#eyes is *from* the soul sanctum | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

milksuu · 1 month

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❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❞ ─── ☾⏺☽

pairing: yandere!aphelios x solari!priestess!reader (LoL)

warning: non/con, fem!reader, possessive/obsessive behavior, mentions of blood/violence, religious/fanatical behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, minor drug use, implied kidnapping, implied forced relationship, semi-public sex, unbalanced power dynamic, runeterra au

notes: sorry besties, he's a 10 but he's bat shit insane. (so an 11) also any mention of 'her' is the moon goddess, not alune. (we're leaving that sweet summer child out of this.) and for those who aren't aware, phel can speak when not under the influence of noctum, but unable to communicate with alune, which is uh...great in this case. (also not me wanting to write a second part like how why help?)

You never thought you’d stare into the pale visage of the Lunari man the village whispered about.

The one with a vacant face but deadly occupation. Your naïve belief in your own safe keeping was nothing more than an illusion. The sun always faded below the misted cliffs, only for the moon to take its place above the mountain’s highest peak. An endless cycle of hierarchical dominance that rinsed itself in blood and repeated in constant turmoil. Tonight would be no different.

“Don’t come any closer.”

A failed attempt to embolden your voice beyond a meek plea. You stiffened at the thunderous closing of the temple door. A clambering echo vibrated through the marble floor and pillars, past the rows of worship, up to where you stood at the crest of the ceremonial altar. The remaining resonance rattled and sang up your spine, shaking the candle light pinched between your fingertips.

The figure sauntered forward, stepping into the drapes of moonshine filtering from the glass atrium above. Before you stood a deadly beauty; a handsome face rapt with enticing secrets. With a painted crescent that mocked your own solar marking of gold. His lips were a perfect horizontal line, and it was difficult to imagine the ability they possessed beyond lethal silence. His hallowed expression screamed danger—but there was no running away—not when the black abyss of his eyes invited you to stay.

Not as a guest, but as his permanent resident.

“I’m warning you. Take one more step, and I’ll scream. The guards will come and they won’t hesitate to kill you—”

Your voice went taut inside your throat. Your breath sewn shut against your lungs. The weapon he carried listless at his side drenched itself in various hues of red. Fresh enough to steam in wisps around the sharpest point of the blade.

He stalked forward. The clack of his predetermined steps quickening the pace of your heart. When he stood at arms length, you felt the coldest touch of night. The veins layered beneath your skin pounded, flooding every inch of you with mortal dread. It was sickening to think the flush of your flesh would only make the spill of it all the better. The ‘Weapon of The Faithful’—titled by his own blasphemous people—spoke true. His name…you wished you could cleanse it from existence.

“Aphelios.” You damned the name like a plague upon all of Mount Targon. “Murderer. Blight. Heretic!”

You jabbed and swung your candlelight in a pitiful attempt to create distance. His free hand quipped against it, sending it clambering to the ground, banishing the flame to the surrounding night. Creating a hazier veil of darkness where there was only one true light—his moon.

Out of sheer disdain, you attempted to slap his face in recoil. His unarmed hand caught you by the wrist, remaining still as you struggled to free yourself from his trained grasp. With force, he pried your hand open, palm exposed. He brought the skin of it to his stiff lips. Unmoving, he lingered there. His lashes fluttered closed; taking a moment of peace, a moment of prayer.

A moment for sanctum.

His eyes then winged opened, boring into you, through you. Body, bone and soul. And all you could do was tremble within them. Sinking without escape into those black depths of…nothing.

In one swift motion, he brought the blade upwards, slicing through the thin linen of your garments. In a precise vertical line, your gown split into two equal halves. The insignificant barrier between you and him slipped to the ground, splaying like rags at your feet. Your head pounded for you to scream, but your own voice felt lost to you. Knowing it was all meaningless.

No one would hear you.

No one would save you.

Weakened by the surmounting despair of it all, if he hadn’t already had a hold on you, your legs would have given to the earth.

“No—“ you choked out, eyes brimming with tears. It must’ve looked pathetic; the way you placed your only free arm across your exposed breasts. As if any decorum of modesty would spare you. “Please—just kill me. Do nothing else but that. I beg of you.”

Your final sob for mercy reached ears that may as well have been carved of stone. He stalked closer, forcing your lower back to meet the mantled altar behind you. He’d sheathed his weapon, and took both of your hands within one tight grasp, in case you had half a mind to oppose him. You dipped your chin, heaving through a prayer with mournful hics and sniffled utterances. His advancing weight forced your trembling legs to part, and slotting himself between, created a space where your faith could never exist.

You didn’t want to look at him, or rather, you couldn’t. Tears scorched your vision and seared down the round of your cheeks. You flinched when he took your chin, raising your blurry gaze to meet his. In those darkest of pools, something gave. An insignificant speck of light gleaming into a faint existence. His lips moved, but there was no sound. Instead, you traced the words from the bow of his mouth.

‘Forgive me.’

Your heart clenched. Diluted blood spiked with fear drowned your consciousness. It left no room for thoughts to linger; whether or not you imagined even an ounce of sympathy reflected in those sedated eyes. Whether or not you imagined he said anything at all.

The entire world scattered away when he brought your face closer, and kissed away the tears staining the corners of your eyes. You fought to pull away, but he held firm, both your chin and hands locked in the cage of his fingers. From your cheeks, he skimmed his ghostly lips to your mouth. He muffled your protestive moans by filling up your mouth with all of his tongue.

He gave you the salt taste of your own tears. That, and the taste of something else. A saccharine flavor with notes of floral and bitter earth.

A reaction flourished; a slight tingle of your lips at first. It made his tongue feel hotter against yours, as parts of your upper mouth went numb. A stream of lukewarm paralysis seeped past your soft palate, filling every nook and cranny of your mindscape. Yet, the secondary symptoms didn’t stop there. An opposite wave traversed down your throat to your stomach, spilling fire throughout every layer of nerves. You clenched your lashes tight, shuddering a gasp into his open mouth.

When the pain settled into a dull simmer, you wondered briefly, had he felt it too? Had he consumed such a substance by choice? If that was a taste, what pain did he endure if he drank it like an offering of wine?

You didn’t want to imagine the terrible effects it might’ve had on his person. Not if it gave you even a single drop of sympathy. It was revolting enough his saliva was poisoning your pure sense of self. The fog of it sullying your inhibitions, stripping away your layers of moral preservation. To the absolute vitriolic parts of yourself, it made you consider…

What would it be like to be touched?

It was too sick and cruel of a thing to do to you. Since birth, you’d devoted your body and soul to your divine Goddess; The Golden Sister. You wanted to be disgusted by allowing the gift of yourself to become tainted by some awful man. No—he was worse than that. Or any word you could craft and cut the corners of your mouth with. He was, by biblical history, a Lunari man born from the cataclysmic eclipse of two moons. A day that marked the day of reckoning of the Solari faith and your people.

Your clouded senses and busied mouth made you unaware that his hand left your face to trail the mounds and curves of your body. A light touch drifting to your inner thighs. You jolted when a finger graced the sensitive hood of your exposed clit. Your thighs squirmed at his side as you attempted to jerk your knees. It did nothing and stirred nothing from him. Except bolster his conviction, tempting a finger lower, teasing your folds already glistening.

Although light-headed, you ripped your mouth away and nipped at his lip. It sprang forth droplets of blood, enough to taste his iron on your tongue. A trivial satisfaction.

“May you burn at dawn,” you condemned and spat at his lips.

Unflinching, he withdrew his hand and brushed over the blood mark you left. Sweeping it across his bottom lip, along with your saliva, he rolled the consistency between his fingers in private contemplation. Before he looked you dead in the eyes and stuck his fingers inside his mouth. Sucking and licking till his fingers dripped. Watching sent a lightning strike coiling down your spine.

He loomed his weight forward until your back met the altar mantle. With your palms pinned above your head, and legs coaxed wider. His coated hand repositioned down to your entrance, and you writhed with any strength your body could lend. His hold wrapped around your wrists squeezed, gentle in its reprimand. He leaned down to brush his face at the side of your cheek.

“Please…for your own sake.”

Your eyes widened at his frayed whispers stringing together. Breathing life into what seemed like an empty shell of a person. The frigid space between his mouth and your ear kindling with the slightest bit of warmth. It was what you feared the most. Forced to accept he was every bit human, with a horrid courtesy to use polite words and a pleasant, sickening tone. More insult to your injury. You wished he hadn’t spoken at all. Letting you believe in your mind that he was more aberration or phantom. Or anything else that carried not a single hint of a beating heart.

“I don’t want to hurt you…not anyone, really.” Again, comforting yet noxious. And it made whatever was inside you throb so terribly. As if he could sense it, he reached for it. His salivated finger split through your folds, sliding into the heat of your cunt. It elicited a drawn out whimper as you felt the sensual brush of it against a bed of tingling nerves. Gradually revealing a hidden desire you hadn’t wanted to gratify him with.

“But you…and your people…need to accept what can’t be denied any longer.” He punctuated his words with each thrust of his finger as it curved into that crescent shape you despised so much. Yet, you couldn’t deny the way it made your most feminine parts unravel at the seams. ”No matter how high your sun rises, my heavenly moon will always eclipse it. And fill the sun with Her beauty for all to see.“

A hitched whine fluttered past your lips as he easily slipped a second finger. While the heel of his palm pressed in circles, spreading your arousal and stimulating your plumping clit. Your cunt unashamedly sucked on his long fingers, encouraging him to mold and form you into what he needed you to be—a conduit for the undying affections of his faith.

“You might not see it, but the divine path has been shown to me. The one that’s led me to you. You can feel it at least, can’t you?” He flexed his digits and plunged a third finger. Deeper than the last, fuller than before. Your hips rolled forward on their own accord, craving every bit of attention from his touch.

With deliverance, you answered the question with a wail and arch of your back. Your whole body washed its nerves in a blinding heat. His fingers curled and flexed at your hungry walls clenching around him. It pushed a gush of sticky fluid from your twitching hole into his circling palm. Coming down from the spasms, you sobbed at the humiliating response of your body.

“So you do feel it.” There was a hidden sentiment of relief in his otherwise placid delivery. As if he’d purged the last blot of doubt that restrained him. You swallowed a mouthful of whines as his probing fingers continued undulating inside you. “Your body…it’s begging to devour me in all its warmth. And mine, yearning to take all your bright stars and bathe you by moon glow alone. Wanting us—and only us—to become one.”

Without warning, he emptied you of his fingers, a filthy squelch following with it. You sucked in a gasp at the crippling cold he left you with. But he wouldn’t abandon you for long. Shifting in the dark haze above you, he unsheathed his length from his garments and pressed himself against your sopping cunt. He dragged his fullness against your swollen and slicked folds. He wasn’t even inside you, yet you felt an agonizing cramp fisting in your stomach.

“By Her orders, by Her design…” he spoke through tight whispers, strained by his own anticipation. Pressing his full weight down, he hovered mere inches above you, panting bouts of aroused breaths against your lips. “Let us Converge.”

You squirmed and bucked underneath him. “Nn…not with you…anyone but—!”

You broke off into a high-pitched cry as he stretched you open, filling you up till he bottomed out, and pressed up to the hilt of his hips. He silenced both of your newly coupled hymns with his mouth, and each lap of his tongue matched the tempo of his generous thrusts. The sharp, intrusive pinch died as quickly as it came—the insignificant remnants of toxin dulling bits and pieces of certain pain receptive nerves. A gift, perhaps, in this instance. He had also prepped you well enough to accept all of his adoration, as intended. Another gift, as someone of his ‘giving’ nature may phrase it.

Pulling away slowly, the tip of his head rubbed graciously against every ridge of your swelling walls, before languidly pushing back, going past where you seemed to end. Beyond your farthest points you hadn’t thought existed. Pressing and rubbing all your soft spots and cervix with careful deliberation.

Then again, and again, and again.

“Can you feel it…my devotion…” he groaned into your open-mouthed kisses, continuing to work himself inside you. You weren’t even sure if he was speaking to you, or through you to his false Goddess.

His free hand found the round flesh of your breast, rolling your budded nipple delicately between the pad of his thumb and index. The other hand, squeezing at your captured wrists, but never tight enough to bruise. He had you lulling in a spellbinding rhythm underneath him, your hands fastened above your head, and hair spilling over the opposite side of the altar. When his mouth left your full lips, he possessed the nape of your neck, sucking the delicate skin above your life line. Your mewls, laced with the chasteless sounds of his base squelching at your entrance, leapt your pulse to an unreturnable pace.

“So warm,” he moaned low, staving off a growing need to revel in his own whines of ecstasy. “This pure sunlight of yours…I’m blessed to be the one who takes it. And you should be too. What an honor it is to be of service to my moon.”

You wanted to hate everything about it. The way he kissed you, the way he moved inside you—but you couldn’t. Every stiff and engorged part of him pressed almost lovingly against your most vulnerable parts; but that wasn’t the proper word for it. His affectionate caresses were zealous in origin. Not even for you. And boderlined a hedonistic doctrine you couldn’t describe. It would’ve been better if he were a man of barbaric qualities; rough and brutal. Not purposeful and diligent and—dared you admit it—tender. If he were the former, then your disgust could be justified, and your body would refuse him in its own rightful way. But it defied you, the lecherous thing. Insisting you melted beneath him and reduce to nothing but a drenched mess. Completely at the mercy of this Lunari man’s act of worship.

“Are you finally realizing it now? How generous my Goddess is compared to yours.” He abandoned the curve of your throat. Within the flush of his face, his eyes were suppled in absolute vindication at your shameless image. “How willing you are to accept me—to accept Her.”

“N-No…I’m…not…I won’t,” you pried your tongue for words.

He drawled out a quivering whine from your mouth. His body picking up to an impassioned pace, rutting into your sweltering heat. Tethering on his own abandoned pleasure. Your legs pushed themselves wider, opening yourself up more for him, drawing him deeper to pound against the tender knot growing in your belly.

Choked moans tightened in his throat. Your radiance gripped him with conviction, burning him so divinely from tip to base. Dragging him closer to your complete consummation. His fingers caught the contour of your face, tilting your head back. Your already swimming eyes rolled to follow, and watered at the sight of your Solari Goddess. Carved out from the temple wall, her sacred marbled gaze met your disgraceful expressions.

“That’s…hn…alright. You can lie to me. I’ll—we’ll always forgive you. But can you say the same for your deity? As she watches her little sunlight being pleasured by the moon’s devoted weapon. I—ha…doubt it very much.” An airy laugh cut through his thick moans intertwined with yours. He continued, inhaling and exhaling his words, raspy and down right broken. “It’s—almost our time…as reverence…your insides…with all of my…”

You couldn’t refuse the vile implication of his words. Not when his thickened, throbbing cock lapped achingly against your muddled core. Your blood boiled, draining out from your collapsing bodily veins to well up inside your stomach. Applying a pressure that made you want to burst into unmendable fractals of yourself. And you did—that tight knot broke in an instant, dilating your insides in a blaze of heat. Flooding you so wholly, you almost forgot to breathe through your delirious sobs of release.

When the smooth ridges of your walls clamped down, you heard it first as a moan of afflicted surrender on his part. Then, the cock buried inside you pulsed. A stream of white-hot fluid poured into you, shooting well past your cervix, bathing your womb with his warmth. But he didn’t stop there, continuing to indulge. He pumped and pushed the concoction of unified fluids till it poured past his base, and dripped in milky heaps from your hole. His pelvic and abdominal muscles shuddered as his hips rolled slowly but needingly, nursing himself through his over-stimulating climax.

From your tearful, half-lidded gaze, you witnessed a wet glisten in his own eyes. Whether induced by overwhelming pleasure or pained remorse, you would never know. You didn’t want to know.

It didn't matter.

They evaporated the moment he blinked again.

When the heaves and pants subsided, only the echoes of your whimpers remained. Unfastening his grasp from your wrists, his icy hands cupped your sulking face, idly running his thumbs across your soaked cheeks.

“I understand your pain. Believe me, I do. But no amount of tears will keep the celestial cycle from shifting in the moon’s favor. Like any phase, there will be a moment when you won’t hate me as you do now. You might even come to...love me.”

The way he paused made it seem he had no sense for the word. Or what the difference was between what was love and obsession. The look he possessed didn’t instill solace, either; his eyes mere slits of black against his porcelain face. Promising the moment you dared turn away from him, the back of your neck would bleed.

”I swear to you. From this night on, you’ll burn brightest by my reflection. And only my reflection. So long as there's breath and blood in this body, I’ll protect your sunlight from ever fading in the hands of anyone less deserving than mine. By cosmic fate, you’re my entire purpose, my entire existence...” he bent and kissed the solar marking painted on your forehead. “My orbit.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #league of legends #aphelios x reader #yandere aphelios x reader #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yandere league of legends #reader insert #tw noncon #mdni

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evenmorefatallyobsessed · 3 months

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Toga’s AU Concept

He visited Sanctum on a whim, he was in Mistral visiting his niece Saphron after all, why not visit the school that was training it’s future protectors… Was it truly chance that it happened when he got there at that moment. That he stumbled upon the horrified students backing away from a scene from a horror movie.

A girl over a boy, her skin pale, hair a dull gold but utterly contrast by the crimson of the boy beneath her, of his blood leaking, his eyes wide in equal parts horror and confusion as the girl above him drank deeply. Her aura lighting, brightening with every drop more she drunk.

But from her eyes another purely liquid dripped, tears that contradicted the madness in her eyes, others stood confused. But not him, never him, he didn’t hesitate, to hesitate was the let others suffer. The girl moved with surprising grace, avoiding him while her features altered, matching her victim’s.

His hand reached out as he enforced his soul into him, willing thew boy’s body to mend though his soul’s light. The second he saw the student’s face gain some of it’s blush ensured his life her turned on her and launched after the girl.

She’d been smart to run instead of fight, it was a fight she wouldn’t win, couldn’t win, but escaping was just a futile. She was fast, agile and athletic yes, but he was a skilled tracker. If she was faster, he just had to rely on endurance to carry him through.

And it did…

She’d been locked up, and they were debating her sentence, the sentence for an aura user with combat training, she was a threat. And perhaps he should’ve left it well enough alone, but he didn’t, and spoke to her.

And he realized the tragic madness that spurred her on. Toga Himiko was not a monster, she was a girl, gifted with a powerful Semblance, great potential and an honest easily corruptible heart. One’s semblance could influence a persons personality quite easily. After all, it was the manifest of your being, of your soul. How could you not begin to ponder its meaning, how could you not attempt to reflect it’s nature on your person, within your actions.

She was dangerous yes, unstable without a doubt… But, she was also alone, her family couldn’t understand her and feared her for it. Somewhere inside he knew she understood her sense of love was twisted. Was not the norm, after all, why else would she have cried when expressing it.

This was no monster, no villain of demon, she was a girl, a pitiful, lonely, misunderstood child who wanted nothing more then to express her love the only way she could. They way her very soul demanded she act out. All she wanted was a connection, was someone to understand her, was to have friends, family and a love that could accept her deviant nature, a nature she had no control of.

How could he call himself a Huntsman if he couldn’t save a single girl from her crippling, cruel loneliness. So he visited her, again and again, using his pull and connection with Ozpin to freeze the freeze the girl’s sentencing while he worked things out.

She started to look forward to meeting him, and he’d admit to the same, after all she was so cheerful and oddly endearing. If not for her eyes being amber instead of blue he’d had thought her one of his nieces.

Apparently after he started visiting regularly she ceased any resisting and even halted trying to escape, he started to bring her things, even cooking for the girl. Not helping but to feel she needed food a bit better then what they served here.

… He hadn’t expected her to cry, she, she couldn’t remember then last time her mom had made her food… The last time they treated her like a daughter instead of a Grimm. It angered him, it infuriated the Arc. But he held his tongue, and focused on what mattered.

On calling in favors, on talking to his family and getting his affairs in order, Jaune was many things, he was a Huntsman, next in line to be patriarch to the Arc House and a teacher at Beacon. But he was also a criminal who’d cheated his way into Beacon once upon a time. His hands had cut down men, his decisions as a leader had led to the death of innocents before as well.

Toga almost killed a boy, she needed help, needed understanding, to be given a chance. And he was all to willing to risk giving her one.

-0-0-0-

She tried to be normal, to live normally, to act normally, to love normally, she tried so hard, it was also such a struggle, other people’s normal. Other people being able to express themselves, to be themselves and be accepted for it. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, why couldn’t her way be normal… Why couldn’t she be accepted?

Why couldn’t her parents understand her, accept her, but no, they told her it was wrong, that to be so fascinated by blood was wrong, sick and twisted. That she needed to be normal… Were they saying her soul was wrong? She could feel it, ever since her semblance first manifested, since she stumbled upon it so long ago when she’d licked her wound…

Blood was to the body what aura was to the soul, it was beautiful, profound and unique to every person, and she, she could understand it, could indulge, could become others through their blood, she could understand them, be them… It was her normal.

But her parents refused to accept her normal, society refused it, the world and everyone in it refused it… She obeyed, she tried, she struggled to be everyone else’s normal… Until she met him.

Saito was a amazing boy, he was kind, smart and popular, everyone liked him, everyone respected him, just like a lot of other girls she grew to like him. So often she fought the urge to ask him for some of his blood, she wanted to be like him, to know him, to Become him…

But she smothered those urges, because she knew he could not accept them, nobody could accept a freak like her so she resisted the urge. She fought to stay ‘Normal’ To be a average, cheerful, reasonable, well-mannered girl that others could accept, even if it was all a act…

But then Saito got into a fight, and seeing him like that… so wonderfully bruised and bloodied, it made what was so twisted inside go crazy. And it all came crashing down… And she was upon him, moving on not instinct but pure natural movement, as unconsciously as one breathed she gave to her semblance’s nature.

His flesh parting so easily from a mere box cutter, his aura was shattered in the fight with other beforehand. She drunk from him, his blood tasting like the sweetest of irons, so warm, so filling, so unique to him and him alone…

It was ecstasy, finally, finally she got to be herself, she was able to express her love, she felt herself turning into him. His aura, his soul, his being, she understood it so much more in that moment. She knew it was all over, her life, all her efforts, they would come crashing down. But for just a moment, she wanted it, to be her own normal, to be herself…

And then he appeared, he saved Saito, and stopped her, his gaze held so much in it, there was the anger and disgust she expected, but also something new… Pity.

His name was Jaune Arc, he was a Huntsman, a professor, and he stopped her, but he didn’t stop there. He should up to met her in her jail cell, they talked, well, he talked, asking why she did it. And eventually she explained… And, and he listened.

He didn’t understand, but… But he tried to, he asked more, and she could see it, the disgust this anger and confusion, but never was that all she saw. She could see him trying, struggling to comprehend. Time and time again he’d visit, and talk to her, ask her question she’d never considered, asked if she thought what she did was okay.

She knew it wasn’t you can’t force your love on others, but he understood, not because it was normal to him, or because he was like her. No, because he tried to do what nobody else did… He tried to understand her.

He wanted to help her, and then he asked.

“Toga, I need to hear you say it, where you trying to kill Saito?” She knew he needed to hear her say it, so she did.

“No, I just, I wanted to express my love…” And then he told her.

“Toga, you’re not normal, but that’s okay, everyone is different, it’s what makes us unique, what makes life beautiful.” He hugged her.

“You’re not a monster, or a Grimm, your human, and you’ve been through so much.” He was warm… The words slipped from her mouth.

“Please, can I, can I drink your blood.” He paused and she knew she’d be rejected, pushed away and left alone…

“Toga, listen.” But she wasn’t rejected, pushed away, instead the man met her gaze, a sternness in his gaze but also a sympathy, one she’d never seen before.

“You don’t behave like others, and it can be dangerous.” She knew that, of course she did.

“But it doesn’t have to be.” He begun to glow, a soft, kind but powerful white.

“I know, you can help people, more than even I can with your semblance.” His big, calloused hand landed on her head.

“The same way you can take other’s blood, if you gave your love back, you could help so many people.” She shook, she’d thought that too, but, but never hoped others would, would.

“You’re not a monster, twisted or evil Toga, your just different, your semblance, your soul, your beautiful.” It was the smile of a father, of someone who genuinely wanted nothing more than to help her, then to comfort the girl who’d spent her entire if not short life being rejected by others.

“Himiko, I can’t just let you free, unfortunately the law is very clear on that.” She saw the sadness, the anger in his eyes, it was for her sake. But soon enough they were both overtaken by what she would come to know was his most prominent trait, Determination.

“If you agree to it, to come to Vale you can be put on Probation, under my supervision. I’’ be your guardian and probationary officer.” She knew her parents must’ve given up their rights to her by the slight anger that burned in his eyes.

“We’ll attend therapy lessons and you’ll be taught about aura control by me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled it out then, a vial, the most beautiful shade of red.

“Toga, I know the way you view things are different then mine own, but that doesn’t mean you can’t understand me, you lived in this world, acted appropriately for it as well. You understand how the general public views love.” He offered her the vial, the beautiful crimson flowing with his aura, with his soul.

“I can’t promise others will accept your views, or even try, but I promise, at the very least I will do everything I can to make a environment you can be yourself in… And that I’ll try my best to understand you.” She reached, her fingers grazing the glass, the vial warm… Her heart pounded as she looked to the beautiful crimson.

Slowly, cautiously she undid the top, he never looked away from her, never tore his gaze from the sight, there was no rejection as she took him into her. As she felt his soul through his aura, as his being and iron went down her throat becoming one with her.

She felt herself change, becoming him, her pale ash-blonde hair becoming a shade of livid golden-wheat, her fair skin pinking with a healthy flush. The slits of her pupils dilating, the Faunus trait vanishing as her pupils rounded and turned the most expressive blue.

Her aura converting, her soul changing and being replicating that as her very body matched the new soul she was temporarily hosting. And he looked at her through it all, reaching out and patting her head, the smile was genuine.

“If this is how you want to be that’s fine, I’ll learn to get used to it, but please, don’t stop being yourself, even if your appearance changes.” From his hand aura surged into her, his aura, given freely, pure and unfiltered.

Her answer finally came alongside the tears.

“Yes.”

-0-0-0-

She rushed down the hall from her room, excited for the day she’d looked forward to for so long, she couldn’t wait. Reaching the kitchen she found three people there, her sister and brother, Ren and Nora, two others he’d taken under his wing.

At the stove flipping the immense amount of pancakes the Valkyrie craved was Jaune, they waved to her, well Jaune and Nora did. Ren sat patiently at his seat enjoying his tea, she sat there beside them, besides two people who knew her, truly knew her, who accepted her almost as much as Jaune.

Two simple years was all she spent with him, but in those two years she’d felt more joy, more acceptance then ever before. She’d realized truths about herself and flaws in her actions.

She was free to express her love, but not to enforce it on others, to take from people who did not want to return her affections. It was wrong, cruel and that act whether it be her form of expressing love or ordinary expression of it by others were no less disgusting.

She’d help so many people with her feelings though, a little blood and she’d given so much back in turn, to children who needed it, to people with unique cases and blood types meant nothing to her semblance with regular people. She couldn’t help but want to help, even if Jaune worried, she loved him for that… She loved him, loved him more then others. More then anyone else.

But it wasn’t the same type of love she always felt, always knew, no, this was different, she wanted to both love him and be loved by him. To be loved as Toga Himiko, by Jaune, she didn’t want him to conform to her standard of love.

It wouldn’t be fair, it’d be like who she was forced to follow the standard society before she met him, she wanted to love Jaune as herself but also as him whenever the fancy struck her. But she also wanted to love him as Ren did, as Nora did, as so many of his students did…

And soon, she would be able to, today would be the start of it, a plated landed in front of her then, and looking up she met his smile.

“Are you ready Toga, your three will be trying out for Beacon today after all. So you all need to eat up.” He served her her breakfast, more than Ren’s but nothing near the mountain of pancakes he placed before her eccentric sister. But then again the pile her put before himself was barely any smaller. He needed it after all, because he regularly gave her blood, regularly accepted her form of expressing it and indulged that aspect of her.

She loved him for it, wanted to love him even more, even deeper, more intimately then any other, and once she passed Initiation she would. She only hoped that when she did succeed, her partner would be as understanding as her.

Maybe even being able to understand her love, Or Better Yet! Maybe They’ll Love Jaune As Much As She Does! Oh ‘Giggle’ she meant Professor Arc.

#toga himiko #jaune arc #prof. arc #au concept

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

Text

Home

Yan Demon Harem + G.N Priest Reader Blurb

Priest Reader returns home for some relaxation after a stressful day at the church.. or strip teases in front of the insatiable demons within their residency. Spicy stuff here mdni.

Home at last.

Just in time too. Your face muscles were a smile away from permanent freezing in a mocking grimace of your silent torment, and the rest of your body wasn't fairing much better either. It's your own fault for leaning an ear to a community that does nothing but bottle up gossip all week long. If you had to hear about another alleged affair or congratulate another person's grandchild's achievements your head was going to explode.

What you need now was to get out of your stiff clothes and unwind in the one house more sanctum than the home of your lord. Palm on the handle, you rest your body weight on the door as you grab your keys. Shifting on your feet, the door creaks open before the proper key is halfway through the lock. Strange. Must've forgotten to lock the door. Suppose that even at the start of your day you were already exhausted. You take a deep breath and your first step.

"I'm home!"

Cool wind comprised of fragrant air surrounds you as you enter into the living room. Mountain breeze, the most neutral and non-offending scents of the candles you received. It worked well to cover up the stench of sulfur and ease you away from the dull ache splitting up the back of your skull. The observant eye would come to notice that not a shadow clung to the walls of your humble home. The couch, the table lamp, your own figure - all missing from their assigned place. It's only when you remove your rosary that these silhouettes return; the outlines of the inanimate objects contorting and bending to impossible shapes around the human shadow amongst their horde. Your teeth chitter as intangible whispers flood your mind and overflow into the very core of your soul. Popping your collar, it stops - a slick wetness pooling along the slip of your skin. You reach over your shoulder, swatting at the air.

"I'm not ready for this heat. It's colder than an icebox in here and I'm already sweating up at storm. Best to get out of these clothes before I melt."

Voice smooth and welcome like warm honey, your scripted cluelessness mocks those you have willing allowed within your domain. Mortals leagues above you in earthly power had fallen to their temptations many a time before, yet they all swarm in desirous wait for the taste of one human form. Your figure released from the unflattering bulk of your robes, their eyes drink every curve the remainder of your clothing had yet to reveal. You start by kicking off your shoes and working out of the pants to relieve your legs of the strain - claws ghosting up the back of your thigh just out of reach of sinking in your flesh as you walk over to the couch. Legs strewn over one arm and your head against the over, you curve into the seat of the couch as your hands wonder between the first and second button of your shirt. You hum to yourself, spreading the opening wide with your fingers.

"This is comfortable enough already. I think I may rest here just like this."

Talons inches from grazing your skin, the buttons of your shirt scatter to the floor as your shirt is ripped off you. Crooked fingers guide your gaze up to the shadow looming above - impatience written in its returning glare. It hisses and buckles to your reach, raised canines a mere bite away from your arousing lips.

"Priest....we grow bored of the games you play. We play by your rules and avoid the members of your church... What does that give us?"

"Some of you have already wised up to the fact it's first come, first served."

The final article of your clothing removed during conversation, a heavy tongue presses from your sternum to between your legs as they're held apart by the second demon's broad shoulders. You arch as the slithering mass finds its way to your entrance, grinning at the other unfazed besides the knee jerk reaction. Frustrated to have lost this round, it rams its scarred and coarse lips against yours before straightening and shoveling its length down your throat. Trained with handling your demons before hand, you need little time to adjust despite all it gave you. A demon, but one with a heart nonetheless. It groans as you stifle a laugh, easing your tongue a vein treading your lips. Its hands find perch on your throat as other greedy hands already taken hold of the remainder of your exposed body, working you through the girth that splits you from the other end and attempting highs of their own from your irresistible and sought after flesh. All this jostling was making you more tired, but their endless touches and words of praise washed off some of your fatigue. It was nice to know that some people actually appreciated you, and would take good care of you. One of the many perks of being home.

#Priest reader #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere blurb #yandere drabble #yandere writing #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere teratophilia #yandere smut #yandere demon x reader #yandere harem

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beanibon · 4 months

Note

GIVE ME A READER WHO KNIVES IS TEACHING HOW TO PLAY PIANO AND HE FUCKS THE READER WHILE THEY PLAY AND PUNISHES THEM IF THEY MESS UP PLEASE POOKIE

-@millionsvash

Lesson Number One

TW: Smut, potential dubcon, porn w/o plot, cock warming, orgasm denial, p in v, degradation and praise, choking, slight nipple play, rough sex.

Your mouth felt dry, hot and clammy as delicate fingers grazed your vulnerable throat. With your body shaking, quivering with embarrassment and pleasure, your mind could not focus on which note was next.

Resulting in your fifth mistake.

A disapproved sigh sounded behind you, saliva forced down with a harsh swallow, one that felt as if you had a stone in your throat. You awaited nervously for your punishment, whimpers of excitement and fear escaping you.

"You humans are useless, how many times must I correct you? This isn't rocket science, nor something vastly more difficult, it's as if you wish to suffer by my hand." Knives grumbled, those once gentle fingers squeezing the air from your lungs.

Eyes rolled deep into your skull, you gasped, drool sliding from the corners of your lips. The walls of your cunt convulsed, a growl of restraint echoing around the disturbing room of sanctum, his cock twitching within you.

"Filthy slut, to think death turns you on." Knives surged forward, smirking as you unceremoniously faceplanted against the keys. A hideous melody played out, an idea popped into the Independent's mind.

Flipping your bare body over, forcing you to look into those beautiful, deadly eyes. Knives pressed you painfully into his most precious possession, the keys singing a horrid tune. It would've made your ears hurt, if Knives crazed look of lust, anger and disgust didn't make you squirm uncomfortably.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you'll never forget a single key again. I'll fuck it so deep in that human brain of yours until it's engraved in it!"

Before you could even protest, your cries mixed with the slamming of piano keys, filling the room. Anyone passing by would instantly know of the vile sins their Master and his pet were committing. After all, why would he ever purposely make such awful music?

There was no silencing your cries either. No, Knives liked to hear you scream his name, let everyone know that you're his filthy, whorish pet.

Fingers pinched and pulled at your swelling nipples, causing your legs to kick out. Never was he gentle, always being cruel to the point you wept in painful pleasure.

With each thrust, hips colliding with your pelvis, that piano spewed out its awful melody. And the more Knives heard, the more he wanted you ruined against it.

"What's the matter? Is my mutt getting close?" As you nodded, unable to form a proper sentence, Knives chuckled. "Good."

All movement ceased, Knives roughly flipping you, cock still buried to the hilt inside your dripping cunt. Slamming your face against the keys, his crazed eyes stared expectedly at you.

"Well? Aren't you going to play?" He cooed mockingly, fists full of your hair.

You couldn't believe it. Eyes wide with disbelief that Knives expected you to play, a song you struggled with in a sound mind, not close to drenching his cock in your orgasmic juices. Yet when slammed against the keys once more, nose aching from the impact, you knew he wasn't playing around.

Mind clouded, vision foggy from the euphoria of your cunt being ruined, you began to shakily play out the song Knives so dutifully began teaching you. Such a generous soul he was, allowing a mere human to touch the gorgeous piano he adored. You tried to be thankful for the opportunity, but in this exact moment, it proved to be quite difficult.

As it approached the part you often screwed up, Knives attempted to shove his cock in further, purposely. The fucker wanted you to screw up, to punish you.

So you could imagine his disappointment when you succeeded in remembering the notes.

With a deep, disappointed frown, Knives huffed. Slamming his cock into you, feeling as you came instantly from the sudden action, legs quivering as your juices coated his inhuman member.

Pulling out, watching as his cum dribbled down you quivering legs, Knives began walking towards the doors. No after-care. You were use to it, thankful that each day pleasing him was a day you lived.

"I suppose you did well, some congratulations are in order. However," Knives looked over his shoulder, watching as you leant against the front of his piano. "I would've preferred if you failed. That way, you'd be stuffed and bred for your mistakes."

You swallowed, feeling your core ache and moisten from those words alone. If you had've just played the wrong note, that tight pussy would be stuffed for hours until you were fat with Knives child.

"Oh well, there is always next time you fail to complete a simple task." With that, your tormentor left.

Leaving you. All alone, wishing you just screwed up to have him fuck you until the next morning.

A/N: HI GUYS! Hope you enjoyed my lil smutfic, the first one since I'm back. Feel free to give any feedback, and remember my requests are open!

Love you guys heaps!

#trigun stampede #trigun #trigun x reader #trigun smut #millions knives x reader #knives smut #knives x reader #knives millions #millions knives #million knives x reader #millions knives smut #millions knives x you #trigun knives #nai x reader #beanibon asks

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lee-em-dee · 7 months

Text

A Sequence Analysis of the 6x13 Bellarke Reunion

[a.k.a. the final scene of The 100 because Jroth can Jrot in hell]

After a grim conversation between Bellamy and Jordan, the sequence transitions to a warmly lit, wide angle perspective of the reunion at Sanctum. Friends and lovers “meet again,” hugging, kissing, reconciling in a series of action shots: Miller & Jackson, Murphy/Emori & Raven, Jackson & Echo. The sound of their laughter cuts through the uplifting strains of the melody playing [GAITS “Other Side”]. Against the show’s constant onslaught of death and destruction, the beauty in these brief flashes of joy isn’t lost on us; it’s fleeting, but it’s potent. We’re back at the gates of Arkadia in 2x16, only this time around, prospects for the future aren’t quite so bleak, nor is it “getting dark, too dark to see” beneath “that cold black cloud [coming] around” [RAIGN “Knocking on Heaven’s Door”].

Instead, the refrain “I know I’ll see you on the other side” embodies a sense of hope and certainty while also referencing Jasper’s parting words in S4. Unlike his nihilistic outlook, however, the soft, inviting quality of these opening shots seems to suggest that there’s light at the end of the tunnel—a glimpse at the other side of heaven’s door, where peace prevails and war is a distant memory.

As this undertone of cautious optimism resonates, the frame is swallowed up by a dark mass of faceless bodies. The music slows, the crowd parts, and exposed in the center of the frame is Clarke Griffin—a solitary, motionless figure within a stream of movement. Her silent presence isolates her from the liveliness of her surroundings. From the side angle of the camera in the shadowy foreground only her profile is visible, yet the expression on her face is noticeably stunned. We’re left with a sense of anticipation. Where is her gaze focused? What commands her attention so fiercely, stopping her in her tracks and arresting her movements? The anticipation builds, and, with it, the percussive intensity of the music. Soft vocalizations trail after “the other side,” echoing in our ears as we --

Cut to a reverse shot of Bellamy. He makes his way to his people, but it’s clear that the words exchanged with a disillusioned Jordan weigh on him. His eyes are fixed on the ground, brows furrowed, a pensive expression reflecting his weary frame of mind. It’s the aftermath of yet another battle, another spoke on a wheel that spins and spins, unleashing more devastation with each turn. We, as the audience, can only hope that this is the end of its vicious cycle. He’s lost in thought, but a glance ahead has his eyes snagging on something out of shot. No, someone. Bellamy’s steps falter for a beat, then his eyes widen a fraction. He’s mesmerized.

On the receiving end of his gaze, Clarke sharply exhales. The steady pulsing of the music stutters before the rhythm picks up in rapid sixteenth notes, akin to a heartbeat that skips, flutters, then pounds. Energy thrums in the single look that they share; everything else seems to melt away as they fixate on each other, as the tether that binds them together tugs, as the distance between twin souls is bridged.

We’re hit with the crescendo of the music, punctuated by the sustained beat of the drums. It’s booming. A fluid tracking shot follows Clarke as she launches herself away from the crowd into Bellamy’s open arms, and the force of their collision is shown through their synchronized exhalations of breath, through the swaying movement of their bodies pressed tightly together. Like cymbals crashing, they meet in the middle of the frame. The blocking instantly establishes a bubble of intimacy around them that blocks out the rest of the world as they completely obscure the figures (“girlfriend”) in the background. Refracted light slices across the screen at an angle, tracing the points of contact between these two people who radiate warmth and ignite under a single touch.

The music swells. Their embrace is set to the bridge “oh wait for me in fields of gold,” and as they hold each other, lost to a symphony of grief and elation, we get the sense that in each other’s arms these two broken beings are very much found. It’s a homecoming.

Clarke burrows her face into Bellamy’s neck. The sun beaming in the background sends scattered light over his shoulder, captured as flare in the camera lens. Not only does this element add a layer of visual impact and aesthetic beauty to the shot, but it also intensifies the climactic moment when their bodies collide. Tension is built and built until it finally snaps; in doing so, emotional catharsis (for both the characters and for the audience) is maximized. The combination of the lens flare and camera movements makes for a striking, visually dynamic shot with epic romantic overtones. In their reunion a sense of rightness is restored, which has remained a consistent theme of the show for six seasons. When the camera finally settles, what’s captured is the sheer magnetism of the moment. Nearby murmured conversations are unable to overtake the melody, and the bustling movements of the crowd are unable to break that hypnotic hold they have on each other.

Clarke clings to Bellamy; now, more than ever, it’s evident that her love for him is a refuge, her strength in times of weakness. Even so, sorrow threatens to overtake the solace found in his embrace; Bellamy immediately senses this, rubs a soothing pattern across her back. With brows drawn, he nestles his face against her shoulder as if to will her pain away.

We cut to a dynamic two shot, with Bellamy occupying the left side of the frame and Clarke the right. Both seem reluctant to part, and as they do, harsh realities set in. Bellamy delivers the sobering line, “I heard about Abby.” Like a death knell, its implications land on Clarke and reverberate through this gentle, short-lived moment of peace. Her face crumples. With a despondent shake of her head, she manages, “I tried to do better. I did.” Bellamy can only nod. His strained expression conveys how the mere sight of Clarke’s pain is excruciating to him. A sharp intake of breath from her—“And then I lost my mom.” The tremor in her voice betrays her composure; the words catch in her throat, imparting a strangled quality to the line.

Her mother’s death clings to her. It’s reflected in her head-to-toe black attire, in the misery painted on her face. The weight of impossible decisions looms (how tragic that her mother’s endangerment was what drove her to pull the lever back in Mount Weather), and it seems that, this time around, the burden is too heavy to carry alone. “Tell me it was worth it,” she pleads to Bellamy, barely choking the words out as she battles tears. “Tell—tell me it was worth it.” In deep anguish Bellamy watches Clarke unravel before his eyes. With gentle words he tries to piece her back together. “Hey—Hey, we did. We did do better.”

This entire verbal exchange is filmed as a continuous arc shot that swings back and forth on an axis (Bellamy -> Clarke / Clarke -> Bellamy) with the sun acting as the focal point between them. The shot—much like their soul-deep connection—remains unbroken and uninterrupted. Rather than keeping a fixed, static position, the camera’s movements allow us to feel the push-pull emotional tension of the scene. It orbits Bellamy and Clarke in a way that cinematically mirrors the gravitational pull they feel towards each other. For years and years, the two have danced around each other. Though distance and time separated them, they’ve always been inextricably tied together in common orbit. Like binary stars, Bellamy and Clarke orient themselves around a shared barycenter. Their center of gravity—the sun flaring at the center of the frame—coincides with the show’s key thematic elements: forgiveness, rebirth, redemption. The rising of the sun marks the start of a new day and, with it, another chance to do better.

With each dizzying motion of the camera, flashes of light shine between their silhouettes, obscured only to re-emerge seconds later as lens flare; The sequence, as a whole, is a study in subtle contrasts: the contrast between the white sun in the background, the light glinting off the water, the pale gold of the sky + of Clarke’s hair vs Bellamy and Clarke’s shadowy figures captured in low-exposure, the darkness of their clothing, Bellamy’s black hair. This balance of light and shadows/brightness and darkness mirrors the tenuous balance between hope and despair driving the scene. In parallel, the despair that consumes Clarke is a darkness balanced out by Bellamy, who maintains a more optimistic outlook for the future and serves as her guiding light.

[Additional Note: These cinematic contrasts are also a perfect illustration of the concept of yin and yang—the cosmic duality that reflects Bellamy and Clarke’s “head and heart” relationship. The two are equal, seemingly opposing forces but, in actuality, function in such a way that enforces their complementary and interdependent nature: One cannot exist without the other, and both are connected as two halves of a whole in perfect equilibrium. Yin and yang—the head and the heart—do not act as isolated parts, but rather continuously influence and interact with each other to bring forth balance and harmony.]

Hope.

In spite of everything, it shows its presence in the vibrant yellow tones of a scene filmed at golden hour; the honeyed glow creates a dreamy, inviting atmosphere, giving off a quality of softness and romanticism that balances out the heaviness of their conversation. Hope echoes in the melody as it conveys the inevitability of reuniting with a loved one in this life or the next: “It’s not the end. It’s all I know…I know I’ll see you, I know I’ll see you on the other side.” (In other words, we will meet again). Hope is felt through the warmth of two lovers embracing, the warmth of the rising sun on their faces.

As we cut to a final close-up shot of Bellamy, he delivers the last line of the scene with resolve: “I have to believe that that matters,” he murmurs softly, brows knit in concern. His eyes search Clarke’s, but her teary gaze is cast low as she chokes down a sob. Her close-up shot captures the internal conflict taking place:

It’s a mental battle—grappling with the urge to fall apart or to suppress the vortex of raw emotion churning inside her. Bleary-eyed, she turns away from Bellamy as if every instinct screams at her to flee, to bear the burden alone. Still, an unspoken conversation anchors her to the spot: “Together.” “I got you for that.” “I need you.” “If I’m on that list, you’re on that list.” “The heart and the head.” “You don’t have to do this alone.” Though devastation lines her face, the morning sunrise bathes her skin in light. Clarke draws a shaky breath. She turns back to Bellamy, then nods: a decision has been made. The camera switches from this close-up of Clarke to a hazy, low exposure medium shot as she leans into Bellamy, drawing strength from him (notice its resemblance to Miller and Jackson’s reunion). They wrap their arms around each other, and their bodies meld together. Clarke tucks her chin onto Bellamy’s shoulder. The immediate relief that she’s flooded with is palpable. She closes her eyes and sighs, and Bellamy rubs her back consolingly. The visual of their merging silhouettes—reminiscent of two suns eclipsing just above the horizon line—composes the final frame of the scene before the shot dissolves with a last “I know I’ll see you on the other side.”

There’s a true sense of finality to this closing shot which sets it apart from others before it—or, rather, establishes it as a culmination of every moment in Bellamy and Clarke’s “exhausting” history to get to this state of perfect alignment. The hug, in particular, serves as a departure from previous seasons’ hug scenes in which an interruption was often required to progress the conflict and reestablish some semblance of distance between the two of them.

In this season, however, though death and distance and other outside forces conspired to separate Bellamy and Clarke...they, against all odds, end it with bodies intertwined, defenses stripped away, never more unified both physically and emotionally: the heart and the head joined together in perfect equilibrium. Two bodies, two souls breathing, moving, thinking, and working as one.

#bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #bellamy x clarke #the 100 #s6 is for hot people with good taste fight me on it

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comatosebunny09 · 1 year

Text

respite | r. kyojuro

Warnings: Fingering, Female Anatomy, Bodily Fluids, Mentions of Blood, Language, Light Choking, Praise Kink, Pet Names, Modern AU

I have no excuse for this other than me being ridiculously down bad. But I adore you for reading. ❤️

Music Inspo: The One - Alina Baraz

He’s had a day.

It’s etched into the frown lines on his face as he shrugs out of his coat, sword clunking loudly on the rug. Doesn’t bother stripping himself of his blood-stained waistcoat or slacks. He at least has the decency to take off his boots—you’ll kill him if he tracks anything on the floor.

The house is dimly lit. Quiet. Air stained with the aroma of fresh linen and citrus. There are remnants of whatever savory meal you cooked for dinner lingering in the kitchen. He’ll have at the leftovers later.

He’s in a mood.

Quick and soundless like a jaguar, he maneuvers down the hall. Finds mist unfurling from the bathroom alongside neo-soul and the fragrance of your body wash.

Good.

He loves it when you take such care cleaning his appetizer.

The door clicks shut softly behind him once he eases into the bathroom. He’s enveloped by the warmth of the steam and your mellifluous voice humming in tandem with the music. You’re wrapped snug in a towel, fingers fretting with your damp hair. You haven’t noticed him yet; the mirror fogged to hell.

He almost feels guilty for scaring you half to death.

Almost.

You nearly leap out of your skin when his hands perch on your hips. You spare a glance over your shoulder, eyes glassy and doe-like. When you realize it’s just him, you relax and turn back to the mirror. You coo a welcome home, baby, a smile canting your lips. One that makes his heart lurch and something warm leak into his belly.

Fucking hell.

He lures you back into the hard press of his body. Your breath hitches. You’re frozen in time as the apex of his thighs twitches to life against the cleft of your ass. And then he’s reaching around to undo the knot of your towel while his lips map out the curve of your shoulder. Hot, sodden puffs of air against your flesh, praises and I’ve missed you’s sang into your skin.

You relent to his ministrations, reaching behind to tangle your fingers in his hair. Tugging in that way that makes his dick jump, your head lolling back onto his shoulder. Your towel piles on the floor, soaked and long forgotten.

His big hands go on an unhurried expedition while his mouth is occupied sucking on your throat, eliciting soft mewls from you. He gently weighs your tits in his hardened palms. Traps your puckered nipples between his forefingers and thumbs, rolling and pinching. He relishes how sweetly you whimper, your eyes shut against the lazy wash of pleasure.

You’re undulating against him. Angling your neck a little more to give him full access. And his devilish hands are on the move again, scouring down the dip of your hips to clutch the inner sanctum of your honeysuckle thighs.

They crater under his ironclad grip. He bites his lip, watching you eagerly spread your legs for him. Takes to rubbing the space where thigh meets lip, intentionally grazing the fatty outer shell of your sex. You whine for him to stop teasing you. He counters with a chuckle, dark and raspy.

Who is he to keep his pretty baby waiting?

He placates you, spreading your lips open with thick fingers and obscene, sticky strokes to your clit.

You quickly devolve into a mess. A jumble of words and broken moans, rutting your ass against his painfully straining cock. He dips inside your sweltering pussy for a taste, one finger soon joined by another. How greedily you suck him in. Seems you crave him as much as he’s missed you. The hot suction of you is enough to make his cock weep with precum.

He gazes into the mirror, the fog of it cleared. There’s a blood spatter on his collar. A violet bruise forming under a shallow cut on his cheek. Stubble stippling his chin. He’s quite the sight. But you’re much more enticing.

He steadily picks up speed whilst he bites into your shoulder, his free hand busying itself with kneading your pretty, pretty titties.

The wet squelch of his fingers buried in your pussy fills the bathroom, followed by you singing his name like a hymnal. You’re nice and open. Stretched and spilling on his dexterous digits, the smell of you potent and ripe. He alternates between finger fucking you and tapping your clit. Loves how broken you’ve become.

God, he wants to fuck you senseless.

You’re close if the deep heave of your chest is anything to go by. He encases your neck with a virile hand, squeezing with the right amount of pressure. Licks a wet stripe behind your ear, muttering filth into it. Massages your cunt in purposeful arcs, your knees buckling.

“Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?” he rasps, surprised by his own ragged breathing.

You’re coming undone before he has time to process things. Dripping, dripping on his fingers, a scream corked in your throat.

He’s there to catch you when you come crashing down, spinning you round to capture your lips in a succulent kiss. Pinches and slaps your supple ass, entranced with how the fat of it bounces in his hand.

When he’s had his fill sipping from you, he breaks away. Whispers, “bedroom?” against your swollen mouth. To which you nod with drunken lids and a blissed-out expression warping your features.

He scoops you into his arms, tender despite the exhilaration warming his veins. Cradles you to him like the most exalted thing in pursuit of your bedroom.

The fun has only just started.

#rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojuro smut #rengoku smut #rengoku kyojuro smut #kyojuro rengoku smut #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro rengoku #kny reader insert #kny fanfic #demon slayer fanfic #cw: female reader #mdni

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starks-hero · 2 years

Text

dream a little, dream of me

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader

Summary: You're met with the realisation that in order to save the world you'll have to lose your own.

↳ or a nwh scene au where instead of Peter it's you that has to convince Stephen to erase you from everyone's mind, including his.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: this one's sad, that's... that's your warning

a/n: read part two here ;)

Fissures lit up the New York sky line, bright violet tears in space and time itself. Menacing shadows were beginning to appear where the night gave way to the multiverse; translucent looming omens of what was to come should your reality be exposed to the threats of the multiverse.

Stephen's hands trembled as he attempted to keep reality from collapsing in on itself. Despite his best efforts, his magic proved to serve as little more than a needle threading through a piece of fabric that was being torn apart at the seams. The battle he was fighting was one he was bound to lose.

You watched on with an ailing heart. You, the catalyst of all this. The magnet that was currently pulling an army of multiversal threats towards a world unequipped to defend itself from them.

“They're starting to come through and I can't stop them.” Stephen's voice was brittle, strained by both his magic and his fear. His eyes caught your own only briefly. In Stephen's case, the eyes truly were the windows of the soul and what you'd seen in his had told you everything. The fight was over.

“Y/N,” his voice was pained. “You need to get somewhere safe. Go back to the Sanctum and find Wong. I'll hold them back as long as I can.”

“What? Strange, no–”

“Y/N, it's too late.”

“I'm not going to leave you here.”

“We're out of time!” His tone left no room for negotiation. But as your hurt manifested in an involuntary step back, his voice softened. “We're out of time.”

You desperately racked your mind for something, anything that could stop the onslaught of multiversal threats. The one plan of action you were left with was undesirable at best and unfathomable at worst But the thunderous rumble of the fracturing sky above you served as a reminder that there was no other alternative.

“What if you cast another spell?” you asked. The words caused your chest to ache, thining out the air in your lungs. “They're all coming here because of me. So make them forget, make everyone forget who I am.”

Stephen's eyes clouded as he realised the implications of your words.

“No.” His voice shook as he poured his focus back into patching the tears in the sky, either out of necessity or to ignore your proposal; you couldn't tell.

“But it would work,” you said plainly. You watched the inner conflict play out in Stephen's mind and the horror that accompanied his realisation. “Stephen, we don't have time to argue over this.”

You stepped closer, taking notice of how his hands trembled under the weight of the universe. He didn't look at you as he spoke.

“If I cast that spell, everyone who has ever known you, ever loved you, we–” He tried to swallow the last word back down but your widened eyes told him it was too late. “We would have no memory of you. It would be as if you never existed.”

You smiled, fighting off the tremble in your bottom lip. “I can work with that.”

“I can't,” Stephen answered quickly. He shook his head, the action weak and feeble. “Don't make me do this. Please, I'll figure something out just... just wait–” His hand fell slightly and the sky seemed to creek with the loss of support.

Your hand gently brushed his cheek and with your touch came the realisation of just how final the moment was. Forgetting you would be like forgetting how to breathe and a plea to reconsider, to just give him time, had already been formed in Stephen's mind. A thundering roar from above sounded and it seemed the universe itself was denying him that chance.

“I know what I have to do.” Your voice was strong, your certainty in the self-sacrifice you were about to make mirroring that of the heroes of old and in that moment Stephen hated you for it.

“I'm not ready to lose you,” he managed. “There's so much I still have to say.”

“Now's really not the time to get all sweet on me,” you said lowly as you brushed your thumb along his cheek.

“I thought I'd have more time.” His voice trembled as he spoke and you couldn't find anything else to say. “Come find me when this is all done.”

“And tell you what?” You smiled sadly. “Whatever I come up with is going to sound–”

“Strange?” Stephen raised a brow and the action paired uncomfortably with the tears in his eyes. He blinked them away and gently rested his head against your own. “I'll believe you.”

The sky groaned again above you. The patches began to disappear, stitching themselves back together. You glanced down and found the orange glow of Stephen's magic circling his wrist.

You took a step back, your skin already feeling barren and light where you'd lost his touch. You swallowed around the aching in your chest. The horror of witnessing the man you cared so deeply for stand before you with no knowledge of who you were was what pushed you to eventually leave his side.

“See you soon, doc.” You sealed your promise with a kiss to his cheek before your feet carried you away from him.

His eyes were clouded when he blinked them open, as if waking up from some prolonged dream. And the brief glimpse he caught of you as you slipped away was heavy with all the indifference of spotting a stranger.

Three Months Later

Life without the avenger title was something you welcomed surprisingly well. The sudden ability to walk down the street without any recognition was something you particularly enjoyed. No photos, no requests for autographs and no people yelling catchphrases you had no memory of ever spouting. There was also a lack of insults from people who viewed the avengers as glorified attack dogs or harsh comments from those who knew the ones you couldn't save.

It was a refreshing change.

As you rounded the street corner, you collided with a firm chest and the coffee you'd been holding was sent all over you and the unlucky stranger.

“I'm so sorry.”

Your head raised the moment your mind registered the sound of his voice and there he was. His eyes were as blue as you recalled, his hair neatly slicked back and his once prestige white button-up stained with coffee.

You'd rehearsed this a hundred times, every day since the moment you'd left him. Trying to build up your courage to face him again and explain it all but you could never find it in you to bite the bullet and do it. Even now as he stood before you, you found your mouth open but no words passed your lips. Not even so much as an apology for destroying his clothes.

Stephen waved his hand and the dark stain on both your clothes was gone, not drying as much as completely disappearing as if it had never touched the fabric to begin with.

“Do I know you?” Stephen asked suddenly. His head tilted inquisitively to the side and a single rebellious strand of hair fell loose and curled against his brow. You had to fight the urge to reach out and brush it back into place.

“N-no, sorry,” you managed upon realising that he was still, rather patiently, waiting for your answer. “I think you've confused me for someone else.”

“You just look–” Whatever he was going to say he decided against it and shook his head with a dismissive smile. “I'm sorry again.”

“It– it's fine.” You glanced at the cup in your hands and found it once again steaming with a fresh brew no thanks to Stephen's magic. You took a cautious sip. “How did you know I took my coffee with two sugars?”

“I don't know,” he answered honestly, sounding somewhat confused himself. But confidence quickly found its way back into his tone as a smirk and flirtatious wink accompanied his next words. “Call it intuition. I'm Stephen, by the way.”

You listened as he finished his introduction with all the reserved politeness one treated a stranger with. You smiled, silently praying the man before you didn't notice the sadness behind it as you told him your name.

“It's nice to meet you.”

Thank you for reading!

strange tag list: @bakerstreethound @evelynrosestuff

#MoM got me hyperfixating on him again #stephen strange x reader #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x you #doctor strange x you #doctor strange multiverse of madness #multiverse of madness #1k #2k

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pursuitseternal · 4 days

Text

“Stealing:” the Raven and the Ascendant at it again in “Our Blood is Thicker”

(Ascended) Astarion x Cordehlia (Tav) | E | 4K

🎨 by @marimosalad full more NSFW ON X and below the cut

Summary: Returning home, Cordhelia gets her hands on Astarion’s old tunic. What better way to tease him, just like she used to… by stealing his stuff.

CW: busty!Cordy, the Raven and the Ascendant’s continuing journey, dirty talk, taunting, and praise, marriage bond flashback, floor riding smut.

Previous ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 22… Stealing

💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞

“Love?” Cordehlia called as she trudged her way up the stairs of the Palace. Her hand left a few streaks of blood on the handrail as she climbed higher towards their chambers. She rolled her eyes as the new colors he had chosen for the Palace, intimidating darks and burning scarlets and burnished golds. Everything the world expected of the Vampire Ascendant as he made his new domain on the ashes of his former Master and tormentor.

She huffed through her nose. The Crimson Palace. Of course he’d take that literally.

Cordehlia couldn’t even look at the massive sprawling portraits of his face that dotted the place. She, more than anyone, knew his ego could rage if unchecked, shaking her head, she recalled all that dripping arrogance as the young lording of their people. Now add wealth, unparalleled power, and the title of Hero of the Gate…. Cordehlia sighed as she reached the master bedroom.

The sunset’s light poured into the room through the colored windows, a wash of blues and greens and goldens like the forests of their youth. For as bloodied as the rest of the Palace had been made, this… this was their sanctum. Their private retreat from the demands of power and expectation. A place where the Vampire Ascendant and his Consort were just… them. Walls, bedding, decor, it all was burnished in golds and colored in verdancy. Airy and light and simple. A breath of fresh forest air in the throes of the City.

“Astarion?” Cordehlia called once more, starting to unlace her bloodied black leather armor. Those Bhaalists had been easy. Too many to dispatch quickly, but easy. She slipped off each piece to set it carefully by the door. The blood collected and dried in the little carved feathers all along her armor. For as fearsome as she looked as the Raven, it sure was hell to clean after each night she went out. Fortunately they had servants now. A palace full.

Besides, he liked the way she looked in the armor he had bought her, when she was covered in black leather and cape, face half concealed beneath her new helm. His little harbinger of death, his own fierce Right Hand to work in the shadows.

The fall of the Netherbrain had only been a beginning, the rest of those tendrils… or tentacles… of the Dead Three’s power still needed dismantling. By day, they rebuilt the City, funding projects and attending galas, by night they crept in the dark to finish what had begun months before….

When they weren’t here, in this bedchamber, still making up for centuries apart from one another.

She smiled, still looking around the room for any traces he was home. But given the pristine cleanliness, the answer was a resounding negative. His meetings must have run late, she concluded, heading to the bathing chamber to draw a warm bath. Bhaalist blood, she had learned, tasted worse than it smelled, and she was eager to be free of it.

Today had been a special battle, one opportunity to try to cut the Bhaalists off at the root, and it had taken her nearly all day. As she sank into the warm and soapy water, she felt the tension leaving her muscled frame. A few moments to herself sounded like balm to her weariness. After all, if she truly needed him she could simply tug gently at that new bond that connected them mind to mind, not just soul to soul. No, for now, she could enjoy herself alone.

Maybe it was her lost in the scent of the perfumed soaps, of moss and sweet grass and wildflowers that wafted on the steam. Maybe it was her, lost as she wandered through her memories of times before, of their young, carefree and bloodless days.

Whatever it was, Cordehlia’s heart brimmed with nostalgia.

As the sun lowered, it slatted through the cool colored stained glass of their rooms, bathing her in a flood of green and blue light. Cordehlia smiled, remembering the mossy banks of their youth in the forests of the Yuirwood. So far away, and so long ago, she could feel the same longing for nature and the open air. The water had grown cold, the only sign of how long she had been soaking away the sweat and blood of her day. Stepping out carefully, she dried her cool and pale skin, heading into their bed chamber to find something comfortable for the evening.

She took a deep breath as she crossed their large chamber. Her hand ran over the leaves and scrollwork of the patterns on their wardrobes. For all the comforts she had at the tips of her fingers now, she missed those days on the road, fucking in his tent, falling in love with him all over again for the man he was now, the reflection of her own inner darkness made sharper inside him.

The door opened easily, her elegant gowns and lingerie hanging perfectly inside. Such finery. Too fine for her. She glanced at the bloodied leather armor across the room, grappling with that lingering pain in her heart at the darkness she was trying to use for good, for justice… for cleansing the City. Still, her heart longed to go back to simpler days, innocent days. She craved those moments when Astarion was with her, making her heal from that demanding darkness that was her nature.

Her hands searched the bottom of the wardrobe, a pile of their old clothing from their adventures on the road pushed into the darkest, furthest corner. Carefully, she fished out her old flowing tunic, the bell shaped sleeves still forever stained from dirt and blood and Illithid slime. The nostalgia was so great, her heart thrumming with the memories of joy and angst of it all. Another pale, stained linen shirt laid beside it.

Those ruffles, that deep v cut and lacing sent a thrill of recognition instantly to her heart, and her core. Soft as she remembered, she held the shirt in her hands, reverent almost, as she pressed it to her face. Breathing deeply, her heart thumped slowly but steadily with the rush of joy it gave her.

His. His shirt. Old and repaired countless times and eccentric. Just like him.

A tug of a smirk at her lips, and she settled it over her body. She had grown a little rounder, fuller, and curvier since their days on the road and in battle. Well-fed, cared for, adored, her curves strained against the narrow cuts of his shirt. Her breasts nearly poured out from that deep v of his collar. An embrace of his shirt all over her torso.

She smiled. Oh, he would be livid to see her in this, she smirked. Not that she liked irritating him or inciting him to be annoyed. She didn’t like doing that… she loved it.

Just as she was imagining that irritated furrow to his brow and his nasally and whiny voice, his near-silent footsteps climbed up the center stair. Her stomach leapt, oh, she would taunt him mercilessly in this. She glanced over her shoulder, impish as she bent down to rummage more in the bottom of their wardrobe. She made sure the hem of his shirt rested on the crest of her hips as she bent forward.

Giving him a sight to behold as he entered.

Reckless, mischievous, Cordehlia held her breath to savor the sounds of him. The click of the door, the sharp inhale into his undead lungs, the softer gritting of his teeth and racing of his pulse as he took in the display of his Bride as she presented herself so… lewdly. So perfectly.

“My…” he couldn't even get out a pet name without his voice cracking at the sight of her bent over like that. He could smell her bloodied, discarded armor beside him as he closed the door. “A successful raid against the Bhaalists, it would seem, my little Raven.”

Cordehlia smirked, her face the perfect picture of startled and breathless. Too perfect. “Oh, my love,” she turned completely around and stood strength, a hand on her heaving bosom as if she had to catch her breath. “I didn’t know you were home…”

His eyes narrowed, an irritated smirk on his thick and sensual lips. “Yes you did, my little minx,” he rasped. “You’re senses are too sharp for that excuse, they always were,” he grunted as he crossed to her. Crimson eyes scanned her body, taking in the sight of her shirt.

His shirt.

“Where did you find these old rags?” he purred, that privileged, judgmental tone cooling his voice as he crossed over towards her. His finger picked at the ruffles as if they offended him. “I’ve bought you dresses, exotic silks and shifts and gowns for the bedroom, and this…” he sneers a bit naughtily, “you pick my old shirt?”

“I did,” she smiled back, so haughty and taunting. “For as… nice as your gifts are…” she trailed off, making her eyes big and innocent and teary, “they just don’t smell or feel like you against my skin…”

His eyes dilated as he watched her hand against her skin, watching as she teased his shirt over her body. “It’s a little snug, however,” she chuckled, picking at the collar that her breasts were positively spilling out from.

All fangs and breath, he kissed her, consuming her. Hands clawed at those full and supple breasts she couldn’t stop mentioning. His fingers squeezed like a vice, a moment of aggression followed by long and sensuous caressing. Cordehlia groaned, arching against him, trying to lift the shift from her body.

“Ah, ah,” he tutted in mock chastisement. “You made your choice of apparel. And I must say, I might even look better on you than me, my love. But now, you’re going to have to live with the consequences of your choice.”

“You mean, getting fucked is the consequence of my choice, don’t you?”

Astarion only gave that low, reverberating chuckle. “Now, I liked the sight of you before, why don’t you bend over again, my bride, and I’ll give you what you were clearly seeking?”

She looked so innocent as she smiled up at him. As if she hadn’t just been bent over to taunt him, as if she hadn’t been caked in the blood of their enemies before that. “I don’t know what you mean, she replied so calmly. “I was just looking for a little something comfortable to slip into.” She tried to back away, eyes darting as he started to unfasted the clasps of his ornate jacket before it landed on the floor for him to step over. “You’ll never believe…” she smirked, impish as she backed up some more, “I thought it was my tunic, it felt so familiar until I put this old thing on.” Letting out a small giggle, she only smirked harder as he closed that distance she kept insisting on making.

His ravenous smirk only widened. “You always did like games of chase as a girl,” he replied, voice like gravel from his growing desire for her. “And you always were such a tease and a horrible liar.”

Cordehlia let out a giggle as she turned to dart away. But he was all the faster, too many decades of these same kinds of games to not know her every next little move. Swiftly and suddenly, her vision was filled with bright blues and greens of the stained glass windows as he caught her and pinned her tightly beneath him. “I think I’ve won, my darling,” he rasped in her ear, his body pressing against her back and his hands running up and down her bare legs.

“For now…” she purred as she pushed away from the window just a bit.

“How about, for now, you let me enjoy the sight of you in my shirt, you adorable thief,” he chuckled, a hand reaching around her waist, the other pinning her hands above her head and against the cool glass of the windows. The bare skin of his chest radiated heat, his temperature seeming to burn hotter the more his hand slunk over her belly, the more it teased the ancient fabric of his old shirt. “Little light fingered Cordehlia, always getting in trouble…”

She huffed a laugh, hiding the groan in her voice as his fingers found their way between her legs. “Usually getting caught because of something you made me do with you, little lordling.” He tried to lift her head away from the window, but his hand just squashed her harder, pressing her breasts against the cool glass harder, making her shiver where her skin touched it from the cut of his shirt.

“Now, now,” he groaned, grinding his hardened cock against her bare ass, “you got me into trouble just as much, from what I can recall.”

Cordehlia gave that low and musical laugh, her mirth broken by a few pants as his fingers determinedly sought out her clit. “From what I

remember, you loved it…”

Astarion hissed, his cock aching to be so confined, but that feeling and scent of her own arousal was too delicious to pull away from. Closing his eyes, he felt her mind, her memories tickling in his own brain, an invitation to join her. The blue and green light of the room faded from reality, the sun of the Yuirwood bathing their youthful faces as her memories came to life….

“You give that back!” Astarion’s voice called after her, that red-haired terror he loved to be around. Loved to be around… until she did something utterly irritating, like stealing his new book from his mother.

“I’m not going to break it,” she taunted back over her shoulder, her rosy lips turned in a teasing, impish grin. “Not like you need another book for your massive collection, Astarion, you spoiled brat.”

That made him grind his teeth and sprint all the faster after her. Reaching one hand, he caught the trailing ends of her hair, pulling her up short and making her tumble into the mossy forest floor.

“Fuck you!” Cordehlia hissed, barely breathing as the wind got knocked from her lungs. Astarion towered over her, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Doubly naughty,” his voice creaked from thirst and exertion. “Stealing my book,” he snatched it from her hands as she laid in the dirt, “and using such foul language for a she-elf of breeding.”

She sneered a smile, her fist landing at the back of his knee making him crumple to the dirt beside her. Swift and graceful, she pinned him down. “You’d think you would know, by your age, I am not just some she-elf of breeding…”

“By our age, you should know that it’s unbecoming and unattractive to steal things from your closest of friends. We aren’t just little elflings anymore.” He grunted, his face growing pink as he fought against her hands that braced his fists at his side, as he tried to throw her off from how she straddled him.

“You know I hate when you do this?” He spat.

“Do what?” Cordehlia pouted, holding on to him tightly. “When I beat you? When I outsmart you?” She taunted, reaching for the book from his side to flaunt it in his face.

“I hate when you pin me like this, like some little brat of a she-elf,” he grumbles. But Cordehlia only held on harder, pushing him to the earth more beneath her legs. She moved to toss the book away when…

“Astarion, is something the matter?” She looked at him, his eyes were dark, his face was flushed. “You don’t look right…” As she moved to set the book down, she felt something under her. “Something wrong with your stomach? You have a bump…”

He hissed and threw her off. “I said I don’t like it,” he grumbled, grabbing his book and holding it over his lower stomach. “Stop taking my things, Cordehlia, and maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll share them with you instead.” He sniffed and turned to stride away.

Her laughter broke the spell, their memories fading as the palace’s walls and colored windows took shape again. She rammed him backwards, sending Astarion flying most ungracefully to the carpet behind him. Sprawled out, he caught his breath, opening his eyes to see her feral, cunning leering face descend on him to pin him down. “Little did I know then just how much you actually loved when I was pressed against you,” she purred, sitting astride him the same as in the past, her hips grinding down on his confined cock, hands splayed on his bare chest.

He groaned under her, teeth bared and hands tight on her hips.

“Don’t look so cross with me,” she panted, grinding her slick folds on the velvet of his breeches. “How can you be angry when I look so adorable in my purloined shirt?”

“Because…” he grunted, “one, it’s my shirt, and two…” he slid his hands to the band of his trousers, forcing them down to let his cock finally free, “if I don’t do now what I wanted to do with you then, I’m afraid you’ll find me far worse off than… cross…” he smirks up at her, fangs glinting with mischief.

“Oh, you can be so much worse than cross,” Cordehlia teased, “spoiled for instance, annoying…” that smooth, hard skin of his cock pressed deliciously beneath her, and biting her lip, she tilted herself to catch it. Sinking on to it, groaning to be finally filled and satisfied to have him under her power.

Astarion bucked beneath her, a pleased, arrogant grin on his lips as his eyes closed. “Well, at least I’ve learned over the centuries how to play nicely with one person.”

“Ha! Barely,” Cordehlia scoffed as she slowed down on him. Sitting perfectly, frustratingly still, she teased his shirt on her body. Her strong and lithe fingers brushing her skin where her breasts pushed up through the cut of his collar. Lifting up its hem, she brought that ivory fabric to her face and breathed in deep. Astarion’s eyes went wide, dark and dilated as he watched her own pale belly and the curves of her breasts slowly come into view. Every breath she took, he could feel her muscles expand and relax around his cock. And then she sighed, “Still smells like you, my love. Like your salt and sweat and musk… like how you smelled after a long day of fighting and killing and…” she dropped the shirt and grinded on his length again suddenly, “fucking.”

He sat up with so much strength, wrapping her body in his arms, face nuzzled into her shoulder. His breath flowed over the crook of her neck, sending shivers to scatter down her spine. “Honestly, darling, now it smells like you… mouthwatering and fresh and fierce.” He smirked at her, slowly lifting his head to brush noses with his love. “And I think I like it better that way…”

Fangs sank gently into her neck, making Cordehlia buck erratically on his lap, the sudden movement making him pull away quickly with a snarl. Blood on his chin, dripping down her neck, he looked her over with lust-blown eyes. Lips pressed against his gently, her breath sweeter than meadowgrass as she slowly rode him. A steady tempo, a rocking of their union as she took her sweet time to buck on his cock. Craving every inch, every ridge and vein of him single her, she wanted to feel, to remind her that they had made it.

They had won.

Her undead heart palpitated in her chest, or maybe it was his own heart beating so hard beneath his ribs it resonated in her very bones. He bent in worship of her, giving her the very air from his lungs and blood from his veins to sustain her as they moved like water over rocks, so pure and fluid. Warm touch and strong fingers clung into her hair, tugging her head back, angling her mouth just right for his tongue to delve deep inside, to skate over her fangs and feast on her taste. Breath growing short, her aching muscles flooded with the need to finish, to chase that release he always, always gave. Arms hugged her tight, a gesture that was once so innocent between them now something so full-blooded and thick with heavy desire. Her own two arms, capable of so much violence and strength, clutched around his neck, pulling his mouth to fasten against her own.

The fading daylight bathed them in the softer blues and greens through the windows of the palace. It warmed their skin from without, even as the slow friction of their coupling warmed them quickly from within. His breath grew harsh and stilted, his teeth biting hard on themselves, jaw tight, and every muscle drawn tense; it was enough to shove Cordehlia into her own wave of climax in the same breath as him.

Her lungs burned as all the air disappeared, her aching muscles bunched and fluttered, all she could do was gasp to fill her empty lungs with air. Every breath was laden with his scent, ancient and familiar from his shirt caressing her body, and that all-too-familiar perfume of elegance, of citrus and herbs and brandy.

Catching her breath, she felt his head fall against her bosom, the Ascendant laid low as he caught a second wind cradled against his love’s body. “To bed?” he whispered softly. Drenched, Cordehlia slid off his lap, locking eyes with him as looked up at last.

His eyes might have been kohl-lined now and crimson, his teeth like weapons, and his back forever scared by his torment, but in the bath of blue-green light, he stole her breath. This mighty Ascendant, and yet still the same cocky elven boy who smirked, stealing her heart… he looked up at her with wide loving eyes.

Astarion, even more lithe and sleek since his ascension, stood and pulled his trousers all the way off. Without warning, he swept her in his arms, catching her back in his grip and her lips in his kiss. Their bed caught her as he slipped in beside her, on her, everywhere at once.

Attentive, lusty, and passionate—just as he always had been since he first laid claim to her heart, and then her body, and now her future. Finally.

The room darkened as the sun set, verdant greens and lush blues turning to black again as night fell outside their little haven of a bedroom. But they were far from finished.

Pants and sighs and the slaps of flesh filled their room for hours, but even the undead eventually end up collapsed in a pile of bliss. Resting her head on his chest, the pounding of his heart was her lullaby, that ancient pattern that had soothed her to sleep for years, and Cordehlia drifted off into sleep, still hugged tightly in his old shirt.

Hand in hand, he held her body, not just in his arms in their palace, but in their minds. In their dreams, he found her, bathed in the real soft greens of the Yuirwood. Her confident face looked at him with all the love she had preserved for him for centuries, her eyes a mix of silver and crimson, the oneness of who she had always been and who she was now. His bride, his beloved, and his Raven. Bringing her dream-lips against his, he could taste her breath again on his real tongue.

Lost in his touch, Cordehlia clung to his body and soul. For that moment, even among the dream-like trees, she could smell him, feel him, that boy that stole her and became her everything.

💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞

Just a bit nsfw… so we post it here, by @marimosalad

Hope you loved these menaces 💞

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deathbyathousandspiders · 9 months

Note

hello!! ive been scrolling thru ur work and i am instantly obsessed. can i request a meet cute of peter? :( maybe they meet post nwh and she’s like wanda and she’s doing lessons w strange like america chavez 🥹 something like that :D thank u!

do u also happen to have a masterlist? i’d love to read more of ur work ure really amazing! ❤️‍🔥

you’re so sweet!! i just published my masterlist and pinned it :)

but here’s the link too !!

✨masterlist✨.

this is just a quick lil blurb :,) i hope you like it !!

800+.

The chill of winter rushed down your spine, causing a subtle shiver to follow along your goosebumps. You should’ve known that the old ass windows of the Sanctum would be drafty, but the view of New York covered in snow was somehow a sight you couldn’t pull your focus from. It was breathtaking.

Strange trusted you to house–sit the Sanctum Sanctorum while he and Wong went out to visit Kamar–Taj. It was a little day trip for them, so you didn’t mind the task. Besides, it was the least you could do to make it up to Dr. Strange for letting you stay there. You couldn’t exactly remember how you’d lost your family, but alas, it brought you here anyways. You were left lonesome, with powers you could barely summon on command.

He was training you on your telekinesis abilities, and giving you sanctuary from the blistering wind–chill outside. Watching the Sanctum for a few hours felt like a reasonable task for you to take on. You were more than capable of protecting it.

The sound of the doorbell stirred you from your people watching, immediately grounding you from your thoughts while you trekked down the steps. The doorbell rang again just before you got to the large door, opening it with a slight twinge of irritation. All your annoyance melted away when you realized who had disrupted the peaceful afternoon.

A boy, roughly your age, stood on the steps in front of you. He looked at you doe–eyed. Stunned. It seemed like you both anticipated a greeting from different people. His brown eyes pierced your soul, making a mental note to remind you that you had to see them again. His hands dug into the pockets of his winter coat, hesitant to break the silence.

“Is, uh- Is Dr. Strange here?” He asked, voice on the verge of breaking. It almost seemed like he was too scared to hear the answer.

Your head turned into the building, about to call out for the doctor before you realized how much of an idiot you were for forgetting. “Um, no. Sorry, he’s out today.” Your brows creased, feeling a little sympathetic. You weren’t sure why your powers were picking up his energy so adamantly, but his energy was something that drew you in. “Do you want me to deliver a message?”

It seemed like your words carried a weight that only he knew the gravity of. He suddenly seemed lighter. Hopeful. “I, umm.. No, that’s okay.” He turned on his heel, stepping down the steps again. “Thanks anyways–”

“Wait.” You cut him off. You couldn’t figure out why, but you didn’t want him to go. Part of you knew he was more significant than he was leading on. A part of him lived in the barren sanctum walls, and you knew it. “What’s your name?” A small smile touched your lips, “I’ll let him know you stopped by.”

The boy froze dead in his tracks. It was almost like you’d said something wrong. Shit. Doe eyes turned into the stare of a deer in headlights. He didn’t seem to know what to do.

Your brows creased a little more, concernment sewn in the crevasse this time. “Are you okay?” He didn’t reply. He didn’t even move. You weren’t sure why he started malfunctioning, but you knew you had to do something.

“Maybe it’ll help if I tell you my name first?” Even you didn’t sound too sure, but this was better than nothing. You leaned into the doorframe more, trying to present yourself in less of an intimidating way. “I’m Y/N.”

You watched him mimicking the deep breath you took, easing into his posture. He gained some color back, and found his way back to his body. A nervous smile tickled the corners of his mouth with a breathy laugh, awkwardly glancing down at his boots.

“Sorry..” He spoke amid the anxious laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” His smile grew at the way your name fit with his voice. “I’m, uh.. Peter Parker.” It was like his name was some forbidden tongue. Getting it out seemed to lift the weight stuck on his shoulders though. “My name’s Peter Parker.”

Smiling back at him, you stood upright. “Well, Peter Parker, it’s nice to meet you too.” You sent a reassuring nod in his direction. “I’ll be sure to let the doctor know you stopped by.” Your brow arched at him, unable to shake the grin off your face. “Alright?”

Peter took steps away from the door, but kept his eyes on yours. “Thank you!” He beamed a little. It seemed to be the first light to hit the boy’s eyes in a while. “Happy holidays, Y/N.” He chimed, walking off into the street.

You hollered the same thing back in his direction before shutting the sanctum doors. You couldn’t quite dismiss the odd energy that your powers sensed from Peter, but it wasn’t a negative feeling. In fact, it was fascinating to you. And walking back to the drafty old window you’d been stuck at all day, you realized you wouldn’t be forgetting about Peter Parker anytime soon.

You hoped you’d be lucky enough to see him soon.

#🪷 .゜・ ˗ˏˋ ☾ ´ˎ˗ 𝕭𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐒.#🕊️ .゜・ ˗ˏˋ ☾ ´ˎ˗ 𝕰𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝕽𝐄𝐐.#marvel imagines #marvel mcu #mcu imagine #mcu peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker blurb #blurb #mcu #imagine #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland

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thatonebrazilian · 2 years

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Sanctum

Part 1, part 2, part 3 (coming soon)...

Summary: Sanctum (noun) 1. a sacred place, especially a shrine within a temple or church. 2. a private place from which most people are excluded. After everything that happened, WestView became your sanctum. And you would not let anyone desecrate it.

(In which SW!Wanda shows up in a universe where her variant is dead. There’s only you and the boys. But this Wanda had never met you in her universe, and you were way too damaged and traumatized to let her in.)

A/N: I'm sick and tired of Wanda not being happy. First the movies, and now a lot of fics. I need this girl to be happy for once.

Also, I'm posting this on a whim, I normally like to have a few chapters written before I post anything (or at least an outlined plot), but SW!Wanda has been consuming my thoughts lately and I had to do something about it.

MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS SPOILERS AHEAD

Warnings: A bit of violence, I think.

Word count: 1500

Wanda could feel the girl’s startled breaths beneath her fingers, her hand wrapped tightly against America’s throat.

It was never supposed to be like this. She didn’t want to hurt this child, killing her through power absorption would’ve been faster, quicker, painless. But no, the girl had to fight, and Strange had to intervene.

She just wanted her children back.

America grunted, her fist glowing white, yet her eyes told the Scarlet Witch just what her mouth had told her before. She knew she couldn’t defeat Wanda.

“You want these powers?” America asked then, eyes watering “You can have them!”

A portal opened up, and Wanda wasn’t sure about America’s intent, but whatever it had been, America probably hadn’t taken into account how little control she had over her powers. The Scarlet Witch suspected the girl wanted to take her to Earth-838 to see all the damage she’d done personally, but instead, America took her to another Earth altogether.

Wanda didn’t know that, though, she didn’t think of anything when she saw the boys sitting on the couch. Her boys; her children. Billy and Tommy.

It was as if time had slowed down then, the children’s eyes widened and they tumbled out of the couch, scrambling away, getting as far from Wanda and America as possible. As if they were afraid of her.

Wanda swore her heart was breaking. Fear was never supposed to be the emotion in her children’s eyes when they looked at her.

“I-is that?...” Billy asked from behind the stairs’ railing.

“I-it can’t be…” Tommy said.

The Scarlet Witch looked at them, her fingers almost unconsciously letting go of America’s throat; her hand shook as she extended it in her kids’ direction, taking a step towards them.

“Boys…” she said, her voice trembling as much as her hands.

“Ma!” Billy yelled, frightened, trying to hide behind his brother.

“Ma! Help!” Tommy shouted too, standing protectively in front of his sibling.

Instead of a variant, as Wanda had expected, some other woman came running down the stairs. The Scarlet Witch couldn’t see her face; she felt a surge of fury when this woman gathered the boys, her sons, in her arms. The woman only then seemed to notice Wanda, finally raising her head to look at her.

Wanda’s breath was taken away, you were a marvel, beautiful in every way possible. If this was any other situation, if she wasn’t still in love with Vision, if she weren’t so hell-bent on getting her sons back, she may have admired your beauty more.

But at that moment all she wanted was for that stranger to get her hands off of her sons.

Upon meeting the witch’s eyes, your own widened.

“Wanda?” you asked then, pulling the boys behind you again, shaking your head “No, that’s not possible, you’re dead, you and Natasha- you’re…” you trailed off, eyes hardening. “God promised you’d be in Heaven, he said he had your souls, he promised you’d be happy…”

The Scarlet Witch furrowed her brows. What were you talking about?

“Ma, is this really her?” Billy asked then, looking at you.

Wanda saw your eyes glaze a little, she saw you looking up as if you could see something she couldn’t. She saw your shoulders sag a little, a defeated look on your face. You shook your head, then, looking at your child, her child, before turning to her with hardened eyes “this is not your mother, boys, get behind me.”

The Scarlet Witch’s eyes hardened as well. Who did you think you were, telling her sons to stay away from her?

“Don’t listen to her, boys” Wanda said to the kids, her powers glowing brightly in her hands, her eyes then focusing on you “these are my children.”

And then she saw your eyes turn dark, a black glow engulfing your own fingers. “Whoever you are, you’re not Wanda, and I’m not about to let you anywhere near my sons.”

Wanda felt the all-consuming rage inside her screech at your words, without even thinking she threw a blast of red magic at you, but to her utter surprise, and ultimate relief, you easily blocked it, protecting you and the kids from it.

“Stay back, boys!” you yelled at them, using your magic to send them further back into the kitchen, far away from the woman in front of you.

The Scarlet Witch was consumed by that ugly, mixed feeling inside her; there was rage, sadness, jealousy, grief, envy… She couldn’t think clearly, she just wanted her children back. She used her magic to make the sofa levitate and then threw it at you, but you stopped it midair. Wanda took advantage of your distraction, you were a bit preoccupied when the witch showed up above you, using her powers to blast you to the ground; the impact was such it created a crater, and your broken body lay in its center.

“Ma!”

“Mamma!”

The boys came running to help you, and to Wanda’s utter surprise, you easily stood up, using your sleeves to wipe the blood from your face. How, she wondered, was it possible for you to still be alive? Your body should have crumpled at the force.

“Billy, Tommy, stay behind me, I’m not gonna let her hurt you.” You yelled at the kids, levitating out of that crater, landing in front of the witch.

The kids listened to you, and Wanda found herself getting even madder. Who were you and how come her kids listened to you like this? How come they saw you as a mother?

Out of jealousy and rage, Wanda shot more and more magic blasts at you, but you simply blocked all of her strikes as if it was the easiest thing in the world. But then one especially powerful blast pushed you back, making your body go through the wall and out of the house.

“Leave our ma alone!” the boys yelled, picking up anything they could put their eyes on and throwing it at the witch. “Our ma will not lose! She has us by her side!”

Wanda’s eyes filled with tears. It was never supposed to be like this.

“Stay out of this, boys! Get out of the house, it’s not safe in here.” You said, flying back in as if you hadn’t just been thrown through a wall.

When Wanda saw the boys hesitating, but ultimately complying, she gritted her teeth. As soon as they were out the witch made the ceiling come down on your head. The structure of the house was already compromised enough, you lifted your hands trying to keep this place, your place, standing. You held off the ceiling and kept the wall from tumbling down, but Wanda didn’t stop, as you were trying to keep your house up the witch threw blast after blast at you, but each and every one of them splashed uselessly against a barrier made of black magic.

“Why aren’t you fighting back?!” Wanda yelled, tears pooling in her eyes “Fight me back!”

Wanda stopped shooting blasts at you when she felt something hit against her. It was a small ball of blue magic, she looked at the backyard through the hole in the wall you went through and saw Billy conjuring the balls and Tommy using a bat to throw them at her in record speed. She didn’t know what to do; she looked at the destroyed house, the frightened, brave children outside, and then at you. She sank to her knees.

“Why won’t you fight back?” she asked in a small voice, her face tear-stained.

You managed to mend the house, securing the ceiling back, strengthening the walls and the structure, and the boys came to stand behind you again. You looked at them and then looked at the witch.

You understood her.

“Because I can’t hurt you,” you said, walking towards her and cupping her face in one of your hands, gently wiping her tears away. “You may not be our witchy, but you’re still Wanda. I could never hurt you.”

Wanda looked at you then, the rollercoaster of emotions making her want to embrace the person she was just trying to kill. “But… who are you?”

Who were you? Which universe was this? And if there was a universe where she didn’t have her children, and a universe where her children didn’t have her, why couldn’t they just be together? There were a million questions haunting Wanda’s mind.

You smiled at her, a sad smile, it was almost as if you knew what questions were going through her head.

Maybe there was still time for this Wanda, maybe she could be redeemed. Everyone deserved a second chance, after all.

You got one, even when you didn’t want it, why shouldn’t she?

“My name’s Y/N, and…” you said, looking at Strange and the Chavez girl before bringing your gaze back to the witch “this is Earth-Delta… Your new home, if you don’t have anywhere else to go.”

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geeky-politics-46 · 1 year

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Sacrifices - Part 1

Pairing: Doctor Stephen Strange x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Stephen gave up the time stone to save you & your son, but how can you possibly go on without him?

Warnings: Heavy angst & some smut (NSFW) - 18+ ONLY - language, reference to injuries, death, mental illness, complicated feelings about cheating, general sadness, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

This piece may go through some small edits over time as I work on part 2. Some slight canon divergence. Based on a request from @magnificentfurybluebird. Not necessarily my best work, but I'm happy with it.

GIF by wetiredofthis

When the spacecraft landed at the compound, thanks to Carol, you all scrambled to see who or what it was. You prayed to every God you knew that Stephen was somehow, someway, on board. That he had come back to you. Knowing that Tony and Peter had been with him when that creature, that thing took him.

Your heart shattered even further when you saw Tony near death stumble out. No one else followed except for Nebula. You knew deep down Stephen wouldn't be there. You already knew he was gone.

Nat and Steve were the ones who stayed outside with you as you sobbed and wailed. One hand on your pregnant belly, the other over your chest clutching at the cassum where your heart had once been. Nat rocking you back and forth, trying to calm you down and slow your breathing. Steve simply trying to keep you upright and holding your hair when your sobbing inevitably turned to dry heaving.

You don't remember how you got back inside. The next thing you remember was Tony having a little breakdown of his own. Understandably. You were swaddled in blankets staring blankly at the table. They had hooked both you and Tony up to IV drips. His anger didn't even phase you. Perhaps because it felt like an outlet for your own.

You vaguely remember Tony saying that Stephen gave up the time stone when Thanos threatened your life and the life of your unborn child. Stephen's son. You had only found out you were having a little boy a few days before Bruce crashed through the Sanctum's ceiling. It went from being the best week of your life to being the worst week of your life.

He said that Thanos threatened to find and torture you in front of him if Stephen didn't surrender the stone. That for the first time during the fight, he saw fear on Stephen's face. He knew Thanos would keep his word. So he did what he had to to save you and your son. Not knowing or not caring that Thanos' snap may as well have blipped you, too. Tony said that the last words Stephen said were, "There was no other way."

You were sure part of your soul turned to ash at the same time Stephen did. Even though you were safely ensconced in the Wakandan palace, you still felt it as if you had seen it with your own eyes. It was like someone had reached into your chest and pulled out your heart. You had stayed near catatonic on the trip back to regroup at the compound with all of the heroes who remained.

Since then, Nat had not let you out of her sight. Bruce and Steve were never far behind. Rhodey constantly brought you food and water, even though you refused to touch most of it. Pepper did what she could, but since Tony was in such bad shape, you couldn't blame her for focusing on him. Even Nebula and Rocket took turns sitting with you in those first few weeks.

You felt like a mental patient under constant observation for fear you would hurt yourself. Maybe that's what you were. Maybe that's why they didn't want to leave Tony and Thor alone for long either. Tony still had a long recovery ahead, and Thor already appeared to be spiraling into deep depression.

For a long time, you refused to speak to Wong directly. It hurt too much. The first words you spoke to him were to tell him that you couldn't go back to the Sanctum. He understood what you couldn't say out loud, so he let you keep your distance. Telling you that all you had to evet so was call and he would be there. Guarding over the Sanctum and the home you and Stephen had been building together. Promising to leave everything untouched unless you said otherwise.

For the next few months, the world around you felt like it was on fast forward. Perhaps it was just that you were moving in slow motion. You ate only when someone forced you to. Walked around the outside of the compound, but you had no interest in leaving the grounds. Preferring to spend most of your time curled up in bed, in the generic blank walled bedroom they gave you at the compound. You took care of yourself just enough to make sure your son would be born healthy, and he was.

A thick head of dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that matched Stephen's. You nearly gave him up for adoption because how could you care for and love this perfect little being when it hurt so badly to even just look at him? You couldn't though. You could never give up your one remaining tether to your husband. To Stephen. Instead, you sunk every ounce of energy you had into caring for him.

Your perfect little Vincent. The only silver lining you could find in a world without the man you loved. The reason you made yourself keep going. His sweet little smile was what kept you alive.

One by one, the remaining Avengers and Guardians started to leave. Rhodey had to help keep the US government and military functioning. Ayo literally had a whole country to run. Carol, Nebula, and Rocket were busy trying to keep other planets from falling apart. Pepper and Tony pretty much dropped off the grid during Tony's recovery. Val took over the responsibilities of New Asgard as Thor continued his own struggles, taking his solace in food and alcohol. Bruce left to try and find a way to peacefully coexist with the big green guy. Wong fell into the role of Sorcerer Supreme, putting the Kamar-Taj and the rest of the mystical arts power structure back into a working order.

--------------------------------

Eventually it was basically just Nat, Steve, you, and little Vincent. Nat was absolutely smitten with your little man. Stealing him away any chance she got, and encouraging you to focus on yourself. That it would be better for both you and Vincent, who she had taken to calling Vinny, if you found ways to take care of yourself too. Both mentally and physically.

To pacify her, you agreed. Starting small with things you always used to love. Taking nice long baths or showers. Indulging in body care and fragrances that didn't smell like a mix of baby powder and lavender. You started reading books again that didn't have pictures or a rhyme scheme to them. Quickly working through everything in the compound.

Soon your favorite thing to do was to have Steve take you into the city to visit your favorite little used bookstore, which was luckily still there. You went with Nat a couple times too, but going with Steve always felt better. Something about the white noise of his bike mixed with the wind whipping past you or the soothing sounds of 40's music in his car. Showing him you favorite books and ones that you thought he needed to read. He was content to just quietly wander through the shelves with you,

Nat was always trying to get you further out of your shell. Like you were her own little pet project. Trying to get you to go to lunch after or go shopping for clothes. She even pitched going lingerie shopping one day. You practically ran back to the compound on foot after that. You were nowhere near ready for that. To be or be seen as a sexual or sensual being again. To move on. Your heart still belonged to and longed for Stephen. Even after it had been years. You still wore your wedding rings for Christ sake.

At night, you still even dreamed of him. Almost every night, Stephen would find you. You didn't know where you were, but the landscape was barren and cold until Stephen would use his magic to cast an image of one of your favorite places. The park near the Sanctum or even the rooftop of the old building. The two of you reminiscing about the times you snuck up there to get away from everything, listening to the sounds of the city. A moment of fleeting happiness in those dreams only to wake up to the cold reality that he was gone and that you had to go on without him. You hated your own mind for torturing you with such vivid dreams.

That was another reason you liked being with Steve on your outings. He didn't treat you like just a mom, but he never pressured you to try to move on. He certainly hadn't either, despite what he told everyone else. You could see it in his eyes. You both simply chose to exist in that moment. No talk of the future or the past. Eventually, you two did start staying out together longer. Expanding your adventures to include things like walks in the park, museums, an occasional movie, and meals.

It was even with Steve that you decided it was time to pick up some of your stuff from the Sanctum. You didn't get much. Some of the things you had bought for Vincent before he was born, some of your clothes and toiletries, and a few photos of you and Stephen that you wanted Vincent to have. You wanted him to know his father, even if you weren't ready to talk about him much. Other than say how much Stephen would have adored him.

By the time you left, you were shaking like a leaf, even though you ran out of tears to cry a long time ago. After piling everything into the trunk of his car, Steve assumed you would want to go right home. Instead, you wanted to get drunk, telling him to go to the little Mexican restaurant you two frequented. Taking your normal table in the corner of the patio. It was a great spot for people watching.

Luckily, Steve talked you into stopping after two margaritas and a shot of tequila. Also making sure you ate plenty to absorb the alcohol. You were actually feeling better by the time you went to leave. Still telling Steve to take the long way back to the compound.

"Can I take you somewhere I really like to go? When I just want quiet or want to think?"

"Sure, Steve. Quiet sounds nice. I love Vincent so much, but he reminds me so much of Stephen. I don't know that I'm quite ready for that. I'll just shoot Nat a text saying she's in charge of bedtime."

You ended up parked out in the most beautiful field at the edge of an apple orchard. As soon as you got out of the car, the sweet scent of the ripening fruit enveloped you. Paired with the remaining heat from the sun sitting low on the horizon and the cool breeze slowly moving in, it felt perfect. It was breathtaking.

Your breath hitched a little when Steve's hands found his way to your hips as he helped you climb up on the hood of the sports car. Finding yourself extra self-concious when you turned to get comfy and inevitably ended up with your ass in his face. Noticing the blush you both wore when he went around to the other side and effortlessly pulled himself up next to you.

He quickly folded up his leather jacket to place under your head. Holding it in place until you were laid back and settled before following you and laying down beside you. His strong arm pressed against you, the warmth of his body radiating off of him. The scent from his jacket, the leather mixed with his cologne, filling your nostrils. Suddenly, you felt drunker on Steve than even the tequila had made you feel.

He noticed you shiver and the goosebumps forming on your arms. Without even thinking, he put one arm around you and pulled you so your head was resting on his shoulder. Moving his jacket so it draped over the two of you like a blanket. You fought the urge to bury your nose into his neck.

Had he always smelled so intoxicating?

Suddenly, you were feeling things you hadn't felt in literal years. Your body felt nearly electric. Even on those nights when you couldn't sleep and tried to sate an itch that you wanted to deny still existed, or when you dreamed of the passion filled nights you spent with Stephen, it didn't feel like this. It didn't feel like hunger. Like you were starving only to be plopped down in front of a big juicy Thanksgiving feast. It was too much and nowhere near enough.

You felt Steve's heart start to race as his enhanced sense of smell began to pick up what was surely the scent of your growing arousal. As the sun sank lower in the sky and the sound of crickets grew louder, the tension between you continued to grow thicker. In a moment of bravery, you let your hand come to rest on Steve's abdomen. He let his hand that was wrapped around you start drawing shapes on your hip.

You both knew you had reached the point of no return when his movements caused the shirt you were wearing to rise, and his fingers finally made contact with your bare skin. Your head tilted upward against his jaw as a needy moan feel from your lips as they pressed gently against his neck. Your teasing breath illiciting a hungry growl from the captain.

Time seemed to slow as he tilted his head down and gazed into your eyes. Seeming to seek confirmation that this wasn't in his head or that you weren't just drunk beyond all reason. The haze of lust in your eyes pushed him to place his lips softly over yours. It was comforting and sweet, and oh so different from the way Stephen used to kiss you.

That was the reason why you deepened the kiss. Letting your tongue lick across Steve's lips until he reflexively thrust his tongue into your mouth. For the first time since Stephen left, you weren't thinking about how his touch or his kiss used to feel. How much you missed everything about him. You were relishing in the unfamiliar. You stopped thinking and let yourself be taken.

Pulling Steve's large form on top of yours and spreading your legs so he could slot his hips between them. Arching your body up into his at the way his weight felt on top of you. It felt so good. You couldn't stop yourself from wrapping your legs around his legs and dragging your fingernails down his back until you got to his ass. Digging your fingers into his flesh and pulling his pelvis to grind against you.

The feel of his bulge grinding against you making you hungrier for him. You quickly reached up and moved to pull your shirt off. Finally getting your first good look at Steve's face after throwing your shirt to the side. Strands of his dark blonde hair falling forward into his now clouded blue eyes. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips swollen.

"God, you look so beautiful. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about this. I like being with you. Are you sure you want this? I don't want to pressure you."

It was sweet, and you were very happy that Steve cared about your feelings and your wants. You liked being with him, too. Right now, though, you didn't want to think. You just wanted to feel. You desperately wanted to feel something good. If that good feeling was having Captain America pound you stupid on the hood of his car, then so be it. You would deal with the consequences afterward.

You quickly began unbuttoning his shirt as you spoke. Looking into his pretty blue eyes only for a moment before focusing again in the expanse of his bare chest coming into view. All smooth skin and a few freckles against thick muscle.

"Just don't talk, Steve, just touch me, please. I just need you to touch me and kiss me. Okay? Right now, I just need you to take off your pants. Talk later."

He hesitated for a minute, then gave in. Nodding quickly and whispering, "Okay. Okay." Moving to unbutton and unzip his own jeans before moving over to yours as you pushed his shirt back off of his strong shoulders. Dragging your nails back down his newly bare chest before reaching back and bracing yourself on the cool metal of the car hood to help him lift your hips so he could shimmy your own pants down.

The heat of Steve's gaze ratcheting up even more now that you were down to just your bra and panties. You didn't feel self-conscious or focus on the flaws you always saw in the mirror. For the first time since Stephen, you felt beautiful in someone else's eyes. Steve was seeing you bor just as a mother. Not just as a friend, but as a woman.

Steve descended back on you with the same hunger you showed him. Quickly tearing apart the rest of your clothing and exposing your most intimate places. His eyes darkened and a deep groan came from his chest. Before either of you could speak you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him down to kiss you. Both of you letting yourself succumb to your desires.

Your hands slowly moved to his hips, catching both his jeans and his boxer briefs and pushing them down in one go. Finally feeling Steve completely bare against you. Skin on skin. The weight of his big thick cock sliding against your wet cunt making you needy.

You needed to feel him inside you. Needed to feel that delicious stretch. His fingers toying with your nipples already had you starting to tingle. It had been so long, and you didn't realize how much you missed being touched and kissed. How much you missed the feeling of being well fucked.

That's exactly what Steve Rogers made sure you were that night. Not stopping until he had made you cum at least 3 times before you went home to the compound. Of course you were so sensitive that he had you cumming with his first full thrust into you.

By the time the sun was starting to rise, you and Steve had been at it for hours before finally succumbing to a few hours of sleep in each other's arms. Your alarm, thankfully, making sure you still woke up before Vincent. Until you figured out whether this was a one-time thing you didn't want to get him involved. As far as he needed to know, Uncle Steve was still just Uncle Steve.

However, by the time the next evening rolled around, after showing Vincent all the photos and things you had picked up from the Sanctum, you hated yourself for what you had done. Even if he was gone, you still felt like you betrayed Stephen. So why did you want to do it again if you felt so terrible? Why was it all you could think of that night when you tried to sleep? Or what you found yourself daydreaming about it the shower?

You still loved Stephen with all of your heart and would give anything to have him back, but Steve had reawakened a part of you thought had died with Stephen. Up until that day, you had never even fantasized about anyone else. Just Stephen. It had been years since the blip. You had been pregnant when you lost Stephen. Now you had a dark-haired little toddler running around. He adored his Auntie Nat and Uncle Steve. He was happy even if he didn't have his real father.

You wanted him to have a fully rounded life, and now that he was almost 5, it wouldn't hurt for him to have a father figure. To see his mother happy and loved. There would never be another Stephen, but maybe you could be happy with Steve. Stephen would want you to be happy, right? Maybe you could be a little family unit together. Even though your whole heart could never belong to Steve, you could give him part of it. Maybe that was all you could ask for.

You found yourself confiding in Nat. Needing to share the guilt you felt and hear everything you were thinking said out loud. Of course, you would take into account whatever advice she had to offer, but it was more that you desperately needed to share the thoughts that were eating at you.

After spilling everything, you noticed her face was unchanged. Your brows furrowed as you saw the mischievous glint in her eyes and her biting at her bottom lip to keep from smiling. As you figured out exactly why she was holding back a grin, you buried your face in your hands.

"Ugh… Steve already told you we slept together, didn't he?"

A snort came from the redhead, well half redhead half blonde. Already confirming your suspicions.

"I caught him sneaking out of your bedroom the other day, and you know how terrible he is at lying. It wasn't exactly hard to connect the dots."

Her smile faded when she saw the tears forming in your eyes. She came over to where you were sitting and pulled you into a tight hug. Starting to rock you back and forth when she heard your soft cries.

"I know how much you still love Stephen, and so does Steve. He's not expecting you to just forget about him. He knows how important he was to you. Stephen knew how much you loved him, and he would want you to feel love even without him. For yourself just as much as for Vincent. He wouldn't have sacrificed himself if he didn't. We all lost people, and we are all still hurting, but you deserve good things in your life. You deserve to feel happy and even find love again. Whether or not that is with Steve is between the two of you. You can't keep punishing yourself for what happened. None of us can. Maybe we all just need to finally move on. "

You both sat in silence, holding each other close. Thanking the powers that be that even after losing the love of your life, you had found a best friend to help keep you sane. Both of you slowly sinking to the edge of sleep, drifting between the present world and the dreamworld where Stephen still visited you. Only for you to be snapped awake by the sound of knocking and a vaguely familiar voice.

You cracked one eye open and found the security camera for the front door to be the cause of the disturbance. What you saw made your heart jump into your throat. Sticking his face right up into the camera was a man you knew only from his picture, the one that was displayed on the same board as Stephen's after the snap. It was the face of Scott Lang, who had supposedly been blipped 5 years ago along with the others.

Without looking away from the screen you shook Nat awake. Sure that if you looked away from the screen he would disappear, either as a figment of your own imagination or a hallucination. You couldn't even form words to communicate properly until Nat realized what you were seeing.

"Oh my god! Is that… Scott?"

"Nat, is that live? That's not video, right? How is that real?"

She bolted up from the couch and over to the monitors. Double checking the feed to make sure it was, in fact, live and that everything checked out. Making sure she followed all safety protocols before opening the door.

"I have no idea, but go get Steve, and you may want to put some coffee on. If this is real, it's gonna be a long night."

--------------------------------

Vincent loved having Scott there, and Scott was great with him. Showing him all sorts of card tricks and close-up magic. He was almost more goofy, big brother than anything. Even as the rest of the group started to trickle back into the compound, brought back together by Scott's time heist plan, Scott was still the cool one. With the exception of Rocket, because even close-up magic can't beat talking raccoon.

You listened from the dining area at your son and his new friends gathered in the living room. All eyes on the toddler as he colored. Various coloring books and crayons scattered on the table being used by Scott, Rocket, Bruce, and Nebula. You and Steve were busy setting out plates and silverware while Nat and Clint had begun retrieving enough take out food to feed an army. Thor was asleep on the couch.

"Mommy says my daddy could do magic. He's not here to show me though, he disappeared with lots of other people. Maybe you and my uncle Wong could teach me how to do magic, and I can bring them all back? Then mommy won't be sad anymore."

You could see Scott glance at you over Vincent's shoulder. Trying not to draw attention to the fact that he knew you were listening. The tears quickly blurred your vision before you moved to wipe them away. Scott didn't want to overstep his boundaries, not having known you or Vincent very long, but he knew he needed to say something to comfort the boy. He continued before Scott could say anything.

"I know mommy has me and Auntie Nat and Uncle Steve. She says her and Uncle Steve are special friends now, and sometimes he stays with her at night, but I know she still misses Daddy. Sometimes at night I hear her crying and it makes me sad that she's sad. I want to help make her feel better. Plus, I wanna meet Daddy. He sounds really cool."

Well now that your son had outed you and Steve to all of the other Avengers in the room. You felt very much on display, like an exposed raw nerve. No one wanting to make eye contact with you except Steve and Nat. All feeling a little guilty at having left you knowing now that you still cried yourself to sleep most nights, at least the ones you weren't taking solace in Captain America's arms.

From the living room once more, you catch Scott trying to communicate silently with you. After some eyebrow wiggles and hand gestures, you figured out he wants to tell Vincent about the time heist plan. You assume not everything as Vincent is only 4, but just the fact that they have a plan to try. You figure what the hell, he's bound to notice all the commotion starting around the compoundanyways.

Maybe it would be best to tell him, especially since it had already been decided the two of you would go to the Sanctum while the heist and ensuing fight was happening. It would be the safest place physically for you to be. Even if mentally, you weren't so sure. If it worked and Stephen did come back, you would have a lot less to explain. If it didn't work though, would your son's heart be broken just like yours? You weren't sure you could handle that.

After a few more seconds of thinking, you give Scott a little nod. Giving him the go-ahead to share the plan with Vincent. Who is he gonna tell anyway?

"Can you keep a secret? It's an Avengers only secret. So if I tell you it means you're an official Avenger, okay? We have a plan to try and bring everyone back, but we need someone to make sure your mom stays safe while we do. So maybe we can put you in charge of protecting your mom for us? Nat says she's always getting into trouble, and we have to make sure to keep her safe for your dad. Plus, I wanna meet your dad too. He does sound cool. If he's anything like you, then he'll be really cool."

"I've met him. Not that cool. Right Banner? Now, what's this you were saying about your mom and uncle Steve?"

Tony Stark was always one to make an entrance, Rhodey not far behind him, and ultimately you were happy to have his sarcasm change the energy in the room back to a more playful one. Tony tilted his sunglasses down and gave your son a little 6 show him he was teasing. The same look he always gave Steve when he was giving him shit, which he had managed to do oh so quickly. Your son's giggle breaking the tense air around you as Tony clutched his chest and exaggeratedly gasped at the scandalous reveal.

You had to laugh at the way Steve rolled his eyes. You knew he wasn't one to kiss and tell, let alone when you were still another man's wife. Even if that other man had been blipped years ago by a mad titan. You weren't officially a thing, but you weren't not a thing either. Truthfully, you both had yet to figure out exactly what you were for each other.

You were surprised when you felt a hand on your shoulder and looked ovet to see Clint. A shell of who he had been. Deep black circles under his eyes, a mohawk, and a plethora of new tattoos. Having lost his wife and his kids you knew he had struggled to make it this far. He offered you a tight lipped half smile. A smile that said I know your pain, and in the case you knew that he really did know.

"I know it's not exactly the same, but speaking as someone who also lost a spouse you still seem to handling it much better than me. I know everyone lost people, but you really got a raw deal. You're doing a great job, mom."

You hadn't realized Nebula had left the living room until she chimed in as well. Her monotone voice doing nothing to hide her feelings as she spoke.

"He is right. You are a good mother. Even if his father is dead. He is happy and loved. That's all I ever wanted… to be loved."

You knew she meant it nicer than it sounded. She was just very blunt. You wanted to say something back to her. To tell her that she is loved. You wanted to hug her, but knew that probably wasn't the best thing. Instead settling for reaching out to put your hand on hers as she went to grab a plate. Her breath hitching and her body jumping lightly at even that friendly gesture.

You squeezed her hand in yours and gave her a little smile and a nod whispering a silent thank you. Letting go before she had the chance to return the nod, not wanting to pressure her into responding further. Your smile growing when a soft "You are welcome" fell from her lips. Excusing yourself so you could go get Vincent as well as wake up Thor, and she could start plating her food.

After everyone got their food and the plotting of how and where to find all the infinity stones began, you and Vincent began planning for your own adventure. Packing all that you would need for an extended stay at the Sanctum. Making sure you had everything important accounted for. The time heist and potential following battle could go any number of ways, you and Vincent had to be prepared for anything. No matter what happened.

So you packed your belongings and started the process of moving yourselves back to the place that for years had been your home. The Sanctum Sanctorum. Now, it just felt haunted and empty. Moving yourself and Vincent into new bedrooms and not daring to even open the door to the master bedroom you and Stephen once shared.

Vincent was enjoying helping build the time machine however he could. Even just carrying tools or supervising. The time passed quicker than you would have hoped, and before long, the big day was staring down at you. Wong had made sure you were all settled in by then.

You and Steve had spent what, if all went according to plan, would be your final night together. He promised you that they would succeed, whatever it took. They would set the world right. That they would do it for you and for Vincent.

It would be your job to throw the switches and start the time machine that would scatter the Avengers throughout time and across all corners of the universe. Then Wong would take you and Vincent to the Sanctum before leaving to gather the forces of the Kamar-Taj and the other Sanctums.

One by one all of them gave Vincent a high five, a fist bump, or a hug as they climbed up onto the platform. Nat was the last one up, other than Bruce who checked all the settings one last time.

You noticed an odd look in her eyes as she hugged you so tight you could hardly breathe. From the corner of your eye, you saw her slip two sealed envelopes into Vincent's Captain America backpack. Kneeling down at eye level and making him promise to keep you safe. Telling him how proud she was of him before kissing the top of his head and joining the others.

After Steve finished his signature Captain America speech, you told Vincent to go stand back on the other side of the room with Wong. To make sure if anything went wrong, he would be protected. Starting your countdown once he was at a safe distance.

"Three… two… one… God speed."

As soon as the shockwave had cleared and all of them had disappeared, you checked the machine's settings against the paper Bruce and Scott had given you. Making sure everything looked stable and the platform was ready for their return. Starting the countdown clock ticking. It should only be five minutes in your time before they all returned.

Wong had already opened the portal to the Sanctum and sent Vincent through as you looked around at the Avengers compound one more time. On some level you knew that it was the last time you would see it. You didn't know what was coming next, but you knew there was no turning back now.

And so you stepped through the gold glimmering portal into the grand foyer of the Sanctum Sanctorum. Once again your home. For better or for worse. Giving Wong a hug and a thank you before sending him off to ready the other sorcerers for battle.

For now, your job was just to take care of your son. The only job you had really cared about for the last five years. Taking his small hand in yours and leading him into the dining room. While the others searched for the stones that could bring your husband back, dinner was the top priority on your list. For Vincent, you had to keep up a semblance of normalcy, even if every fiber in your body felt like it wanted to go hide under the bed.

All you could do was wait and hope…

--------------------------------

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smolmousepotato · 2 months

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Fluff, dreamcore?, Jing Yuan x reader, cringe yeh

(Music for sum good mood if you'd like)

————☆————

"I know you, I've walked with you once upon a dream..."

"I know you, that look in your eyes is so familliar a gleam"

The melody of dreams sings its song of ardor the moment their eyes meet. The feeling of having met one another somewhere brought a fleeting sense of déjà vu to strike their hearts. And their memories roam.

A prince whose hair was the color of white with a tint of ash, and a nameless whose mysteriousness entices everyone she meets. His golden gaze met hers and his soul was already lost in them.

It drove him to step forth, take her hand, and guide her into a dance of newfound thrives to life. The gentle sways and hurls soon led to a stop, where he caressed her cheek with wonders in his eyes.

Her identity, masked by the masquerade mask that contributed one to many of the others who were there on that summer's night. He couldn't track down who she was nor admire her beauty to the fullest.

He could only hold her briefly as they glided across the dancefloor under the many gazes of the nobles there. His loss, he considered.

But the moment of the present that has them both engulfed in, is the absolute, pure bliss that he felt, be it he knew her or he did not. He can see her now, in her truest self in this reality.

The reality where he's a general, and she's a visitor.

Xianzhou Luofu.

"General Jing Yuan," he can hear her clearly and can sculpt that figure into the back of his mind, "I... thought I had met you somewhere."

"Perhaps." Quietly, he responds. Indeed, she is just as breathtaking as she was in his dream. What a pleasant day this has become.

But his calm demeanor never wavered throughout their exchange. He maintained a professional and formal façade in front of the nameless from his dream. A difficult one to keep up.

And so he risks it, with an offer for a stroll around town. He doesn't expect her to agree.

However, with a nod, she shocked him greatly. With a smile that speaks up his joy, he offers her his hand.

"Shall we?"

The cool breeze of the evening softly touches and runs through his hair as they walk side-by-side. With each step, his burden drops gradually until it's reduced to none. It's almost a blessing for him to have this much tranquility once in a while. He looks down at her, who seems to be staring.

"I can see," he chuckles, "you're enjoying the nightly view of the Exalting Sanctum... or?"

"It's excellent... the view... but it's also statuesque, the center of it..." Her eyes squint a little, like an artist when they depict the basic shape of objects.

"Is it?" He laughs, "I never thought someone would rate the 'center' of a mere image of the Exalting Sanctum so highly."

"Really? Now there is," she mumbles, "start believing then."

He only chuckles. A low rumbling of relief and a refreshed mind, free from the shackles of responsibility that tied a general to his place.

"I know you," he starts humming a melody from the dreams, the unknown reverie where he first met her, "I've walked with you once upon a dream."

The deafening silence that follows churns up a feeling akin to anxiety; a little void in his heart.

"I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam."

He is surprised by a fleeting moment before a genuine smile blooms on his lips. She recognizes him, the prince from her dream.

Reality feels like a reverie, now that they meet and end up staring.

"And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem"

For it's almost fictitious, meeting the one whom you fell for from your dreams. Hand in hand, they almost danced. The glint in his eyes speaks drunkenness, and she finds the shade of golden there almost divine.

"But if I know you, I know what you'll do"

She's almost breathless, the way his gaze takes her breath away. The cool breeze and the scenarios aren't as beautiful as she once observed them, but the man before her...

"You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream"

He takes her breath, and her soul away, with just a gaze and a fleeting moment of a kiss.

The wholesome feeling of a pleasant dream come true is something to be appreciated, especially one that brings two souls together.

#jing yuan #general jing yuan #honkai star rail #jing yuan x reader #fluff #dream #disney #sleeping beauty #hsr #jing yuan honkai star rail #jing yuan hsr #Spotify #fyp

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soulofapatrick · 6 months

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Enchanted Pages - Jameson Hawthorne x Reader

Summary: Jameson joins you in the Hawthorne estate library

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: none

Notes: I hope the anon requesting Jameson likes this! It was fun to write!!

Y/N's POV

The Hawthorne mansion library is a sanctum of wisdom, a hallowed ground where the scent of aged paper and the soft whisper of turning pages permeate the air. The room is vast, its shelves towering like ancient sentinels guarding the knowledge within. The mahogany bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling, each shelf adorned with leather-bound tomes that seem to hold the secrets of centuries.

I sit settled in a plush armchair, my fingers delicately tracing the embossed spine of a weathered classic. The soft glow of antique lamps casts a warm hue on the room, highlighting the ornate patterns of the Persian rug beneath my feet. The crackling fire in the hearth adds a touch of comfort, its flickering dance a silent companion to the tales contained in the countless volumes that surround me.

My gaze sweeps over the library, absorbing the grandeur of literature that spans genres and eras. Shakespeare stands shoulder to shoulder with Austen, while the poetry of Frost beckons from a distant corner. History whispers from dusty tomes, and the works of philosophers, both ancient and modern, share space on these sacred shelves.

The sheer magnitude of knowledge captivates me, and a sense of awe settles in my chest. Here, in this haven of words, I feel a connection to the countless souls who sought solace, inspiration, and escape within the pages of these books. It's as if each volume holds the echo of the minds that once dared to dream, to question, to imagine.

I had choosen a book at random, its spine cracked but well-loved. As I open its pages, the scent of history mingles with the musky perfume of aged paper. The words transport me to another world, a realm where time is fluid, and reality is shaped by the strokes of a writer's pen.

Before I can really get into it, the rhythmic click of polished shoes on the library's hardwood floor interrupts the quiet symphony of the written word. A familiar scent wafts towards me, a subtle blend of cedarwood and a trace of old books—Jameson's unmistakable fragrance. Without looking up, I feel the magnetic pull of his presence drawing near. The rustle of pages and the soft creak of the chair next to me signal his arrival. Jameson, with his tall and lean silhouette, leans against the bookshelf. His dark eyes, reflecting the wisdom accumulated through countless narratives, are fixed on the pages before me.

”Finding solace in the tales of the past?" he inquires, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His voice, a velvety timbre, resonates with the same richness as the literary treasures that surround us.

I glance up, meeting his gaze, and invite him to join me with a nod. Jameson gracefully moves to the arm of my chair, a place that feels both familiar and intimate. His fingers, cool and elegant, find a stray strand of my hair, wrapping it around his digits absentmindedly. It's a subtle gesture, one that transcends the boundaries of mere physical touch. Each twirl of my hair seems to weave a connection between us, binding us in a shared moment within the tapestry of the library.

As he sits beside me, the warmth of his presence envelops like the embrace of a well-told story. The characters in the book come to life, their struggles and triumphs mirrored in the unspoken understanding between Jameson and me. The juxtaposition of the fictional world and the reality of his touch creates a beautiful paradox—a seamless blend of imagination and tangible connection.

Jameson's fingers, light as a whisper, move to ghost over my cheek. A shiver courses through me, a response to the delicate caress that seems to bridge the gap between fiction and reality. The characters in the book, once mere ink on paper, now witness a narrative unfolding before them—the story of two souls drawn together by the invisible threads of connection. His touch deepens, his fingers hooking under my chin with a gentle insistence that demands my attention. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he lifts my gaze, and suddenly, I find myself ensnared by his eyes—dark, fathomless pools of green that hold the weight of a thousand stories. Time seems to stretch, and the distance between our faces becomes negligible.

My breath hitches, caught in the delicate dance of anticipation. The paradox of our connection intensifies—the very real presence of Jameson Hawthorne and the fictional worlds we explore converge in this suspended moment. In his eyes, I see reflections of characters who have loved, lost, and found redemption, mirroring the silent tale unfolding between us.

As our faces draw closer, the boundary between reader and character blurs, and I become a protagonist in a story that transcends the pages of the books that surround us. The library, once a haven of literature, transforms into a stage where the chapters of our own narrative unfold.

In the charged atmosphere of the transformed library, Jameson's voice, low and laden with an emotion I can't quite decipher, breaks the silence. "You don't know what you do to me," he confesses, his words hanging between us like a promise written in invisible ink. His fingers, delicately holding my chin, tighten ever so slightly, an anchor in this moment. In the depth of those fathomless green eyes, I sense vulnerability, a rare glimpse of the man behind the enigmatic exterior.

The anticipation lingers, and then, with a tenderness that defies the rough edges of his life, Jameson leans in. His lips brush against mine, a touch so gentle it's as if he's unraveling the layers of his guarded self. The kiss is a revelation, a tapestry of emotions woven with threads of longing and a touch of sweetness that catches me off guard.

I taste the rich complexity of him, a blend of desire and restraint, as if every stolen moment has led to this, a communion of souls beneath the watchful gaze of literary giants. His kiss tells a story—a story of passion restrained, of emotions laid bare in the quiet expanse of a library transformed into a stage for our intimate narrative.

As our lips continue their passionate dance, each touch becomes a stanza in a poem of desire. The flame ignited by our connection dances through the chambers of my heart, casting a warm glow that reverberates through every beat. In this stolen moment, I become a keeper of Jameson's story, feeling the weight of the untold chapters that reside in the recesses of his being. The dance of tongues is a language of its own, a symphony of whispers and sighs that transcends the limitations of words. In the quiet library, our connection becomes a narrative, written not in ink but in the shared breaths and lingering echoes of our kisses.

Then, with a tantalising slowness, Jameson pulls away. The separation is a breathless pause, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of a blush colouring his cheeks—a rare vulnerability that adds another layer to the enigma that is Jameson Hawthorne. His eyes, still reflecting the fire of our shared passion, hold a depth that defies easy explanation.

A tender smile curves his lips as he leans down to kiss the crown of my head. His lips press into my hair, a silent promise and a gesture that speaks volumes. The library, once a stage for the intensity of desire, now becomes a sanctuary of shared intimacy.

He settles back next to me, the warmth of his presence a comforting embrace. A smile lingers on his lips as he presses them into my hair, and I feel the echo of our shared moment lingering in the air like the fading notes of a beautiful melody. The pages of the book in my hands wait patiently, as if knowing that our own narrative has become a story worth telling—a love story written in the quiet corners of a library that has witnessed the blending of passion, literature, and the tender moments that make life extraordinary.

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

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The Inheritance Games Masterlist

#the inheritance games #the inheritance games x reader #the inheritance games x you #inheritance games x y/n #the inheritance games fluff #the inheritance games smut #the inheritance games angst #jameson hawthorne #Jameson hawthorne x you #Jameson hawthorne x y/n #Jameson hawthorne x reader #Jameson hawthorne smut #Jameson hawthorne fluff #Jameson hawthorne angst

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