down.  It leaves him feeling itchy and achy all over, and he’s got a bad hunch that right ankle doesn’t have the best chances of coming back right.  Once there’s enough of it to fuss about, he gets his foot in his hands and starts experimentally rolling it on its hinge, checking that the range of motion is right.

And still, those orange lenses glint at him curiously.  They don’t flinch or look away when Razlo considers them in return; he guesses they don’t know it’s not polite to stare.

“What's yer name?"  Razlo asks.

"My name?"

"Don't tell me you ain't got one."

The silence that follows is pretty self-explanatory.

“I’m Razlo.”

He can just make out the sound of them mumbling his name under their breath, like they’re not sure how it’s going to come out.  Almost warmly, almost shyly, they manage to say: “hello, Razlo.”

[wishforhome]

wip wednesday thursday

so my poll yesterday ended up with a tie, and @nelsynoo really wanted the toxic vero/viago smut and i do really want to share at least part of it. this continues (kinda sorta, i've skipped ahead a bit) from here.

context: viago assigns vero a seduction contact to prove to himself that he is capable of treating them like any other agent. he fails dismally. during the execution of the contract, he is delayed by twenty minutes and vero has sex with the target in order to maintain the distraction until viago can arrive and complete the assassination.

viago's horrified, murders the target by slitting his throat, and proceeds to set about reclaiming "his" vero in the bloody bed. this is just a short portion of the whole scene, which is about 3,500 words.

691 words | explicit | wip excerpt | viago/rook (vero)

He was late. It is his fault, that this thing has happened, because he was late. Because he gave them the contract in the first place, knowing the risks. He had been stupid, foolish, unforgivably arrogant, and now someone has taken something that is his. (Sebastiano de Fiore is certainly dead by now, expired on the carpet where Vero had pushed him. Viago knows how long it takes to die from the type of wound he had inflicted, not more than a minute, and he has spent far longer than that, holding Vero in his arms in this blood-soaked bed.)

He presses his tongue against the wet heat of their cunt, and Vero shudders, pulling him closer. There is a desperate edge to the way they tug at his hair, their fingertips pressing into his scalp as they rock up against him. Everything still tastes like copper, but beneath that is the familiar flavour of them - salt and faint sweetness – but something else, too, something musky and alkaline and wrong, like detecting the bitter hint of almonds under the warm scent of wine.

And so he holds them open with his bloody hands. He alternates between licking them in broad strokes and then sliding his tongue into them as deeply as he can. One of Vero’s heels presses into his spine as they arch up under him. It is about pleasure, certainly, but not only about that. He will use his mouth to remove any trace of what has been done to them (because even though Vero had allowed it, Viago can only see it as something inflicted upon them, can imagine it only as a kind of trespass), to claim them again as his.

His, and only his.

He is soothed only somewhat by the knowledge that he had not allowed the usurper to reach completion, that what he licks now from Vero’s body is little more than someone else’s sweat.

Vero shudders and writhes when Viago slides his lips over their clit, the tender bundle of nerves swollen and stiff as he sucks at it. He cannot imagine that de Fiore gave them much genuine pleasure – in fact, he finds himself hoping, helplessly, that he did not – and so this is what he focuses on. He cannot give them anything else – cannot bring himself, even now, to press into their body in that most profound of ways, to claim them the way he so desperately desires to – but this is what he can do. He can lick and suck and graze his teeth over their flesh, he can push two of his fingers into the wet heat of their sex, and he can work them this way until at last their body tightens like a garrote wire pulled taut.

They come apart, gasping his name as he curls his fingers inside them, but Viago does not stop. He cannot. Instead, he adds a third finger, moaning against them when Vero cries out again. He keeps going through their climax, and they pull again at his hair, sharply enough that it hurts him, but he does not mind. The pain is grounding, and deserved besides.

He deserves the pain. He does not deserve to be allowed to touch them this way, and yet he cannot deny himself. Their cries of pleasure now erase the memory of the false ones he had heard before, listening from outside the door. (They were false, he reminds himself; they must have been false.)

He is determined to wring from them a second climax, and he keeps them spread with his one hand while his other thrusts in and out in a steady rhythm, matching the way his mouth and tongue stroke and suck. Vero whines, their hips flexing, and this time when they come, fluid gushes from their body, coating his fingers and pooling on the stained sheets beneath them.

Vero pulls at him, hard enough that Viago has to bring his mouth away from their cunt, though his long fingers remain pressed inside them, up to the last knuckle. They are shaking, and Viago meets their amber eyes, and he says, “Again.”