#these last scenes of them are heartbreaking

[cruel-seduction]

Tangled Loyalties (Part - 1) 

Summary: Transferring from Beauxbatons to Hogwarts should’ve been a fresh start—but being Draco Malfoy’s cousin made it easier to slip into the Slytherin elite like you belonged there. You had the confidence, the connections, the charm. Everything but control over the way Mattheo Riddle looked at you—like you were a challenge he couldn’t resist but never planned to keep. What started as sarcasm-laced flirting spirals into something raw. Real. And when he pulls away just as you let your guard down, you’re left sorting through heartbreak, bruised pride, and all the insecurities you swore you’d outgrown.

Content Warnings: Suggestive content, sharp tongues, emotional whiplash, insecure girl math, bad decision-making, and Mattheo Riddle being a delusional menace with too much jawline and not enough communication skills. Side effects may include thinking you're the problem. You're not. (But damn, it feels like you are.) ANGSTT!!!!!!!

Rain patted lazily against the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting a moody grey glow over the morning breakfast scene. Autumn had sunk its teeth into the Scottish countryside, and with it came wool scarves, steaming goblets of spiced pumpkin cider, and cold breath against enchanted windows. You sat cross-legged on the Slytherin bench, your robe draped artfully over one shoulder and a cashmere sweater—charcoal with green cuffs—hugging your frame. Your wand stuck out of your thigh-high boots. Unbothered. Iconic.

Pansy sat on your right, practically twirling her eggs with boredom, while Theodore leaned back on your left, one brow cocked as he tried to place bets on whether Draco would lose his patience with You were sitting in your usual seat at the Slytherin table, elbow perched on the polished wood, one hand lazily dragging a spoon through a bowl of porridge you had no intention of finishing. Your outfit was crisp: the regulation black Hogwarts skirt with knee-high socks, an oversized Slytherin sweater you'd stolen from Draco—he never noticed—and a glossy swipe of lip balm. Chic, effortless, just enough French rebellion to remind them you weren’t raised on this side of the channel.

One month. That’s how long it had been since you transferred from Beauxbatons. A month, and Hogwarts had already bent to fit around you like a glove.

Being Draco Malfoy’s cousin helped. The moment you arrived, everyone knew your last name. Pureblood, prestigious, the new girl with the sharp tongue. The Slytherins didn’t even question it—you were one of them from day one. It almost felt like home.

Almost.

Until Mattheo Riddle looked at you. You tried to ignore it. That tension. That current.

You weren't stupid. You’d heard the rumors. You’d seen the girls. The trail of lipstick-stained parchments he never read. The tearful confessions he never cared about. The smirks. The biting charm. The cocky swagger that made every hallway feel like his.

He was dark-haired, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, his tie always loosened like he didn’t give a shit, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking out over his veins. The kind of beautiful that didn’t try. The kind of beautiful that ruined girls.

And unfortunately, he sat across from you every fucking day. You tried to play it cool. It’s just flirtation, right? You weren’t falling for Mattheo Riddle. You wouldn’t be one of the girls in his headcount. No, thank you. You were raised better.

Oi—give it back, you prick,” Theo’s voice barked across the table, dragging your attention. Mattheo had snatched Theo’s toast clean from his plate and was eating it with zero remorse.

You glanced up, watching the two boys argue like dogs.

“I don’t see your name carved into the bread,” Mattheo said, voice low and amused as he tore off another piece, tossing it into his mouth.

“I’m going to carve my name into your bloody skull if you don’t quit acting like a feral—”

“I don’t respond to threats before noon,” Mattheo cut back smoothly, licking marmalade from his thumb with a glance so bored it almost looked lazy.

“You’re going to throw your back out sitting like that,” you said, dry as bone. Mattheo turned his head lazily toward you, one brow arched. “Concerned about me, darling?”

“More concerned you’ll break the bench with that inflated ego,” you replied, biting into your toast.

Mattheo didn’t flinch. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you fancy me.” You licked your bottom lip slowly, just to annoy him, the glint of your tongue piercing catching the dim hall light. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last option in Azkaban.”

His smirk deepened. “Then why do you keep staring, princess?” “Because I’m trying to figure out how someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon thinks they’re the main character.”

That did it. His jaw twitched. But instead of firing back, Mattheo leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze locked on yours with a look that was all heat and challenge.

“Keep going,” he murmured, low enough that only you heard. “It turns me on when you pretend you don’t want me.” You swallowed hard. Asshole.

And then Draco’s voice came to your ears probably saying something like “Eww, Mattheo. She is my cousin. At least talk like this when I am not sitting beside you.”

But you didn’t look away. And neither did he. 

It was infuriating, this push and pull. Mattheo—who had a reputation for breaking hearts like twigs, who claimed he hated drama but was always in the middle of it. And you? You weren’t about to be another name on his list. You were the storm, not the shipwreck.

Still, he made it so hard to breathe when he looked at you like that. You stood abruptly, adjusting your robe and grabbing your bag.

“Where are you going?” Mattheo asked, still lounging. “Away from brain damage,” you said sweetly. “Try not to miss me too hard, darling.”

His grin was wolfish. Dangerous. Oh, this was far from over.

✩࿐࿔ 

You’re late-night cramming in the deserted study alcove near the library wings. Books and parchment are strewn like battlefield debris beneath the weak glow of a single green-shaded lamp. The air is cold, so you’re curled up in your Forest green cardigan—Beauxbatons crest still glinting faintly—with your favorite pen in hand, determined to make those Arithmancy equations bend to your will. You’re almost convinced you’ve got it when—

A shadow drops beside you. Mattheo Riddle. His robes whisper against the stone bench.

“Let me study,” you mutter without looking up. He’s quiet for a moment—a smirk lurking just beyond polite. “I didn’t even speak. I’m just…admiring your beauty.”

Your head snaps up, eyebrows shooting. “Ew, that’s cheesy. What are you, Ben from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days? And he can say cheesy shit like this Because he is hot. ”

That smirk flickers, shades darker. “You don’t think I’m hot?? And who the fuck is this Ben guy? I’m a hell of a lot better than some Benny.”

You roll your eyes. “Aww, whatever makes you sleep at night.” Without thinking, your hand snakes forward, pinching his cheek and then smoothing over his dark curls. He inhales sharply, but keeps quiet.

He leans back, hench arms folded. “Noo… I have a reputation to maintain.” A devilish grin breaks on your face. “You want me to do that thing I do with your hair again, right?” You tease.

His posture goes rigid—recoil with pride. “Only if nobody ever finds out.” You cock your head. “What do I get in return?” He looks at you, dead serious. “You get to make me happy.” You turn your nose up in mock disgust. “…Pass.”

He shrugs, the silent threat of charm in his shrug. “Fine. I’ll get you whatever you want.” You savor the moment—pure victory.

He exhales and dips his head, resting it on the desk next to your books. His curls sweep across the wood. Without thinking, you reach out, your left hand gently massaging the back of his neck while your right hand scribbles bullet points on the parchment.

He exhales again, deeper. You glance at your notes, but his even breathing holds your attention. Then—silently—you realize he’s asleep, his lashes brushing his cheeks. An absurd, breathtaking intimacy settles in the room. 

You lean in.

Closer than you meant to, maybe. But his face—half-buried in the crook of his arm, those lashes low over hooded eyes, the boyish smirk barely clinging to his mouth—it pulls at something in you that’s never quiet around him.

His voice cuts through the moment, soft and teasing. “Trying to kiss me or something?” You scoff, lips twitching. “You wish.” But you don’t pull back.

You hover. Not far. Not close enough. And in that exhale between almost and inevitable, everything stretches—like time and space are folding just to fit the two of you in the middle.

Then you kiss him.

It starts hesitant. Careful, like you’re both too proud to admit how long you’ve wanted it. But it shifts fast—his mouth opens under yours like a secret he’s never let anyone read, like you’re the only one who ever tried.

Your fingers find his hair again, and he groans into your mouth. There’s no crowd here. No whispers. No egos, or sarcastic remarks. Nothing. Just Mattheo. Just you.

He kisses like he’s starved for it. Like he’s terrified of it. Like he’s already addicted to something he swore he’d never touch.

And it terrifies you too.

Because in that moment, your walls—those jokes, your pride, that repeated mantra of I’m not just another girl—they all splinter like glass. Melt under his hands like wax.

For once, it isn’t about who’s in control. It’s just breath and heartbeat and the fact that neither of you are pretending anymore. And maybe that’s what ruins it.

Because just when your lips part with a soft gasp, just when your eyes meet and he looks at you like he’s seeing every truth he’s always run from.. 

Mattheo bolts upright. His chair scrapes against the stone floor like a wound splitting open. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t offer a quip or grin or half-assed explanation.

He just leaves. And you're left there—hand frozen mid-air where his hair had been, lips still tingling, heart crashing hard into your ribs.

Shame creeps up your throat before you can stop it. It shouldn’t, but it does. Because you let him in. Because for a second, you wanted it too much. Because you thought maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t run.

The next day, you were sitting in the Potions classroom, the stale chill of the dungeon air clinging to your skin like shame. The soft scrape of quills and idle whispers from students settling in filled the space around you, but your mind was miles away—sinking, spiraling, unraveling.

Professor Snape hadn’t arrived yet.

You stared blankly at your textbook, pretending to read, but every word bled into the next, meaningless and blurred, lost under the weight of your thoughts.

Mattheo hadn’t looked at you once.

Not in the Great Hall that morning, not in the corridor you passed through where he was leaning against the wall with Theodore, not even now—where he sat two benches away, slouched in that infuriatingly casual way, talking lowly to Blaise like nothing happened.

Your thoughts weren’t even near that desk. They were chewing you alive.

Why did he leave?

That single thought had been echoing since last night like a cursed mantra. And now, sitting in this dimly lit room, the weight of it pressed harder on your chest than the dungeon air ever could.

Maybe you’d been stupid. Maybe you read too much into the way he looked at you. Maybe you thought the tension meant something.

Maybe you actually believed you were enough.

But now?

Now, you were just sitting here, heart splintering beneath layers of practiced perfection. And all you could do was try to keep your face straight. Because girls like you don’t cry in class.

The girl who made a whole identity out of being untouchable. But your hands were trembling under the table. And the truth was ugly: you’d spent years in front of mirrors picking yourself apart. Pulling at your waist like if you tugged hard enough, it might turn into something narrow and perfect. Sucking in your stomach when you walked past reflective surfaces. Comparing every angle of yourself to the girls who didn’t seem to try.

You weren’t soft enough, weren’t effortless. There were days your thighs felt too big, your voice too loud, your skin too real. Not porcelain. Not delicate. Just… you.

And for what?

You played the it-girl. The confident one. The sharp-tongued, unbothered one who laughed too loud and never let a boy mess with her head.

But you wanted someone to see through it. To see you under it all.

And you thought—god, you really thought—Mattheo had. The way he stared at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he let himself be soft in the quiet, even if just for a second. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember what breathing felt like.

But then he left. No words. No look back.

And it was like confirmation. Confirmation that you were wrong to believe you were anything more than another girl. That maybe he regretted it. Maybe he looked at you in the light and realized you weren’t perfect enough to keep.

Maybe he saw the stretch marks on your hips the other day when your shirt lifted. Maybe he heard the waver in your voice when you said you were fine, and it was too much.

Too real. Too flawed.

Your jaw clenched as you stared down at your potion ingredients. You wouldn't cry. Not over him. Not over anyone. You had your pride. Your walls. Your wit. And that was enough.

Except… It wasn’t, was it?

Not when the ache didn’t leave your chest. Not when your brain wouldn’t shut up. Not when even thinking about last night made your eyes sting and your throat tighten.

You blinked fast. Bit the inside of your cheek.

Mattheo was three seats down, arms crossed, that same casual lean in his chair—looking for all the world like nothing was eating him alive.

You didn’t look. You wouldn't give him that power. Because maybe you weren’t perfect. But fuck, you deserved more than silence.

And then, your gaze caught on something across the classroom. A Hufflepuff girl—laughing softly as her boyfriend tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Their knees were touching. His face was lit up like she was the sun.

You stared.And something inside your chest cracked—quietly, bitterly. You wanted that.

Not just the hair-tucking or the soft smiles. Not even the hand-holding. You wanted to be seen. Not the version you gave the world. But the real you. The one who hated her stretch marks. The one who had cried over dumb things like thighs and cheekbones. The one who didn’t feel like an "it girl" in the dark.

You wanted someone to notice the way your voice changed when you were nervous. The way you tapped your nails against the desk when you were overwhelmed. Someone to kiss you and not run the fuck away afterward.

But maybe that wasn’t in the cards for girls like you, huh? The ones who laugh too loud. The ones who don’t wake up pretty. The ones who pretend being strong are the same thing as being okay.Your fingers curled into fists on the desk as your teeth sank into your lower lip to keep it from trembling. You were fine. You always were. Until you weren’t.

Divider Credit goes to @bernardsbendystraws. I PROMISE THERE IS GONNA BE PART 2 AND PART 3 BUT I AM in writer's block y'all. I have to manage a lot of things. I have so much work. This I wrote cause I am having terrible cramps and can't study.

[donat-senpai]

You know in your Jinshi and maomao yandere series, how'd you think they'd react if it was reader who was kidnapped in the show clan arc?

Yandere!Maomao X Reader X Yandere!Jinshi Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! tw: abduction themes I’m not very familiar with this story arc, so I made the kidnapping theme a bit more general.

They would (both go completely insane, lol) join forces and launch an investigation. They’d start with a classic examination of the "crime scene," looking for clues that might hint at where you could have gone. Maomao would use her knowledge to make the search more effective, while Jinshi would focus on witnesses, questioning everyone who last saw you.

If bringing you back turns out to be more difficult than they initially expected, Maomao wouldn’t hesitate to ask her father for help. (Luohan Han would be so thrilled to get involved that he wouldn’t even ask unnecessary questions.) Right after the initial inspection, she’d ask for a dog to be brought in, hoping the animal could pick up your scent. Throughout the entire search, she'd constantly blame herself for leaving you unattended and allowing this to happen.

Jinshi, much like in the canonical situation with Maomao’s kidnapping, would still be heavily restricted by his status. He’d want to use every resource available but would fear revealing his secret and making it obvious that you mean more to him than anyone else. If the kidnappers were to discover your value to him, they’d definitely use it against him.

Throughout the process, the two of them would be completely honest with each other. They’d share every piece of new information and theory. Their goal is simple: to bring you back as quickly as possible. Competing with each other or withholding facts would only get in the way.

If a ransom is demanded, Jinshi would meet the kidnappers’ conditions without hesitation—as long as he’s sure you’ll actually be released afterward.

And if all of their efforts still aren’t enough, and they both start to lose hope, Jinshi would be willing to take the ultimate risk and ask the Emperor for help. He’d reveal the truth about you. It’s unlikely the prince would face serious consequences, but a harsh conversation would probably follow, reminding him of his place in the palace. Jinshi would accept the help without hesitation, even if it meant being removed from his position as overseer of the inner palace. Even if he were ordered to send you away once you’re found, he would make sure to arrange a safe, comfortable place for you. And in that case, he’d give up. He might even send Maomao with you, to keep watch and protect you.

The guy would be utterly crushed. He’d accept the heartbreaking condition—to never contact you again—if it meant knowing you’re safe and well.

Taglist: @iamrgo, @hellishdevotee, @levifiance, @bloodypawzies, @greensunflowerjuna, @jackiebluh, @thefawnmadeofstars,

(I'm tagging these people in a fic that isn’t an official part of the series, but its concept is directly inspired by it. I assumed you might still enjoy it, but if you’d prefer to only be tagged in the main series and not in related fics, feel free to let me know! 💙)

[starmaker-astral]

Ok we all need to sit and listen.

We need to see this scene (yes, this one) from another angle.

In case you hadn't thought about it, in the last fifteen, we can understand that Aziraphale and Crowley are being watched (by Metatron, most likely through the bookshop windows). Aziraphale knows that and tries to make Crowley understand.

Now, let's talk about how some of Aziraphale's actions/phrases just sound wrong, and not just the mouthing he does earlier, but specifically this moment :

This moment is important because so many people heavily misunderstood Aziraphale here.

It's not "Aziraphale" who speaks, it's "Aziraphale being observed and being forced to play a role" who speaks.

I thought the horribly articulated and obviously exaggerated "work with meee..." line was pretty obvious (it's the most notable one anyway), and the fake excitement doesn't fool anyone with his frantic movements, darting eyes, anxious body language etc... But far too many people are spitting on Az by saying that it was horrible to say that to Crowley and that he didn't really understand him so we need to rethink everything.

Here's what happened, a tangle of double messages :

🟣 Az playing a role because he is being watched

🟠 Az speaking honestly/by himself

"Crowley, Crowley come back to Heaven. Work with meeee... We can be together, angels ! Doing good ! .... I need you ! .... I don't think you understand what I'm offering you. (<both 🟣🟠)

By how Aziraphale acts, breathes and furtively looks elsewhere between his sentences, we notice that he is anxious, under pressure.

IT IS painful for Az to talk like that, to say those horrible things to Crowley and at the same time having to think FAST to know what to say, to do and try to make Crowley understand what is happening.

He tries to balance between what he wants/needs to say to Crowley and what he is forced to do, against his will. And he tries to make Crowley understand this by acting strangely. Because Crowley knows Aziraphale, he knows when something is wrong with him.

This scene is not (entirely) a miscommunication issue, they were not safe, and Az, at the moment of Crowley's declaration was terrified that Metatron could hear this (and who would understand they love eachother, which would be terrible), the need to act FAST and the pressure of being observed.

They had TWO CONVERSATIONS AT THE SAME TIME. (In the entire scene of the last fifteen, not only here, but it would be very long to decypher every line in 1 post)

Aziraphale tries to keep a facade (smiling, enthousiast) because of being watched by the Metatron, but this whole conversation is breaking him inside (worried, scared, lonely)

Here's what I understood here, with Crowley's part and how he came to understand that they, both of them, had to quickly play a role against Metatron:

- Come back to heaven... Work with meeee... (I don't mean it) We can be together, angels ! Doing good !.... I need you ! (Don't leave me alone)... I don't think you understand what I'm offering you (We are not safe to say what we want right now, please tell me you understood)

- I understand. (Ok I got it now) [Pause] And I understand a lot better than you do (confirmation he understood he has to find a way out of here for them both to be safe)

- Well. Then there is nothing more to say (Okay, we're on the same page now and we can follow up with something to definitely fool Metatron and work together in secret)

Rewatch the scene knowing that, it's something else entirely and Aziraphale's anxiety is crippling.

And it makes that scene even worse : it's rushed, messy and frustrating because it shouldn't have happened that way.

They weren't safe at that time, they couldn't act as they wanted.

Of course, the whole Nightingale part the "I forgive you/Don't bother" etc... is heartbreaking. But isn't that another role played? (The kiss was honest tho) Something to fool Metatron? To make him believe that Az no longer has any ties to Earth/Crowley and therefore will be obedient and not considered a threat in Heaven?

Crowley told Azirpahale that he understood, and from that moment, a "breakup" game is played. (I still believe that this is all rushed, that Crowley is deeply hurt by his rushed declaration, that couldn't be made normally, and the horrible separation they have to go through because they have no other choice. Separated by the system and how it works.)

They had to play two different roles during this crisis situation, and Crowley's declaration made things even messier and risky.

They are all alone now, on separate sides, for the first time. But they hadn't any other choice for them both to be safe.

We could also talk about Azirphale's "random" gestures and mouthing earlier, before warning Crowley about Metatron's offer, trying to make Crowley understand the problem.

Metatron's offer (disguised obligation, see the "give me coffee or give me death" coffee metaphore : Take the coffee (my offer) or it will be death for you and your demon

"Whats that lovely human expression ?" (He never says thing like that, he use those "human expression" words to fool the Metatron into believing that Az doesn't know humanity very well while he actually does) "Hold that thought !" (Please don't say that. We are in danger let me speak)

Aziraphale looking away (at the window, nervous)

Az cant focus on Crowley's speech because they know they are in danger and Metatron should hear that Crowley loves Az or it would be worse

But that's another subject to explore further for next time ✨️

[buckevantommy]

"Exhaustion" for type it Tuesday?

this is what happens before the hurt/comfort bath scene fic.. 👀🛁

It's been a week since Bobby's funeral. Eddie's gone back to Texas, at least for now, and Tommy came over for dinner. Because that's something they do now.

As friends.

As whatever Evan needs.

He gave Evan some space to make some calls while he took time cleaning the kitchen—

When a commotion down the hall has him rushing to Evan's bedroom to find him in a state of distraught, teary-eyed and on the brink of hyperventilating.

"Evan–"

"Everyone.. leaves me.."

Tommy's battered heart snapped in two the morning he walked out. The pieces cut into him as he watched Evan break down on that monitor and they're pressing into lungs, trying to carve out of ribcage to be closer to Evan.

"My parents.. Maddie.. Eddie.. Bobby.." Evan's breathing is harsh and too fast, his gaze unfocused as he shifts on the carpet, phone clenched in his hand.

Logically, Tommy knows the losses he speaks of aren't all on the same wavelength: Maddie is in his life now, his parents are making a concerted effort last he knew, Eddie chose to put his kid first, and Bobby..

“..You..” Evan gasps out, and it takes a second for Tommy to orient and realise what he's saying.

He snaps out of it and rushes to Evan's side where he's crumpled between the dresser and the closet, looking smaller than Tommy's ever seen him.

“Evan..” He can't help his hands going to steady Evan's shoulder and gently guide his jaw up. “I'm here– I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.” It's true. There's simply no way he could walk out of Evan's life again, no matter what they are to each other.

No matter how closed off Evan's been since the funeral, how he didn't seem to trust Tommy with the vulnerable parts of himself anymore - which is fair enough.

It's almost a relief to see behind the facade Evan's been holding up for everyone, not just for him, even as he lists forward and collapses against Tommy, lets himself fall apart in Tommy's arms.

He wants to be this for Evan, be here for him like this. It's a heartbreaking honor, and it's been so surreal: watching Evan seal off his emotions, this man who Tommy has known to always wear them on his sleeve.

Evan fights briefly between pulling away and pushing closer into Tommy's space, smashing his face into Tommy's chest as ugly sobs tear through him.

Tommy holds him tight as he garbles out something that sounds like, "Please don't leave."

The remnant shards of Tommy's heart turn inwards and scrape him up for good measure.

He drops a kiss into Evan's curls. “I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart.. I'm right here.. I got you.. I got you..”

It's a promise. Tommy holds him, gently rocking him through the heaving sobs until eventually they quiet into hiccups and sniffles, breaths slowing and evening out. Tommy rubs a soothing hand up and down his back.

"Bed?" Tommy asks, exhaustion likely setting in.

But he surprises Tommy, shaking his head and muttering, “Bath?” into damp fabric, breath warm over his clavicle, voice wrung out from grief.

“Of course. C’mon.”

Tommy helps Evan to his feet and together they stumble towards the bathroom. Tommy gets him seated, slumped on the closed lid of the toilet while he sets about filling the tub.

He helps Evan out of his shirt as his grip falters and muscles struggle to cooperate, and it earns him a greatful look, eyes red-rimmed and wide with sadness.

Evan plants a hand on Tommy's chest, fists the fabric a little to steady himself as he lowers himself into the tub, Tommy's hand ready to catch him if he needs it.

There's no more he can do so he turns to leave as Evan sinks into the water–

"Stay," comes Evan's voice, scraped raw and quiet but sounding so determined. It's not a question, it's a demand.

Tommy looks back to see Evan staring at him, need laid bare.

So, Tommy pulls up the little stool and takes Evan's hand where he's reached over the edge of the tub. "Okay."

[snakedemonstories]

You know what? I love Xiao Yao. She has her abandonment issues and blah blah blah, but even now after all that he's said and done to her (let's remember: he has told her he had no feelings for her, that opening her heart up to FFB was foolish, he hurt her using the bug and made her feel like she is merely a pawn to his purpose) she still considers him a friend. And has the courage to tell him so. Risking a hurtful reply from him. Because even at this point, she still hopes that he can change his mind and save himself from a certain death. And that means more to her than keeping her ego intact.

His reply is not surprising at all. All he does at this point is push her away and make her hate him. He won't be another person who abandoned her, because he won't allow himself to get close to her.

[demaparbat-hp]

Zuko looked up and locked eyes with his cousin, who was struck speechless. Then, ever so slowly, Lu Ten's lips twitched upwards. And then he smiled. And then he beamed. And then he nodded proudly once, just once, and vanished.

Lu Ten comes back in For the Spirits Chapter VII: Take Me South, only to leave Zuko with more questions than answers. Just how much is he truly aware of? When will he return? What is Zuko going to do now?

(What will the South bring?)

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

After having now watched the full scene a billion times (listen I'm just kind of going through it, man) where Dion and Terence kiss (and also having finished the game's cutscenes) all I can say is that, well

Oh, Prince Dion and his impulsiveness, huh?

After rewatching his cutscenes, I feel that it both stands out that he is really good at standing strong and confident, projecting a version of himself who truly is a perfect commander and servant of his empire/people. And yet, there are multiple moments from him where that act of his is broken due to impulsivity he could not keep chained down (for example, when he insults Anabella and starts to make a retaliatory move against her before catching himself and remembering his situation, or when he walks away from his father going "May Greagor forgive you", as if trying to make his feelings in that moment clear to Sylvestre while he left)

In the case of this post though, there's just something so 👌💖 about the way he handles himself during the scene where he kisses Terence. Terence is looking out for him, caring for his well-being as he always does, Dion is worrying about the fate of his people and what will come of his father's seemingly out of character choices, and they both yet know that Dion can't afford to sit back and rest and prioritize himself.

But Dion, who is so worried about his father and his people and the state of affairs, is still human. He raises his head to talk about why he must continue to appear on the battlefield as Bahamut, but it's when his lover raises his own to look at him that he just can't help himself.

He has so much to worry about, has more reason than ever before to put on his act and stay focused to deal with his bundle of dilemmas, but kissing his own lover is an act of impulsivity. And with the way he tries to resume his earlier more business-like conversation with Terence after the kiss and his wishes that things could be different, it almost feels to me like he was trying so hard to keep his impulsivity restricted to just that moment

Maybe I've just watched their scenes too many times, but the tension which stretches between them as they try to hold back their feelings and desires for the sake of, well, it always being just the wrong time to indulge in such things is painful to me (but not necessarily in a bad way)

[sockdooe]

FUCK YOU VOLTRON LEGENDARY DEFENDER!!!!!!!!!!!! I SHOULD NOT BE CRYING AT DAMN NEAR MIDNIGHT CAUSE OF YOUR FAILURE OF A SHOW ASS 🖕

[oreo-cookies-fan]

Berlin quotes that made me scream MARTIN in my head:

Numero uno:

Andres: The love of your life is a fairy tale! I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but … love just fades away. The only thing worthwhile is the beginning. That's the best part of love. When every song you hear reminds you of her. When you're having a meal together and all you do is talk. When everything she says makes you laugh.

Damian: No, no, no. Love is precisely what comes after all that. When the spell is over. Then, during dinner, you're happy to be quiet because you're at peace. To love someone, you must really know them. How can you love someone you don't know?

Numero dos:

(Don't know why the English version didn't translate this, but here it is:) Damian to Andres, while talking about how love ends and makes you suffer: You're a sick narcissist. Crees que estar a tu lado merece ese sufrimiento? (Translation: Do you think that being by your side is worth the suffering?)

Numero tres:

Andres: You see, I have become a fugitive of love. And what I'd really want, if I'm honest, is that it lasts forever. (...) my own experience of love is that it just melts away, you know? I realise the only thing I know, the only thing I've ever known about love is the beginning, but God, what I want, what I really want, is to experience a love that never ends.

((Damian: There's always an end.))

Bonus, because it's about Damian and his wife, Carmen, but it also hit like a line from a Berlermo gifset:

Carmen: Maybe you are the love of my life, but that doesn't mean we'll spend the rest of our lives together.

[chirabella]

I regret to announce that the Collector General probably counts as a poor little meowmeow

[paint-music-with-me]

.

[barbiedolling]

so far I trust the show with a lot of things but im not sure if i believe that there will be any loumand crumbs going forward

[demaparbat-hp]

Hey, @geothewriter, was it necessary to break my heart?

A little thing for Vermillion Seas, Cardinal Skies, a truly magnificent fic that has left yours truly rolling on the ground more than once. I'll post the entire artwork once it's finished! For now, you get a little sneak peek.

Start reading the fic here. You can find Chapter 19 (from which this scene comes from) here!

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write a Death Scene

So, you want to write a death scene that hits your readers hard, right? Something that sticks with them, makes them feel something real?

First, give the death meaning. You can’t just toss in a death for the shock factor and call it a day. Even if it’s sudden or unexpected, the death has to matter to the story. Think about how it changes things for the characters who survive. Does it mess with their relationships? Their goals? Make sure this moment sends ripples through the rest of your plot. It’s gotta affect everything that happens after, like an emotional earthquake.

Then, think about timing. You don’t want to drop a death scene at the wrong moment and ruin the vibe. If it’s part of a big heroic moment or a heartbreaking loss in the middle of the story, it should feel earned. The timing of the death decides how your readers will react, whether they feel relief, gut-wrenching sorrow, or are totally blindsided. The right moment makes all the difference.

Next up, focus on the characters’ emotions. Here’s the thing, it's not always the actual death that makes a reader cry, it's how everyone feels about it. How do the characters react? Is the person dying scared, or are they at peace? Are the people around them in shock, angry, or just completely destroyed? You need to dive deep into these emotions, because that’s where your reader connects.

Make sure to use sensory details to pull readers into the scene. What does it feel like? The sound of their breathing, the stillness when they’re gone, the way everything feels heavy and wrong. Little details make the death feel real and personal, like the reader is right there with the characters, feeling the weight of the moment.

If your character has the chance, give them some final words or actions. What they say or do in those last seconds can really hit hard. Maybe they share a piece of advice, ask for forgiveness, or try to comfort the people around them. Even a simple gesture, a smile, a touch, a last look can leave a lasting impression. This is your last chance to show who this character was, so make it count.

Finally, don’t just stop when the character dies. The aftermath is just as important. How do the survivors deal with it? Does your main character fall apart, or do they find a new sense of purpose? Are there regrets? Peace? Whatever happens next should be shaped by the death, like a shadow that never quite goes away. Let your characters carry that weight as they move forward.

[risingoftime]

TWO STEP TRAP | SMOKE STACK TWINS X F!READER |

You are one of the best dancers at the Midnight Blues joint in Chicago; it was only a matter of time before you encountered the Smoke Stack Twins. Their names linger in the club like perfume and cigars. If you are in the scene, you know them… and of course, they knew you.

contains: 18+ mdni, prequel to sinners, dancer!reader, porn with plot, smut, oral (Stack is a eater), threesome, p in v, pet names, man handling, body worshipping?? talking you through it, fingering, fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time.

You picked up your pace as you looked down at the watch on your wrist. It was nearly ten pm, and Marcus would threaten to lock your ass out if you didn’t arrive on time. He knew better though, you were the one that everyone came to see. Word spread quickly in the streets of Chicago, but there’s a place folks whisper about but rarely name out loud for fear of the White man hearing. It ain’t on any map called The Last Two Step, but if you know the right knock and carry enough heartbreak in your shoes, it’ll guide you behind an unmarked door at the edge of South Parkway Boulevard. In the joint, velvet smoke curls through the air, and every note from Ambrose’s piano drips slow and sticky, like honey off a blade. The Last Two Step is where time forgets itself in the sway of hips and the clink of glasses filled with bourbon. Nobody stumbles in by accident. If you find yourself there, something or someone wanted you to. And once you cross that threshold, baby, the night decides what happens next.

At the corner of your eye, you could see a slightly older, light-skinned woman shimmying her body down the alley to the hidden doorway of the club. “Miss Felicity! Wait up & hold the door, will you?” You hollered. Her head whipped to look behind her in alarm, but her glare softened once she saw you quickly following after her. She laughed at you as you tried to steady your breath.

“When will you learn your lesson and stop rushing at the last minute?” Felicity shook her head as you hurried inside and double-checked to see if anyone followed after y'all.

You flashed her a grin and said, “Probably right after you stop pretending you don’t love the thrill. Chaos builds character. Have you ever heard that?”

“Girl, you’re practically asking for trouble,” she muttered. Ambrose and the boys were still setting up the stage and tuning their instruments when you passed the wooden dance floor towards the changerooms in the back. Their eyes tracked the way you walked and paused to sneak a peek at your backside when they thought you wouldn’t notice. They were never slick enough to avoid getting caught. “Y’all are no better than little boys!” Felicity swatted at them as she climbed onto the stage and straightened her skirt. Felicity’s voice carried throughout the establishment even when she wasn’t singing and harmonizing with the band.

“Can’t blame us for admiring!” one of them defended.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed into the changeroom, more like a storage closet the dancers used to store their things and prepare for the night. Soon enough, the floor out there would be packed with sweaty bodies, hungry eyes, and a swanky beat that was hard to resist. And you? You’d be right in the middle, moving like a snake, soaking up the spotlight like it was poured just for you. Showing off your sultry moves, enticing the eyes of whoever looked upon you.

You weren’t just entertainment. You were a magnet. Marcus, the owner, knew it too. He would give you some of the shares to keep the crowd thick and thirsty, which is why he called you “eye candy.” A walking advertisement, you were good publicity for his juke joint. The three other girls in the room with you, Jacqueline, Deborah, and Ann, had the same deal. They didn’t care for me much, never had been. You drew too much attention, and it didn’t help that you didn’t come from the same background as them. You were the daughter of sharecroppers or “cotton pickers,” they say. Your skin was dark and smooth, shimmering in the light and under sweat. Your full lips, tantalizing gaze, and body that bloomed too fast for your age made you all the more unforgettable. Slim, sultry, and curved just right were the words used to describe her.

Looking into the handheld mirror as you finished the last touches to your makeup, you could see Marcus in the corner of your eye. “Baby, I ain’t paying you to doll yourself up and hide away!” His tone was playful, but there was an edge to his voice, and you knew that if you said the wrong thing, Marcus’ temper would appear. That is probably why he still ain’t been able to keep a woman. He’s only truly satisfied when he's drunk.

“Geez, what’s the hurry?” you whined as you hiked up your skirt higher to show more of your bare legs and patted down any stray hairs on your head from the finger curls.

“I gotta handle some business with the twins. Show ’em this is the kinda spot they wanna put their money in,” Marcus said, smoothing down his vest with a wink. The mention of the twins made your ears perk up. Smoke & Stack weren’t just names; they were similar to legends, stitched into the underbelly of Chicago. You didn’t just meet the Smoke Stack twins, you survived an encounter with them. If they were sniffing around Marcus’s place, it meant money was about to flow, and trouble wasn’t too far behind.

The music thrummed through your body and travelled to your chest as you allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm and blues. All around you, a sea of Black bodies moved as one to the voice of Felicity and Ambrose’s band. In the night, they became a living and breathing entity under the heavy and melliferous air of the juke joint. The outside world slipped away in this moment, and all that mattered was the here and now. This is why you always answered the call of The Last Two Step, chasing the high of being free and being a person who is looked up to and not down upon. So far, there were no signs of the twins, and Marcus was growing more antsy by the minute. He’s resorted to pouring you more alcohol than he could offer, anything to make the party look wild and enticing to anyone who came inside.

Anticipation is the sweetest form of torture, and when the identical twins strolled through the entrance, it seemed as though the room truly came alive. Your eyes met with one of them. It wasn’t easy to tell them apart. He flashed a crooked smile, revealing a set of grills over his canines and front teeth. You twirled lightly, letting your waist roll slowly and deliberately. A glance over your shoulder caught the twins approaching Marcus at the bar, who suddenly looked boyish beside their commanding, muscular forms. Marcus was tall, handsome, and fit, but the twins had a figure that only one could have achieved by working hard in the fields.

Jacqueline broke you out of your thoughts when she walked beside you, “If one of those twins so much as smiled my way, I'd be slippin' outta my panties without a second thought.” She looked at the group of men with hungry eyes, drinking them in. You couldn’t blame her, but you’d be damned if any of the other dancers got a taste of the twins before you did. If the rumours were true, the twins were hung like a horse and knew how to eat a girl out so well that she could start humming in colours she had never seen before.

You watched as Deborah and Jacqueline positioned themselves near the twins and got brutally ignored. Better them than you. It’s better that you learn what not to do through them than make a fool of yourself. Moments passed as you danced amongst the crowd, and the music began to slow into a two-step dance, and people began to couple off. Scanning the crowd, you could see a man making his way to you. He’s been ogling you for most of the night and didn’t look too rough. Shit, one dance won’t hurt, right? It’s not like it’ll be your first or last.

Mid-stride, one of the twins drawled, “Ease up, kid,” bumpin’ his shoulder with a grin. “I’ll take it from here, see?”

The young man screwed up his face, about to give the southern gentlemen a piece of his mind but thought better of it when he saw the twin flash him a crooked smile. Smoothing out his button-up shirt, the young man puffed out his chest and recovered quickly. “No worries, boss.” He gave me a once-over before nodding his head in dismissal. The unnamed twin didn’t even bother to turn his head to ensure he was gone before extending a hand in your direction.

“May I have this dance?” His smile revealed the notorious grill the twins were famous for, shining faintly in the dimly lit venue. You couldn’t recall whether it was Smoke or Stack who wore it. Ultimately, did it matter? You paused and accepted his hand. His warm, large, and calloused grip completely enveloped your hand. Aside from counting cash, your thoughts drifted to what else his fingers might be good at. He instantly pulled you in closer with ease. Your bodies were flush against each other, now chest to chest. You peered up at him.

“Well, I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?” You countered. The chuckle that left his throat vibrated throughout his whole body. It didn’t help that when you took a breath to calm your erratic heart, his cologne and natural fragrance evaded your senses. As the two of you fell into rhythm with the music, the thoughts running in your head were anything but holy. It was rare for a man to elicit such a response from you on the first encounter.

“A lady always has a choice,” he rebutted, voice like molasses slow drippin’ off a spoon.

“Who said I was a lady?” you challenged, chin tilted and your cheeks filled with heat. Once it slipped out of your mouth, there was no snatching it back. You've always been reckless with how words leapt past your lips without permission. He didn’t as much as blink at your question and didn’t smirk either. Just stepped in closer, real close, until the scent of smoke, cologne, and something else curled in your nose again. His thigh rose between your legs, stopping just shy of making contact with your center, enough to make your breath catch in your throat, dipping you down and pulling you back up in time with the strums of the guitar that played aloud.

“Then I reckon I ain’t gotta treat you like one,” he murmured, voice pitched low and dangerous, his eyes never leaving yours. “But I do like a woman who talks back.” You swore your knees might buckle right there. “S’wrong? Cat’s got your tongue?” he joked to lighten the obvious tension that grew quickly between you two. You could hear your heartbeat over the hum of the blues and chatter surrounding you. His thigh lingered, firm and deliberate, almost making you forget your damn name. But you weren’t going to let him have the upper hand. Not entirely.

Leaning in just a little, with parted lips and sharp eyes. “And what do they call you, stranger?” your voice came out strong and daring like you weren’t already trying to keep your head on straight.

He didn’t answer right away, dragging his gaze from your eyes to your lips, then down to the space between you that barely existed anymore. “They call me Stack,” he finally said, a slow smile began curling at the corner of his mouth. “But you can call me Elias Moore.” He said it like a promise as he lowered his deep red fedora hat, his eyes never leaving yours. His name hung in the air, impossible to ignore. The kind of name a woman didn’t forget, even if she wanted to. The Elias Stack Moore stood before you. Being his girl could open up more doors for you than you could count.

“Come on,” he drawled, his hand brushing the small of your back. “Dance floor’s gettin’ too damn crowded for what I got in mind.” You felt him guide you, firm but unhurried, through the sea of moving bodies, past the haze of cigar smoke and spilled bourbon. Nobody paid y’all any mind. Juke joints were built on secrets and sideway glances anyway.

The changeroom door creaked as he pushed it open with his shoulder. The low bulb above our heads flickered like it knew what was coming. Inside, it smelled like lavender powder and dust. The old velvet curtains were draped over crates, hiding booze and our valuables. The crooked mirror watched us from their respective corners. He closed the door behind you with a click that felt louder than it was.

He leaned against it for a beat, arms crossed, watching you like he was still deciding whether to kiss you or ruin you slowly. “Now,” Stack’s voice dropped to a sinful hush, “where were we?”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. This boy must’ve lost his goddamn mind if he thought the two of you were going to get hot and heavy in this sorry excuse of a change room. You weren’t a lady, but you had class and respect, very little of it, but it was there nonetheless. The two of you stood in the quiet room, and the silence stretched thick with possibility. Stack pushed off the door and lazily strolled toward you like he had all the time in the world. His boots barely made a sound on the old wooden floors. Every inch he closed made your skin feel tighter.

“You always this quiet when you want something?” he asked. Stack stopped shy of touching you, his hands at his sides like he dared you to lean in first. The nerves in your body buzzed like a live wire. You were all too aware of how your desires practically had you ready to drop to your knees. But you kept your face unreadable, and it was your best defence. You’d been raised to survive men like Elias Stack Moore. The smooth talkers with heat behind their eyes and a storm tucked inside their smiles.

“Depends on what I want,” you finally said. “And whether it’s worth the noise.”

“Oh, I’m worth it,” he replied. Stack threw his hat on the dressing room counter to reveal his face. But I ain’t cheap.” You gave him a steady look up and down. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of his skin. Everything he wore appeared nicely tailored to his physique, too.

“Neither am I,” you shot back.

Stack was now an inch away from your face, his warmth wrapped around you like steam off a kettle. His hand reached out, not to grasp nor to grope, but to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, rough fingers grazing your cheek like an invitation.

“Trust me, sugar, you keep carryin’ on as you do, and Chicago gon’ be hollerin’ your name louder than they ever did mine or my brother’s.”

“Well then,” you said, sliding your hand up his chest, fingers trailing the buttons of his shirt like you were counting sins, “guess it's a damn good thing I don't mind how my name sounds in another’s mouth.”

Shifting your hips just enough to make your intentions loud and clear without a single word more. Stack’s breath hitches just a little, but you caught it. You always did. You knew that taking it further would be a reckless mistake, but Lord, it’d feel like salvation. The end of a prolonged drought, giving in, would feel like the first rainfall. Wet, overwhelming, and too damn good to stop. Stack’s eyes told you he was ready to drown in it, and hell, you might just let him.

She didn't have to speak, just the slow roll of her hips were enough to knock the wind out of him. She knew how deep she could cut without drawing blood. His breath caught in his throat, bare and ragged. God help him. He wanted to ruin you in a way that leaves a mark and memory.

Stack knew better. He knew this would get messy. With a glance at your slicked thighs, Stack knew you'd provide no mercy.

Leaning in close, lips just shy of his ear. “Still quiet, Stack?” you whispered in a sweet and teasing voice. “I figured by now you'd know how to beg.” You loved turning his words and spinning them against him. His raw reactions were entertaining to see.

Stack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn't waver. “I don't beg, sugar,” his tone changed to a quiet and threatening one. “I take.”

You flashed him a wicked smile and hooked a finger around his belt buckle. “Then come take it.”

He didn't wait, with his hands on your waist, before you could exhale. His rough palms and fingers dug in as if he meant to claim something, or he already had.

“You sure about this?” He muttered against your neck, voice hoarse. Hot breath dragging over your skin. “Cause once I get started, I ain't stopping till I’ve wrung every drop outta yah.”

“Make good on allat talk,” you replied. That was all it took. Stack kissed you like he was desperate. Teeth and tongue felt like a little too much and not nearly enough. You moaned into his mouth as he pressed you up against the old brick wall, grinding against you with slow, punishing friction. His hands found the hem of your skirt, bunching it up, and slid a hand underneath with practiced ease.

“Fuck,” Stack groaned when he felt how soaked you already were. Two fingers slipped along your folds. “You tryna kill me, baby?”

“I ain't even started yet.”

He dropped to his knees like he'd been praying for the chance. Pulling your thighs apart and pushing your back against the cool wall. With a tongue hot and desperate, he licked up your pussy, groaning like you were his last meal. Your hand shot to his head, gripping tight, guiding him just as you liked it. He didn't need much. He was already lost in you. Every moan sounded like praise.

“That’s it,” you hissed, rocking yourself into his mouth. “Don’t fucking stop now.”

“I won’t,” Stack promised. Not until your legs were shaking, and his jaw was slick with you. Not until your pretty moans turned into curses and your body tried to escape, then pleasure only could chase you.

When he finally stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at you, a man completely undone. Stack spun you around like it was second nature, pressing you into the wall with one hand, pinning your wrists above your head. His belt clinked open behind you, the soft grating of his zipper loud in the stillness.

"You sure you can take it, girl?" he muttered. Looking back, you could see Stack grip his thick length in his hand, pumping it up and down before lining his dick against your soaked entrance, teasing but firm. "Ain't no holding back tonight."

“Give it to me like you mean it,” you snapped.

Stack slammed into you in one cunning and possessive thrust. You gasped when your forehead hit the brick. He didn't give you a second to adjust, just wrapped an arm around your waist and started working his hips in a relentless tempo. The room echoed with sounds of skin meeting skin, moans, and his low curses. His other hand found your clit, and began rubbing small circles to make you fall apart all over again.

“You feel that?” he panted in your ear with pride. “This pussy is mine.”

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut from ecstasy. “Stack… fuck—” was all you managed to get out before he began grinding himself deeper inside.

Your orgasm was intense and all-consuming, tearing a high pitched outcry to escape your lips as you clenched your walls around him. Stack’s thrusts began to be uneven and passionate as he chased his own high. And just when he was on the edge, body trembling, and his muscles taut against yours…

“Well, goddam!”

Both of your heads snapped to the door. Stack froze inside of you, jaw clenched, with wide eyes at the sight of his twin brother.

Smoke stood there, curtly closing the door behind him and leaning against the doorframe like he walked in on a business deal instead of his brother balls deep in another’s soul.

“I come lookin’ for Stack and come to find this.” He gestured between the two of you with an amused look. “Y’all ain't even had the decency to lock the door?”

“Get the fuck out, Smoke,” Stack sounded feral.

Smoke smirked in return, kissing his teeth. “Don’t let me interrupt,” his fingers slipped behind him to turn the lock on the door. “Finish where you left off.”

Stack didn’t pull out. He didn’t even make a move as Smoke’s laughter faded. His grip on your hips tightened like he was claiming you harder now that he’d been seen. He was practically primal, yet there was a hesitation, a shift between the three of you.

“Good. Thought I might stick around this time.”

“You got one fuckin’ second to turn around,” Stack growled, still buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back.

“Relax,” Smoke said, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. “Ain’t here to fight. I just figured if you were gonna fuck her like you mean it. You’d also let her choose who she wants.”

You turned your head slowly, pulse thrumming like a drum. Smoke leaned in the doorway again, one brow raised, hunger in his eyes like he already knew the answer. Stack’s jaw flexed. His hands never left your skin.

“This ain’t a game, Smoke.”

“Never said it was.” His gaze dropped to where your bodies were still joined. “But I seen the way she looks at me, too. Don’t play like you didn’t notice.”

It was the truth, they were identical twins after all. The thought had crossed your mind if they were also the same down there. Smoke had always been the smoother one. The devil that smiled back at you when you flirted with danger. And now, with Stack buried deep and your body still trembling from the last orgasm, part of you wanted to see what it’d be like to be stretched between both of them.

It’s up to her,” Smoke said, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Ain’t it?” Stack didn’t speak. His silence was a storm ready to break.

You turned to face them both, hips still pushed back. You looked at Smoke through your eyelashes, and said, “You better double check that the door is locked this time.”

Smoke jiggled the door handle before focusing his sights on you, bent forward as if committing the sight to memory.

“ Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured. “Didn’t expect you to be so generous.”

Stack remained silent. He just thrust into you once, hard enough to make you gasp and grip the wall again.

“She ain’t yours,” Stack burst, but his voice lacked conviction. He knew what this was. I knew it wasn’t just about possession.

“Ain’t tryin’ to take her,” Smoke replied, stepping near.

His hands were on you before you could think, one sliding up the nape of your neck, the other tilting your chin to face him. He kissed you softly at first until you deepened the kiss. You moaned into his mouth, feeling Stack start to move again behind you, his speed staggering with every second.

“And you’re just lettin’ him have all the fun?” he mumbled against your mouth.

Stack growled low in his throat. “You want a turn, Smoke? Take her mouth. But you better be sure she can handle both of us.”

“Oh, I can,” you whispered, drunk on the moment.

Smoke stepped out of his clothes, his dick already thick and ready. He guided you down to your knees with his hand. You opened your mouth, lips wrapping around him just as Stack banged back into you from behind.

The stretch of both was overwhelming, one in your mouth and one buried deep. Stack fucked you harder now, his hold bruising on your hips, while Smoke let you control the pace with your tongue until he lost his patience and started to thrust into your mouth.

“Look at you,” Smoke groaned. “Takin’ us both like it’s what you were made for.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you moaned around him, the vibrations making Smoke’s jaw clench. Stack was close, you could feel it in the way his rhythm stuttered and his breathing picked up.

“She’s squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Stack gasped. “She’s gonna make me—fuck—” He pulled out just in time to spill across your back, thick ropes of cum marking your skin while Smoke slid out of your mouth and lifted your chin again.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet,” Smoke growled, hauling you into his arms like you weighed nothing. He laid you down flat on the velvet covered crates nearby, pushing your knees back and plunging into you with a groan. The angle was brutal and somehow filthier. His eyes locked on yours the whole time, making it impossible for you to look away.

Stack leaned nearby, watching, still catching his breath, chest slick with sweat.

“Don’t think she’s ever been full till tonight.” Smoke said between thrusts.

You cried out, the pressure building fast and hot, your nails scraping down Smoke’s back. He fucked you through it, didn’t stop even as your body shook and your thighs tried to close. You came again loudly and broken open for Smoke to finally bury himself and release inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound was your breath and heartbeat, all three of you covered in sweat and something that felt dangerously close to obsession. Then Stack muttered lowly, “This doesn't change shit.”

“Oh, it changes everything, brother.” Smoke chuckled, pulling out slowly, the evidence of what you had just done dripping down your thighs.

taglist: @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax

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