#;withered pages [drabble]

[softagenda]

pillow talk (multi)

rating: m+

drabble collection: moments with each LI in the sheets, told through intimate and vaguely sinister drabbles

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

You stared into the smoldering fire by the bed, amidst the sumptuous blankets and furs, from the prison of his arms, suddenly cold.

Leander

“And how does the magic happen,” you teased, now languorous and slightly drunk, your body aching pleasantly and cheek pressed to his bare chest.

“Give and take, beautiful.” His hand stroked along your back, tracing a swirling, winding pattern.The rings on his fingers brushed a cool kiss against your skin. “Sometimes, it’s a small thing: a free drink here, a favor there. For others, well… every debt must be repaid in equal measure.”

A handful of free drinks. A room at the inn. 

Information, knowledge of the city, a personal guide. 

Minutes - an hour now, altogether - holding your hand, resisting an ancient curse, a risk of incalculable value.

You stared into the smoldering fire by the bed, amidst the sumptuous blankets and furs, from the prison of his arms, suddenly cold. 

The tip of a finger dipped in the valley of your spine and drew a line up your back. As though he felt the slight stiffening of your body, his hand settled against the nape of your neck, his palm a hot, firm weight holding you to him. His thumb sat below your jaw, stopping over your pulse.

Leander rested his cheek against your head and pressed a kiss to your hair, the words drifting across your ear like the mist enshrouding the city.  “The only truth of this universe is this: nothing is free.”

_______________________________________

Kuras

Candlelight brought you from the shadows of your doze.

Blurrily, you nuzzled closer to the firm pillow by your face when the familiar scent of  magnolia - sweet, slightly citrus, earthy - filtered through your senses, alerting you like smoke in a barn.

Your eyes opened. 

The pillow was, in fact, a thick, muscled thigh covered in a layer of white cotton trousers. Following the leg upward, you took in the sight of Kuras in the dim,  flickering light of a single candle by the bedside. He held a book in his lap, one hand idly turning a withered page. A thin trail of smoke drifted into the dark beyond his shoulder.

Gold eyes met yours after a moment. Even in the deep night, they glowed brighter than the flame at his hip. 

He smiled indulgently. “Dawn will not break for  a few hours more. Sleep.” 

You stared at that smile, blinking heavily, clinging to wakefulness for just a little longer. A thought nudged at the fuzzy edges of your mind at the smile, the eyes - a thread of disquiet amidst the warm cocoon of blankets and his body.

Kuras lifted one hand and turned to the bedside table. A thin stick passed through the flame, the smoke blooming like petals from the stem, before magnolias perfumed into the air once more. 

As the scent wrapped around you, filled your lungs, soothed the voice at the back of your mind, a large hand cupped your cheek. His thumb caressed the corner of your eye before coaxing the lid shut and lingering there, gently holding.

“Sleep. I am here with you. I will watch over you.”

You slipped back into the night.

________________________________________

Ais

The soft bubbling of water woke you.

Your hand sleepily tugged the kimono over the bared edge of your shoulder. You’re curled into a ball beneath the thin fabric, legs fully tucked under the hem, hands curled against your chest, a tortoise sheltering from the cool, humid air drifting from the water’s edge.

Peering through the folds, you stared at the empty sheets next to your eyes adjusted to the night. Then, turning on your other side, you looked for him.

Glowing red eyes caught yours instantly.

He leaned against the open door. Moonlight painted his chest and shoulders pale silver, glinting sharp on the necklace that hung by his navel, his rings, his horns. A cigarette lingered by his mouth. As he drew another puff, embers burned and flared at the end.

“Want a hit?”

You sighed and rolled over on the bed, cheek pressed to the cold sheets. “No. Could use a drink though.” Your mouth felt dry, your belly hollow.

Ais held your gaze for a moment before releasing the smoke in a soft grin. He flicked the cigarette outside the door and strode over, bare feet silent on the creaking wood of the old pier.

At the edge sat a chalice. With two fingers, he hooked the rim, knelt by the red waters, and dipped it beneath the Seaspring.

The chalice full to the brim, spilling over his fingers, Ais took a seat on the bed and braced his arm over you. Several drops fell to the sheets; they wicked into the fabric, not fading to a blush but thickening like blood.

You glanced up from the stain to his face cast in shadow, the red gleam of his eyes thickening too, swallowing up his pupil..

“Drink up, sparrow.”

_____________________________________________

Vere

A claw traced delicately over the crown of your head before sinking into the length of your hair. He stroked as though petting a cat - idly, indulgently, reclined against the mountain of pillows on his bed and curled above you with his chin braced on his palm and bent elbow.

You laid there on the sheets, sweaty and panting, every nerve in your body vibrating, aching with the ghost of pleasure and pain. A sickly feeling sapped the strength from your body. The gold veins across your hands and arms felt hollow as scorched earth.

“Can’t catch a breath?” His voice curled with smug satisfaction, the smirk evident without needing to see for yourself.  “All that muscle and misery, with the stamina of a virgin.”

Craning your head back, you glared at Vere through the messy fringe of hair sticking to your face. His claws pricked the nape of your neck. You arched your back away from the bright points of pain and heat.

“Soon, I’ll have you trained to my tastes,” he mused, his gaze trailing down your bare body. “Enough to sate me, at the very least. It’d be troublesome to have you burn out too fast.” 

Fur brushed against your thighs and stomach. His thick, russet tail flowed over your body in a fiery river, the soft pelt tickling over your skin. Heat radiated from it, the ancient magic humming in his veins, less volatile now that he’d taken the edge off.

After one last teasing prick of claw, Vere reached down and lifted the length of chain pooled on the sheets. He slipped the end around your neck and pulled through. 

Then, with a rumbling sigh, he leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “Wake me up before noon, and you’re lunch.”

With a flick of his hand, the candles extinguished. 

You stare at the dark ceiling, cold steel brushing your throat with every breath.

______________________________________

Mhin

A chill settled over your skin, casting your dreams in shades of winter. Goosebumps rolled down your arms in a wave. Subtle, heavy breaths disturbed the peace of the night.

Your eyes shot open.

The window gaped open. An autumn breeze stole inside, undulating against the curtains. Clear moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating the toe of a boot and a pool of blood. A ghostly figure sat beneath the sil.

Heart pounding, you held still, squinting through your lashes, trying to see the face hiding within shadow.

Thick leather pants and bracers. Flowing white shirt. Midnight blue hood, hooked to the collar with silver rings. The light caught the edges of messy hair beneath the hood, shining in the gloom like frost across a frozen pond.

Your hand released its taught grip on the dagger beneath your pillow.

Wrapping the blankets around your body, you sat up and leaned across the mattress. “.... Mhin?”

White eyes with red pupils appeared within the shadowed face. 

You shuffled to the edge of the bed. Glancing at the blood, you asked, “are you injured?”

After a quiet moment, they slowly shook their head. Mhin folded one leg and braced their arm on their knee. In their hand was a silver dagger, twin to the one you’d hidden beneath your pillow. Fresh blood licked the edge of the blade.

“Are the bodies on the roof or the street?”

Finally, a spark appeared in their eyes. “Strung them up like gargoyles.” 

You huffed a laugh. Fresh corpses lured Soulless like flies to honey. They’d never. “How thoughtful of you to help decorate for Leander’s party tomorrow.”

Mhin shot you a weary look that clearly spelled the fuck do you think, before their head dropped back on the wall with a soft thud. The bruises beneath their eyes were dark as plums. They’d never slept soundly, but since the attacks had started, a few good hours had dwindled into a half hour here and there at best.

You considered chiding them for a moment before sighing and rising from the bed. Scooping the quilt from the bed, you shuffled over and dropped down to the floor next to them.

“What are you doing,” they grumbled, frowning when you leaned into Mhin’s side. 

Heedless of the blood wicking into the sheets, you spread the bedcovers across their lap and yours before gingerly resting your head on their shoulder. 

Mhin sucked in a breath. “You’re not actually going to sleep like this?” When you only closed your eyes, they growled, “Ridiculous.”

Minutes passed. Then, “I’ll shove you off the second another wave hits. You realize that, right?”

You kept silent. Beneath the sheets, you found their hand and covered the back with your palm, fingers webbing through the gaps between theirs,  hoping to warm them.

“Your back’s going to hurt like hell tomorrow.” 

Then slowly, as the night and their body next to yours filled you with a sense of safety, their grip tightened on your fingers.

A smile slipped across your mouth as you drifted off to sleep once more.

_____________________________

a/n: ending on a fluffy note - comments and likes are appreciated!

#leander x mc #leander x reader #ais x reader #ais reader fic #touchstarved fanfic #kuras x reader #kuras x mc #vere x mc #vere x reader #mhin x reader #mhin x mc #ais x mc #touchstarved imagines

[puppetmaster13u]

Even More Meat Marionette Au

But a lil drabble <3 Because my ADHD snatched this au and isn't letting go.

  There were tunnels under Gotham. 

   Everyone knew about them, even if they were rarely spoken of. There were tales about them, some whispered in hushed voices from mother to child, others creeping across withered pages stained with age. Stories of creatures, of living shadows, of men going mad, wailing about the things beneath. 

   No one went into the tunnels. 

  Not purposely at least. 

   For one Bruce Wayne, he had fallen the first time- slipped into a well after a night of rain and into those dark caves with stone as black as night and just as stained with blood as the rest of the city. 

   No one had gone down for a long time, and no one should have gone down for longer still, but the rain had made the crumbling stones slick, the child reaching just a hint too far, and so down he went, nails scrabbling against unyielding rock and blood dripping from soft skin. 

   The child did not scream, even if his terror was sweet in the air as his blood mixed with the water soaking his clothes. He did not stay, just like the others before him, but the caves remembered the sweetness of the fear he brought. 

   No one went into the tunnels, not anymore. 

   Yet the child did. 

   Oh he wasn’t a child anymore, not to humans, but to the ancient caves, he was still but an infant. He’d eventually leave, and they’d still be there. They had been there long before, and they’d be long after even when the city turned to dust in the sands of time. 

   And yet… 

  And yet. 

   Yet he kept returning, night after night and day after day, running a hand along the stone that should have chilled him to the bone. His fear was still ever so sweet in the air, even if it was lessening over the time. It was… curious. 

   There was still the scent of fear, of terror coming from the human, but it also wasn’t. It was coming from him, but it wasn’t his own fear. 

   The emotion clung to him, but it wasn’t his. It was others’ fear, others’ fear he was bringing down to the cavernous tunnels. Others’ fear he was feeding It, unknowing or not. A gift, a meal, something for It and It alone. 

   It was only polite to return the favor, to gift the little human something to fight and terrify. As much as the spilled blood pleased It, the tunnels understood that it would be far better for Its little human to stay healthy, to be able to bring blood not his own. 

   The city was always full of corpses and the tunnels stretched far longer than humans realized after all, It could reach any who fell. Purposeful deaths, accidental, it made no difference to the bloodstained stone beneath. 

   It would call to Its little human soon enough, Its gift was nearly complete after all. Something to fly without the creaking metal or suits of wires. Something new, something It hadn’t formed before. 

   After all, what use would It have for a living body? What use did flesh and stone need to move? It had been here for a long time, and It would be here longer still, but perhaps, perhaps just this once another would last past the crumbling of life and bones turning to dust. 

   A gift, from the tunnels to him. 

   For one Bruce Wayne, who had returned to them with sacrifices of flesh and blood and fear each night. For one child who had fallen and returned to the depths of the tunnels, for one child that was Its.

This is a combo of my Au & @phoenixcatch7's and you need to check out their Possessed Doll Au because it's amazing <3<3

#writing wip #meat marionette au #batman au #batman #bruce wayne #lovecraftian vibes #The tunnels under Gotham: He's just our funny lil guy <3 #Gothamites: *Screaming crying vomiting* #The tunnels: We love him <3 #Bruce: *Crying & clinging to his exposure therapy bat plush* #The tunnels: he's such an adorable lil mortal boi <3 #He's baby to them even if they're distinctly not human in their thinking #Someone turned up the heat in the house and my brain is melting or else I'd be writing from bruce's pov #about when he first gets his meat puppet body & literally wakes up in it #but it's like 80 degrees because my mom has a medical condition that is the opposite of me easily overheating :/ #Anyway have a drabble and I hope yall like it #Writing wip #wip #drabble #gotham #this is like not edited at all so it might not be clear lol

[sadderdaazee]

𐙚⋆.˚𝐀 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦; 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐅𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 ⋆.˚𐙚

lali's note!! (this drabble is cheesier than i wanted it to be so apologies in advance :p . also, reader is kinda poc, i mentioned :not explicitly: like once or twice only tho. and song recc!!)

there's something about toji that stirs his heart into your home.

something about him that caresses your fragile words with a hint of 'i love yous' and 'thank yous'.

feeling akin to sifting fingers within warm wool in withering winter.

akin to touching stars between your fingers.

you're reading a book avidly, skimming about pages with your husband laying his head by your chest. and despite his vague interest in such novels you shrug him into reciting with you, he can't help but delve himself into your imagination, reading of dialogues that make of the stories together.

of having read countless times the book 'wuthering heights', this time, toji quietlu listens to you, feeling the tips of your fingers weave a soothing rhyme to his heart.

he lays by your chest, droopy gaze finding solace in the endless words you read to him like a baby. fingers threading among his dark locks, you feel his breaths.

autumn has touched her feet among the skies, kissing every corner with quite rattles of the foreboding of winter.

"be with me always," you read, tone desperate to claw at the emotions of each syllable, "- take any form - drive me mad!" you trace your fingers by his jaw, feeling the stubble thats grown slightly, eyes dancing about his own. by now, you've memorised each dialogue of the book, as you sing it to him while you set the book aside, "only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!" he looks up at you, eyes dim from the scant lighting of your room, yet spry with such sparkles, he torches your heart with his sun. "it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!" you whisper to his chuckle.

you're selfish when it comes to feeling loved. he knows that. he is too. and if he isn't as desperate, he's far more than you.

he can't help but fall again.

in love again. so utterly, madly, carelessly, childishly in love again.

so helplessly, recklessly, selfishly, as he pulls your lips to his.

then, for a moment, he stays still. takes in your scent, memorizes your warmth kissing against his own. for a moment, he feels your heart beat in sync with his. he's falling by your side.

"jiji," you whisper, laying cheek to cheek with him as he mushes into your affection.

"hey," he replies, turning his head to kiss you on your cheek.

"what do you want for dinner?" you turn to him, that your lips are lingering perilously away from his.

"let me take you out tonight," he whispers, mingling his lips to your own in a form of peck.

"we're tight on money this month, honey," you peck him once more, an impish smile flairing by your cheeks.

"don't worry about the budget tonight," he pecks your lips, like periods to his replies.

"you gave up on gambling, you're finally earning loyally," you peck, "don't–"

"what's the point of earning, if i can't let you rest for a while." he doesn't peck, and for a moment, you almost frown. but he pulls your lips in an indulgent kiss.

you're taken with a sprinkle of shock, but you give in anyway. tasting his lips, his breath, everything that makes of him.

he has to lift you away from him, to dive into your sultry gaze and swim away from everything he's ever become.

"i love you," you must've whispered.

"i love you too," he must've replied.

then he slips away from the bed, gently as your eyes trail him. he takes one of his shirts out and green cargos, and avidly, you watch him in scrutiny. next, he moves to your closet, a small almirah containing your clothes.

he has to peek for a moment, deciding what you'd look good in today. and a meek dress hand sewn by you catches his eye.

its flowy, like the smiles you cannot contain that draw by your lips.

he's so ridiculously brawny, that when he takes your dress into his palsmy, it looks so tiny, despite it being not.

with that, you two get ready.

the food was delicious.

albiet not as fancy and extravagant as toji would've loved it to be for you, it was homely.

you and him hold hands, his awfully big hands grasping onto your own, making your palm feel so dainty against his. (no, you're not dainty, he's just too brawny)

the skies have a coat of woolen gray clouds that hug away the stars. not a single speck of starlight or moonlight slips through them, but its oddly comforting.

the concrete under your sandals is damp, air a little misty from the vague invitation of rain.

"i'm so full," you pat your belly playfully, and toji has to bite away the stupid grin that urges to form by his lips.

and then, when you're around a more secluded part of the road, where the flickering streetlights don't kiss away the dark, toji holds you by your waist.

you chuckle away the fluster heating beneath your skin. and through your chuckle, the clouds dance away.

a glint of moonlight falls against your skin, giving it just the right bronze glimmer that toji can never get enough of.

"you're shivering," he breathes.

"not. i'm jus' really happy right now." a grin. you tend to the shiver that has rattled it's home within your happiness in the form of adrenaline. he kisses you, kisses you again.

and as you pull away, twirling around, holding his hand as the road falls quiet of its crowd, you feel him smile.

one you've memorised countless times till you no longer have to look at him to know about the crease pulling by the corner of his lips.

he holds you by your waist, moulding himself into your impish shenanigans. the way you hold his hands, twirl around again as if dancing to the sky.

a frosty drop of water clinks against your eyes making you flinch, sliding away from your skin as if melting cocoa.

"it's raining!" you laugh.

you're taken by surprise, but you indulge within the feeling anyway.

he has to take a moment to settle your sight into his mind in such a way that it becomes a tattoo to his brain.

the rain falls, and falls again till you and your husband are drowned within the pattering drops of water.

you look at him with squinted eyes, water trailing by the corner of your gaze. and for once, you wonder if you've ever fallen so desperately in love before. because as he grins with every wrinkle of his skin, you melt, akin to the water pouring by your skin.

and it all feels so stagnant, that you urge to never let this moment cease.

to grasp him between your fingers and selfishly dissolve into him.

he picks you up amidst your trance, and a small yelp leaves your throat, legs dangling as he spins you around in his arms.

you laugh heartily, hand perilously holding his shoulder, water flowing over the crevices of your skin. toji guffaws, finding himself syncing within your hearty laughs you splay out so vulnerably to him.

wet hair sticks to your nape, your forehead as water trails across your body, sputtering every drop from you and wringing it out to the road.

"you'll catch a cold," he yells amidst his pointless laughs that dissolves to a grin again, putting you down on the road. amidst the heavy rain, red lights from someones approaching car scatter through the drops.

and in an immediate motion, toji grabs you by your waist and pulls you back, till your hitting his chest and adrenaline is running across your veins.

through all of this, when you listen to the thunder brawling beneath toji's ribs, you're reminded that despite any showers of cold, he'd still melt away your winters.

he sighs, grin still there like a mark of relief that he caught you in time.

you're quick to leave his side, and intriguied, he let's you hold his hand.

with an impish glint in your gaze, you jump against the nearest puddle, dirty water splashing everywhere on you as toji has to flinch away from your shenanigans.

you do it again, and again, and again, till you feel his laughs tattoo itself against your memory.

a memory you're sure you're never letting go of.

and then, he's joining you, jumping once in the puddle. yet, when he jumps, you're sure he's emptied the entire pit as the water just sways everywhere.

it makes you laugh, and it's so infectious that he has to adopt it too.

he crouches in front of you, both of your clothes pulling with the falling drops of water.

"we'll reach home faster like this." he tells you, gesturing his hand towards himself so you'd climb on. he just wants to feel your warmth against his skin.

"we'll slip and fall!" you laugh, finding your voice abd skin already drenched, yet albiet your words, you cling against his back.

with a smile, you accept his offer.

his scent is there. gripping to his skin like a memory as his brawny hands lock you close to him.

he isn't wearing any cologne, but the faint scent of his deodorant and a mix of rain fills your senses, withering your touch of reality into his grasp as you melt away.

and there he goes, laughing like a baby again.

you grip onto his damp shirt, grin tattooed against your lips as you snuggle within his skin.

he's walking-running-ish now, not fast to be called a sprint but not slow to be labled a walk. just enough for the rain to cut away from you both.

and within minutes, you're standing by your apartment's doormat, dripping profousely as toji wrings his shirt.

he turns to you, and sees you already grinning at him. so he can't help but oick you up in a bridal carry, to the laundry room as he sits you by the dryer.

"we're wet," you whisper, cheeks cold as water trails to your calves.

he says nothing, yet his nothings always say everything as his lips linger by your own.

he kisses you, a fragile peck as he takes your dress off and throws it in the dryer.

he tells you you can shower first, but you avidly shake your head.

"let's shower together," you tell him, a smile kissing your cheeks.

and he doesn't bite away the grin forming at his skin, for when you're both clean and in a drier and warmer set of pyjamas, he can't help but surrender to your comforting touch lacing by his hair, snuggling into his skin. he never liked rains, but for once, he wishes it rains again.

it's still raining outside, and toji has to look at you, if he's ever been so content with life. right now, if he believes in God, he's thanking Him.

he's sure, he'll fall in love with you even more, and sure there's no end to it.

there's something about toji, that entwines between your fingers and pets your hair till you're drifting to sleep.

something about him, that makes you feel as if home only exists into his embrace

#jujutsu kaisen #toji zenin #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk toji #domestic toji #anime #fluff #jjk fluff #rain #mellow vibes #jjk #tooth rotting fluff #feet kicking fluff #love #romance #toji #toji x you #jjk fic #toji x poc reader #toji x y/n #anime aesthetic

[siilvan]

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DlCFgMHA2YQ

It seems like Makarov writes letters to his mom to let her know what he's doing, and now I can definitely see him in Bloodsport writing to her about Petra.

sorry for the late reply anon, ily </3

i've always headcanoned that makarov's close with his mom but having it confirmed— WRITING TO HER IN BLOODSPORT TOO I'M GONNA LOSE IT, YOU ABSOLUTE GENIUS 😭😭😭

*cracks knuckles* yeah okay. i'll bite and write a wee little drabble. mama's boy makarov time.

(not indicative of future events blah blah enjoy the super cheesy fluff, they're so domestic i'm gonna throw up)

an older woman cradles an envelope between her fingers, thumb fondly running over the familiar handwriting that adorns the front of it. handwriting that used to be scribbled alongside drawings in a distant past, letters that she remembers teaching a lifetime ago. a few are slightly smudged, indicative of the sender writing hastily.

that boy, she smiles, thinking to herself. always in such a rush.

she tears open the envelope and pulls the contents out – a letter, neatly folded in half. the woman unfolds it and reads it off to herself, the edges of her mouth twitching up in a warm smile.

"dear mom,

i know it has been quite some time since my last letter. my work has kept me very busy in these recent months, unfortunately. however, i come bearing good news: do you remember that matter that concerned you so greatly? i've taken care of it.

i can make no promises on this, but i believe you will like her."

excitement courses through the woman's veins, igniting a spark that she feared would wither away into nothing more than a pile of ash.

"my volodya... he's finally found someone."

makarov breathes out a soft sigh and drags his gaze away from the computer screen, rubbing at his tired eyes before they flit across the room. the door to his office is closed, a clear sign that he does not want to be bothered, but the other person in the room betrays that message.

you're sitting on the small sofa nearby, curled up under a throw blanket – that has lived on said sofa ever since you dragged it in over a week ago – and reading a book you stole off one of his shelves, a mug of tea resting on the table next to you. as always, when he glances your way, you don't notice, too engrossed in your reading material and too concerned with letting him work undisturbed.

he wouldn't mind a disturbance every now and then, so long as it's you pulling him away from his work.

you started this... routine, about two weeks ago. every time makarov disappears into his office intent on drawing up his next plans, you appear at his door and quietly let yourself inside before grabbing a book off his shelf – dostoevsky, today – and settling in on the sofa that was hardly touched before your arrival.

he would sooner die than admitting to it, but makarov had quickly grown fond of it. he would accept, if not anticipate, your sudden appearance whenever he sequestered himself to the room, his eyes constantly lifting from his work to the door until you showed up.

a knock pulls him from his thoughts, the two of you simultaneously dragging your focuses over to the source. a soldier steps through the door after he calls them in, clutching an envelope close to his chest as his eyes flit between the commander and yourself. he quickly crosses the room and hands the envelope to makarov before silently excusing himself with a nod, sending another your way as he practically scurried out of the room.

"he seemed to be in a rush." you comment, an airy chuckle escaping you as you bookmark your page and set the book down on the table.

"they often are," makarov mutters, immediately recognizing the handwriting after tearing the envelope open. "i don't particularly enjoy people lingering where they're not welcomed."

you hum, sitting up to sip on your tea as he unfolds the letter and reads it to himself.

"my volodya,

if you weren't so far away, i would be telling you to bring her by immediately. i still remember what you told me when you were so young – you would marry when you found your equal. although the search took longer than i would have liked... i trust you've found someone who i'll love as much as i love you.

promise me this: you will treat her even more preciously than the goals you pursue."

makarov's gaze lifts from the message, finding you, cradling your mug close to your face and letting the steam gently waft up in front of you. the faint smile that sits on your expression spreads to his own for just a moment, before he's placing the letter down and chuckling to himself.

"a bit early to be thinking about that..." he mutters, inhaling and exhaling slowly. that's a promise he can keep, at least.

his voice catches your attention, earning a curious sound. "what'd you say?" you ask, his eyes meeting yours as you lean back against the cushion, facing him.

"nothing important," he says, dismissing the question. you frown, a small pout you've taken to doing whenever he fails to provide answers to your seemingly endless list of inquiries, and furrow your brow. "don't give me that look. i'll kick you out of here, too." he adds in an irritated tone – a very unconvincing one.

you respond with a single, pointed laugh. "it's not nice to lie, vladimir. admit it or not, you enjoy the company." you immediately call his bluff, crossing your arms over your chest in a confident display. the two of you enter a staring contest for a few seconds, neither willing to back down, until he concedes with a barely-there shrug. anything but full agreement would be a lie.

"just don't push your luck, lieutenant."

#promise i'm working on chap 6 <3 #but enjoy this in the meantime lol #sylph.replies #sylph.writes

[simp-ly-writes]

╰┈➤✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* please enjoy~ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Series:

What is Left by the Lakeside: Gale has ascended into godhood and it seems as though he has forgotten those closest to him in the madness of it. Here lies the outcome of it all with a conversation with Tara- his beloved companion wishing to hold all those close to the man- together. (Gale Dekarios x Reader)

(pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5) (pt.6) (complete) word count: 13,000 words (27 pages)

Short Fics/Drabbles:

Common Sense: A silly moment between the boys that the rest of the party bares witness to.

Long Form Fics:

Isn't it Obvious?: Astarion having a crush on an oblivious reader headcanons. (Astarion Ancunin x Reader)

Hide and Seek: The camp decides to play a good old fashion game of hide and seek, Tav of course is the seeker out of the group yet in which order would you find everyone and where? (BG3 Companions x Reader)

My Glance Meets Your Touch: Halsin having a touched starved, significant other reader headcanons. (Halsin x Reader)

Growing Together: Gale learns that the Dekarios clan is expecting a newest addition and his reaction was something you were not expecting to hear. Afterwards you prepare the home for the newcomer, preparing their room as your various friends throughout your adventures send their gifts and merry-wishes to you both. (Gale Dekarios x Reader)

Miscellaneous:

Gale Sending a Projected-Self

Zookeeper!Halsin AU Headcanons

Quote from Tara in WILBTL

Sharing an Inventory

Quote from Withers in WILBTL (1)

Quote from Withers in WILBTL (2)

╰┈➤ *✧･ﾟ:* Thank you for checking in, more to come soon! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #bg3 gale #bg3 astarion #bg3 x reader #masterlist #simp-ly #simp-ly-writes

[sandsorghum]

Hollywood AU

With Oscars round the corner I wanted to explore a Movie Industry 'verse, featuring Screenplay writer Nanamin x Starlet Reader, with some messy Director Geto x Reader thrown into the mix cuz it's HOllywood so why not.

I don't have things fully fleshed out, this is only a drabble. It's just a fun little plot bunny I'm considering chasing down the rabbithole, so if you enjoy it, please leave some feedback! Thanks~

Nanami toes the line he's sketched in the sand - and you keep scuffing it. Because it is sand, not cement, as much as Nanami would like to believe that. The grains keep trickling through the hourglass, and his throat gets ever more parched around you.

He used to be able to call you to the side of a sound stage in between takes to murmur his corrections. Now he just scratches them out on a clipboard, cursing PAs and sticky notes that aren't at all adhesive.

"I miss you."

Glue floods his throat. Nanami glances at your reflection, eclipsed by a bevy of stylists coiling your locks into perfectly tight, period-accurate ringlets.

"Bunkering down in that cramped trailer, discussing stories. Have you seen Sangsoo's latest by the way?"

You catch sight of him in the mirror and smile, but someone tuts at you to "stay still". Nanami watches your lips go taut as the gloss swipes over, but he knows where to look. Sure enough, there's a matching shimmer in your gaze, locked in on his. Nanami swallows, his eyes dropping to the papers in his lap.

"Been too busy," he grunts.

"Right Now, Wrong Then remains my fav, but you should make your own assessment. I wouldn't mind seeing his new film twice. Maybe over the weekend, we could-"

"I'll be holed up with the rewrites. Studio's orders. I'm leaving your new lines here."

Nanami doesn't so much hear you sigh, as glimpse a small corner of the glass getting fogged up. He feels your stare slide from the rear view to his retreating silhouette as he turns and walks away from your pout, from the memory of a puff of air tickling his mouth.

Every day you seem more like a mirage, less an oasis.

But these are the desert dunes he's chosen to trek through, grounds ever shifting.

Framed by ink strands, jet stone irises cut across steepled ivory hands, with a gleam that renders the lamination of the page redundant.

[And would you like to address the rumours-?]

[Talent's drawn to talent. That's all.]

[The final say?]

[Your next soundbite - until another distraction from our craft comes along.]

The black and white portrait rustles, a splotch of darkness seeps over those eyes, coloured grey as the super-sized quote [DRAWN TO TALENT] is imprinted across the ravines of cheekbones and deep recesses of sockets, now thinned with text.

He's well aware of your history with Geto, the inaccuracies of the accounts on both sides, the way the two of you are the darlings of the gossip columns, as cyclical as the seasons and heroin chic coming back in vogue, appalling as it is.

"How's the fluff piece for our auteur extraordinaire? He opt for self-flagellating or self-fellating?"

So, trouble in paradise then, Nanami thinks.

He shrugs. "The box office'll be happy."

"Oh, hooraay. Praise be for the ultimate - nay, the only metric and arbiter of art."

"Nay?"

His tone is withering, but not enough to stop your belligerence from sprouting. Or spouting.

"Hey. Do you think I got where I am based on sheer luck, or looks?"

You're a few too many whiskey neats in.

"Clearly they weren't stumbling blocks," he says drily, gesturing for his refill. Normally you'd find his diplomacy coy. Now it's just tiresome.

"I expected more than this calibre of flattery from a BAFTA nominee," you sneer, fingers creeping along Nanami's taut wrist. He steadies his grip around his bourbon.

"I'm off the clock. You'll have to get your one-liners elsewhere. Union rules."

You lean in, the cloud of alcohol and your perfume shrouding Nanami.

"Such a stickler," you whisper, the taunt gusting warm and wet against his lips. Through the fog, just barely, Nanami telescopes in on the gleam of your maraschino-red mouth, the gimlet glint of your eyes.

Not chandeliers, but stalactites, the notion coalesces somehow, despite your distractions. Nanami's brain churns, scrambling for a deflective quip, only to short-circuit when he feels your other hand land on his thigh.

"You know, in these scenarios, the rulebook gets thrown out - if one even exists in the first place."

A rough palm clasps your hand, but your forehead brushes Nanami's.

"My point is, I don't give up. I always get what I want."

"Assuming you know what that is."

You freeze.

It's better this way, Nanami thinks, watching the shards twist in your eyes. There is still barely an inch between you and him, close enough for him to feel the breath and consequences you hold in the quiver of your lips. At arm's length, and a lifetime away.

At least like this, he has a front row seat to the fracturing story.

He was never meant to be the protagonist, let alone a hero.

"Are you really coming after me, or are you just trying to get away from Suguru?"

#nanami kento #nanami x you #nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #kento x reader #kento x y/n #kento x you #geto suguru x reader #geto x you #geto x reader #suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sandsorghum

[thenewblackcanvas]

20's ♡ she/they ♡ POC

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙ writing: stray kids, ateez, bts, seventeen, etc ⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

IMPORTANT: MINORS DNI ｡°⚠︎°｡ I do not want minors interacting with my content esp nsfw content. It is also NOT my responsibility to safeguard your experience. Please pay attention to warnings if you are sensitive about certain topics. This is your warning.

directory ♡︎ fic rec page ♡︎ nsfw visuals

♡♡♡

March

Stroking him while holding him pt 2 (Feb 18th) ♡

↳ Changbin, Jeongin, Hyunjin, and Minho; nsfw

January

Stroking him while holding him (Jan 16th) ♡

↳ Felix, Jisung, Seungmin, and Chan; nsfw

Big Dick!Chan and Possessive Reader (Jan 8th) ♡

↳ small drabble; nsfw

2023 • Done ♡

[depression break]

December

Poly December (All month)

↳ masterlist for all 2023 Poly December writings

November

none

October

spooky season masterlist (All month) 🎃

↳ masterlist for all 2023 Spooky Season writings

September

#3: mischievous swaying with chan (Sep 30th) ♡

↳ chan mild public play; little smutty

#2: chan being a meanie nsfw (Sep 29th) ♡

↳ mild brain rot of chan going from sweetie to meanie in bed; smutty

#1: Chan comes home from tour (Sep 29th) ♡

↳ my feelings about chan coming home; fluffy and smutty

Siren 2 (Sep 4th) ♡

↳ Seonghwa shares something special with you

Chan comfort (Sep 3rd) ♡

↳ you bring Chan home from work and you can practically hear his racing thoughts

July

7 nurses, 2 patients (July 24th) ♡

↳ you and Mingi are recovering together with the most chaotic staff of nurses: your boyfriends

April (oops)

The Innocents: 01 (Apr 26th) ♡

↳ Jimin saves two innocents caught in the crossfire; Mafia!Jimin x Yoongi x Reader (8pm est)

Felix makes three: 01 (Apr 26th) ♡

↳ The morning after the ice is broken; Chanlix x Reader (6pm est)

Bang Chan masterpost (Apr 17th) ♡

↳ just a masterlist of my Chan content because im a whore for him :)

[10:45] felix ft. jisung, changbin, and hyunjin) (Apr 15th) ♡

↳ you get impatient; nsfw

[1:56] chanlix 2am tears ; suggestive (Apr 15th) ♡

↳ a late night visitor’s tears

chan draft drabble, mildly nsfw (Apr 11th) ♡

↳ chan unknowingly insults you, felix hears things he shouldn’t

just a finale (Apr 10th) ♡

↳ the finale, pt 7 nsfw yunho drabble (thank you)

don’t shut me out(dont shut your legs) (Apr 4th) ♡

↳ pt 6 nsfw yunho drabble

January

tourist fireworks (Jan 10th) ♡

↳ yunho new year’s drabble

private new year (Jan 10th) ♡

↳ bang chan new year’s drabble

it’s been a good year (Jan 1st) ♡

↳ woosan new years drabble

2022 • Done ♡

November

poly masterlist (Nov 15th) ♡

↳ masterlist for my polyamorous posts

imagine someone found your sex tape (Nov 9th) ♡

↳ woosan drabble (2am thought)

♡s

October

spooky season masterlist (All month) 🎃

↳ masterlist for everything I released in October

Notice:// some haven’t been posted yet

vampire training: prologue (Oct 13th) ♡

↳ vampire!yunho mini series | series masterlist

request: demon!wooyoung x angel!reader (Oct 7th) ♡

↳ spooky season request (smut)

September

darkness falls across the land (Sep 30th) ♡

↳ Halloween masterlist 2022

chanlix and comfort skz reposts (Sep 23rd) ♡

↳ reposting of my poly chanlix and soft comforting skz drabbles from my old acc

just a room away (Sep 23rd) ♡

↳ pt 5 nsfw yunho drabble

woosan drabble add-on (Sep 17th) ♡ 

↳ something extra for the woosan one👇🏽 he’s gonna leave marks

woosan drabble (Sep 15th) ♡ 

↳ San hears screams and bursts in to scold woo. Bad timing?

just a mistake (Sep 11th) ♡ 

↳ pt 4 nsfw yunho drabble

Hard hours (Sep 10th) ♡ 

↳ a few asks

just a little thunder (Sep 9th) ♡ 

↳ pt 3 nsfw yunho drabble

Hard hours (Sep 9th) ♡ 

↳ a couple posts

July

????! JK

↳ finally posted this JK au

RIC ch 4

↳ the start of part two

TMIAOU

↳ the past and present

use me - bill withers (July 7th) ♡ 

↳ drabble based on use me by bill withers

perv!chan (July 7th) ♡ 

↳ lil thought of bestie perv channie

June

channie comfort during depressive episode (June 25th) ♡ 

↳ chan fluff comfort drabble

just a ride home (June 13th) ♡ 

↳ pt 2 nsfw yunho drabble

don’t hang up (June 8th) ♡

↳ nsfw yunho drabble

May

Random hard thought (May 31st) ♡

↳ nsfw yunho thought

please don’t regret it (May 31st) ♡

↳ angsty chan drabble

the monsters in all of us: one (May 5th) ♡

↳ vampire!jungkook story from my old blog (nsfw)

reconciliation in currency ch 3 (May 5th) ♡

↳ the interview (nsfw)

reconciliation in currency ch 2 (May 3rd) ♡

↳ tae’s pov

reconciliation in currency ch 1 (May 2nd) ♡

↳ sugar daddy! former bestfriend! taehyung

slightly insecure reader with comforting channie (May 1st) ♡

↳ bang chan drabble, slightly nsfw

♡ directory ♡  

#thenewblackcanvas #masterlist #directory #recents masterlist #ateez fanfic #seventeen fanfic #stray kids fanfic #bts fanfic

[ghost-1-y]

For the asks!!

3, 6, 11, 14, 19, and 21!

from this ask game!

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Out of fics that I've published, it's probably either Sacrifice or Sabotage. For the former, I'm really proud of how I wrote Kyojuro and I felt like it was a relatively creative idea that I started out with (with him being a jotunn and reader being a nordic village chief). The latter, on the other hand, is my longest fic thus far and I put a ton of effort into the symbolism of reader's character and how her relationship with Sanemi slowly changed over time, which is why I'm gonna say that these fics so far are tied.

However, in terms of all of my fic ideas, I have a strong feeling that Desecration will be my favorite fic I've ever written. I know I've only posted the prologue for it, but this fic is something I've been brewing for months now. I have like...9 pages of bullet points and tables dedicated to the storyline/plot (and that's without any of the actual writing, those 9 pages are 100% just outline). It's also the first fic I've created a playlist for. This fic is my baby I just know it (and I hope you all will enjoy it when it gets posted).

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

I don't have a lot of time on my hands to reread larger fics unfortunately, usually things I reread are very small, one-off drabbles or headcanons because reading a larger fic is something I feel like requires commitment. I did actually reread your Phantasmagoria fic before the final part came out though so I could have the plot fresh in my mind lolol

11. Do you have specific playlists for writing fics?

The only playlist I have so far is my Desecration playlist, which, once I've rearranged it to fit the plot and have added all the songs I want, I will share on here! For my other fics I've usually just looked up playlists on youtube or spotify that fit the vibe I was looking for.

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fanfic would you pick?

Hmm...maybe Sabotage? I don't think a lot of my fics are long enough to be considered for a film adaptation lmao. Once Desecration has been written I'd probably pick that one though just because it'll be long enough (and is also my favorite storyline I've come up with so far)

19. Give us a small teaser from one of your WIPs.

<(´ཀ`」<) okay

Fleeting memories raced across your mind and rattled within your skull – short visions of sunlight reflecting across statues of women you couldn’t recognize, the brief feeling of love and fulfillment as delicate as dew drops laid upon the blades of grass overgrown in an old cathedral forgotten by time.  It was the warmth of the sun that you’d always treasured the most, its gentle rays caressing your skin just as the faint vision graced your very thoughts.  The realization of betrayal and blood splattered across the floor as darkness enshrouded the very hall in which you stood, clouds blocking out sunbeams and withering flowers in empty, desolate corners long untended. And the screams – screams building from within yourself and echoing across barren walls as you are ripped clean from your body, a mind so full within a body so hollow – an amalgamation of blood and skin and bones, but lacking the very threads that hold a being together as you become a husk of your previous self. A blurry face, a voiceless name, an unbearable cold and a feeling of lightness.  And then, nothing.

21. Have you ever deleted an entire scene after spending hours laboring over it? If so, why?

Yes, all the time lmao.

Mainly because I'm a perfectionist and I cringe whenever I read something that doesn't feel like it lives up to my own impossible standards.

In fact, I currently have an entire scene for one of my WIPs that I'm going to rewrite completely because I don't like how I went about describing it. I like the idea of the scene, so the general concept will be kept, but I'm 100% rewriting it when it comes time to actually put it in the story lol

#[ 👻 ] — ghost’s asks #[ 👻 ] – ghost's moots ✧･ﾟ #[ 👻 ] – moot: 🍑 #[ 👻 ] – ask games

[red-riding-wood]

Time in a Bottle

Pairing: Emit Flesti x Female OC (not a well-established one, though)

Fandom: Faraway, So Close! (1993), sequel to Wings of Desire (1987)

Summary: A fallen angel bargains with Time for immortality after realizing how beautiful yet transient life is.

WARNINGS: explicit sex/smut. But it's the most poetic smut I'm ever gonna feckin write WC: 5677

This fic is a part of my Willem Dafoe Challenge.

Tag list: @glitter-and-gasoline, @giona45-5

Read on AO3 if you prefer. Otherwise, story below cut!

Time is hunting me.

An old, cadaverous woman collapses from her electric throne beside me, eyes glazing and thin lips stretching pale, crinkled skin taut over bony cheeks and hollowed eye-sockets as she wails her final, silent words.

I was taught to see the beauty in everything of Father’s creation – even death – and although, now that I’ve fallen, now that my world is a wondrous palette of colour, and I can feel the kiss of the sea against my skin and the warmth of a fire when my bones ache from cold and fatigue, I still cannot seem to find the beauty in the absence of life. Maybe that was really why I fell, perhaps to learn a lesson.

The woman is barely clinging to life – life, that is beautiful, that is fleeting, yet potent; life, that is the kindest gift and the greatest curse one can receive. She is afraid, she is weak, she is crumpled in a ball on the unforgiving concrete like a fetus that has never left the womb.

I do not see the beauty in death. I do not see the poetry in its inevitability or its balance.

Half of the crowd around me carry on their way, casting no more than a quick glance at the dying woman. I cannot blame them; I would not want to waste a second of my life on death, either.

The other half converges, like a tide crashing around me, their shouts tangling thick into the air as they scramble to aid her. Don’t they know, it’s useless. Don’t they know, this will be them in twenty or thirty years and they’re wasting those years ordering coffee that doesn’t have enough sugar and reading the front page of useless drabble and diving to save a stranger whose last breath has already left her withering lungs.

A glimmer winks on the ground, and catches my eye; I bend to pick up a compact that fell from her purse, and everyone is either too unconcerned by the tragedy or too deeply-swallowed by it to notice.

I flip open the compact to reveal a polished mirror as clear as the crystals I’d spotted in a shop window not even five minutes ago, and in its clarity I glimpse the pockets of grey that have formed beneath my vessel’s bottom lashes, the furrow of a brow sewn by stress, the eyes that, in life, are so absent of it. 

I am left standing in the midst of the crowd, suddenly feeling numb, and I roll my head back to glimpse a figure emerging from around the corner of a shop, his shoulder leaning against the brick.

His eyes are a cold blue that pierce my soul. His suit is black as death. His hair is a deep brown, like when people soften their coffee with a dash of cream. His gaze is haunting, eviscerating, lingering.

Someone jostles my shoulder, and I swing my head to regard them. They are rushing to the old woman’s aid.

When I look back, he is gone.

Time is running from me.

I follow him down the long stretch of the alley, the black of his suit blending with the drab colours the passerby citizens wear, but I keep my eye trained on the glimpses I catch of his shoulder bobbing in the crowd. There is a festival being set up in this alley; paper lanterns brush my cranium from where they are loosely strung from the side of each building, vibrant hues of violet and red and blue. A man, with tangled dreadlocks and tattered clothing and nails imbued with grime, plucks away at the metal strings of his guitar, casting wonderful notes to the air that smells of scented candles and exotic food; if I had a dime, I would stop for a moment to listen and plunk it in the tin that sits in front of him for change.

If I had the time, I would also stop by the railing that borders the sea, let my fingers curl around the metal railing and suppress a shiver as the ocean breeze caresses my skin and blows the hair back from my shoulders. The man in the black suit leads me out here, along the bricks of the pier. The crowds are thinning now, but I cannot seem to keep pace with him.

He effortlessly traverses the uneven steps of a small bar. SALLY’S, 1029 BLEAKER STREET. The black of his suit is swallowed by the door that swings shut with a chime of shrill bells.

The same bells announce my presence as I pull open the door, the tang of seaweed and the sharp bite of the ocean winds blanketed by the bitter notes of rum and whiskey, and the slightest trace of smoke that is expelled by two candles sat either side of the bar.

Tick.

The cruel, piercing sound of a clock drills itself into the marrow of my bones, the synapses of my mind. It nearly makes me flinch. Why is it so loud?

The bar is silent, but not even the creak of my boots against the flooring is enough to cause such a great stirring of unease. It is silent because it is empty, void of even a bartender, despite the neon OPEN sign I read outside its window.

At least, it would be empty, if it weren’t for the man who turns to face me, steely blue eyes meeting mine and his expression passive, until the slightest quirk of a smile pulls at his lip, creasing a sharp cheekbone.

Tick.

I take another step forward, and the floorboards creak as if to warn me, but I didn’t know fear until I fell, and I’m not about to start bowing to it now.

“You’re – “

“Emit Flesti,” he says, and outstretches a hand for me to shake. His blue eyes come alive, glitter like how the sun dapples the surface of the waves on the ocean.

I eye his hand cautiously, and, after exactly three more ticks of the tenebrous clock, finally reciprocate, finding the exchange awkward. I don’t know how long to hold his grip, or how quickly to move my arm, but his flesh is warm against mine, and he guides me through the motion as if he’s done this a million times.

Emit straightens his suit jacket once our handshake breaks, and eyes me with that sea-gaze. “And I know exactly who you are. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Is my kind really that predictable?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

His eyes narrow a fraction as he studies me, and he says, “You’re lost. Scared. Confused. Trying desperately to cling to a world you have only just discovered, a life that has only just been birthed.”

Tick.

I swallow, and say, “You’re right… but how do you know? You’re not able to read minds.”

“I’ve been around a while. Learned to grow observant. And you angels are all terribly easy to read. You want something only I can give. That’s why you’re here.”

I rake my gaze across him, across that polished suit, that matching black tie, that neatly-styled hair that retreats primly over his ears and teases the line of his neck, that ever-so-slight twinge of a smirk that curves his lip upward as if he knows something I don’t. Dressed and presented more like one of Satan’s glorified businessmen than one of the ancients.

I meet his gaze again, and step forward. “And if you’re smart…” I say, chin high and tone imbued with confidence. Angels are threatening when they want to be, and though I have fallen, I am certain I haven’t lost my edge. “… you’ll grant me my wish.”

Emit mirrors my stride, bringing the two of us closer. His scent is sweet, and irritatingly familiar. The smirk disappears from his features, and he says, “Your very existence here defies the natural order, causes an eddy of disruption and chaos in the cogs of a machine that are designed to function without your interference. Why would I bend the natural order for one fallen angel?”

Tick.

The cruel incipience of wrath begins to bubble in my stomach, and I bring myself another stride closer so that I am only an inch or two from him now; mousy lashes flick down, those steely blue eyes studying each groove and ridge of my face, before landing in my own, piercing through them and wrapping their icy tendrils around my soul. I swallow, a weight inexplicably forming in my throat, and glare up at him.

“Because if you don’t…” I growl. “I will get my wings back, if only to spite you. And I will rain all of Heaven down on you – or all of Hell, if I have to.”

The corner of his mouth curls upward again, creases his sharp jaw, and he speaks around a gleeful smirk as his eyes remain latched to my soul, “You angels are always smite first, ask questions later. But you, you’re only human now. You’re only bark, no bite.”

My nostrils flare, and my wrath churns in my gut, effervesces into the pockets of my chest that have been stripped bare of what I cannot define, nor can I find.

“I think you’ll find my bite to be equally as vicious,” I hiss from between clenched teeth, my gaze darting madly across twin blues that are so still frustratingly still, so disconcertingly locked onto my own. Does he even blink?

His smirk broadens, those twin blues glitter and narrow, and he says, “In the long run, I’m usually the one that does the biting.”

Tick.

His breath is hot against my face, flutters my lashes, and I swallow again as a new sensation – foreign to me, peculiar, rather disquieting yet strangely exhilarating in nature – tickles at my ribs. For a moment, I am lighter; I am free of the wrath that chains me to the earth.

But then I am heavier, as the weight of his words sinks in; I deflate, my shoulders sinking along with my exhale and my chin dipping, dragging my eyes from his. I am reminded of the transience of time and of my limited opportunity to experience my father’s beautiful creation.

Time is poison.

I turn my shoulder and start towards the wide, spotless windows that frame each side of the door. Outside, I glimpse the ivory of the seagulls cutting the pastel blue of the sky, the sea frothing at the hull of a sailboat, the tides that glitter like diamonds below the warm caress of the sun.

The final pillars of my wrath topple, and the pockets inside of me erupt into an abyss that aches to be filled with something anew. I am hollow. I am lost. I am helpless.

My disconsolation strings itself thick into my words as I breathe, a tear rimming my eye, “The world is so much more beautiful down here than it was up there. I don’t ever want to part from it. I want to paint it, limn its happenings into magnificent stories, to traverse its every mountain and canyon.”

My fingertips brush the glass of the window, and the tear rolls down my burning cheek. I am called by the restlessness of the waves, by the warmth of the sun, by the freedom of the gulls that ride the air currents.

“I have been rebirthed,” I tell him. “And I will not let this slip away. In Heaven, I was a soldier, a cog. Here, I am…” I shutter my eyes, and bite my lip; the saltiness of my tear on my tongue tastes like the ocean. And then I turn back to face the man, and I finish, “… alive.”

He is silent. But he blinks.

Tick.

I step forward again, though without the same portent weight, and I say, “If I do not bring you terror, do I at least stir in you some form of pity?” I am begging, pleading with my words now. “Do you have any ounce of humanity? Or do you just make sure that the cogs keep turning in the clock?”

We are maybe an inch apart now, and as I stare into those eyes, so swathed in steel-blue mystery, I wish that I could read minds again, if only in this moment, to read his.

And then, as if my wish comes true, a dash of sadness, streaking so fleetingly across them like a shooting star, manifests, and I seem to hold my breath in my chest, surrendering my soul to their intense stare.

“You’re forgetting that I have always seen in colour,” he says, his pride vanished along with but a vestige of his smirk. His face seems to soften around sharp features. “I have witnessed the joy of a doting mother. I have glimpsed the turmoil of loss. I have felt the cold on my flesh and the sun on my face. But it is not my job to pity. If I did, the clock would cease to function, and the order would fall into chaos.”

Tick.

And then suddenly it feels not as if I am searching for the answers in his gaze, but he in mine; his countenance is unnervingly solemn, his eyes no longer of impenetrable steel, but of a feather: delicate, wandering, listless.

And he says, “Have you considered, little angel, that I too am as much of a cog in the machine?” A challenge washes over the somber blue of his eyes, sparking something between us that is so suffocating palpable, it threatens to crush what little thread of hope there is in my chest, constricts my throat so that my disquieted swallow must be audible to his ears.

Tick.

The clock must surely be mocking me. I cannot seem to find my words, cannot seem to find a solution in the maelstrom that is my mind, cannot find solace in my florid thoughts or the life that is passing so pointedly one second at a time.

And I find myself with no solution, no wrath, no hope – lost, to a reality that I cannot smite. All I can do now is string out this one word, so feeble in its whispered impotence,

“Please.”

Time is cruel.

He doesn’t have to speak to tell me my answer, and I choke out my next breath on that crippling absence of hope, gaze lowering to the aged floorboards as if in submission. They too have become a victim to time, and must rot in debility.

“I cannot grant you immortality,” he says. “It would cause too much of a disturbance down here, upstairs. But perhaps I can give you something -- a token, for your will.”

My head rolls back, my eyes seeking his in confusion and wariness. His visage glimmers past my shimmery veil of unshed tears.

“Tell me…” he says. “… if you could stretch one moment into a thousand, if you could relive it as many times as you desired, what would it be?”

I blink, and the tears fall, and his visage sharpens. “A token? Minutes ago, you were mocking my will. Is this some cruel trick?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a trick. Now, answer my question. What would it be?”

Tick.

The clock is drilling deeper than my mind or my marrow now; it is burrowing itself into my soul, withering its light, and past its deathly pursuit I cannot seem to find an answer to his question. I want everything that I described to him – I want to live, want to be eternal. How can I possibly choose one moment of my barely-beginning and so swiftly-ending life?

“You seem to be the expert,” I say, my tone so bitter in contrast to the sweetness of his cologne. “What would it be?”

Perhaps only time will tell.

The curve of his mouth pulls back into his smirk that could rival the Devil’s, and his glittering eyes drag across my face as if he is painting it into his mind for eternity. A thread seems to materialize between us, pulling taut and drawing me closer to his warm breath and toothy grin. I recognize his scent now – vanilla, the bean they grind in the coffee shops for their specialty brews with exorbitant prices.

A sharply-pitched sound snaps me from my heady trance, and I flinch, my lips parted in a silent gasp as I watch his lip curl over his teeth in a whistle.

And the world falls silent; the relentless ticking finally ceases, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that the clock’s hand has frozen.

His warm breath is mingling with mine now, his lips soft yet burning hot as hellfire against my own. Blackness coats my eyelids as I shutter them, and though tentative, I melt into him, drawing my vessel closer to his by that thread that I discern now to be desire. I move my lips against his in an uneven rhythm yet insatiable intensity, and I draw my hand up along his suit, fingers grasping insensibly at his tie. He is much more assured with his touch; one hand is fastened around my waist, while the other explores my breast through the fabric of my shirt, dragging a thumb across a perked nipple and stirring an unbridled breath from my lungs. He turns me like the hand of the clock, and presses my lower spine against the edge of the bar.

When we draw apart, I am weightless again, and that foreign feeling once again teases my ribs, flutters my stomach and pools magma between thighs that squirm against the hardness of his slacks. Lust, I ascertain; I have never experienced it because I have never been kissed, or touched in this way that seems to electrify every nerve and raise goose-bumps along my flesh – or even think, really, about this element of humanity. Life is so full of surprises, so faceted in its pleasures that I fear I may never uncover all of them.

His eyes are half-lidded, blue tides turning darkly with want that mirrors my own, and his warm breaths come swifter, panted against my flushed cheeks. The effulgence of the sun, as it had just begun to dip into afternoon, washes the finer strands of his dusky locks in a buttery, chestnut-gold, and shadows the sharp features of his face, every line bold, purposeful, sculpted as fearlessly as an angel’s blade. And in our proximity, I find a flaw in his design; his teeth, at first distractingly white, are gapped, slightly crooked, but it makes him more human than a cog, completes the artistry of this moment in such a way that makes my heart ache with yearning.   

Time is beautiful.

“Is that it?” I ask him, raising a brow as my tongue darts hungrily between my lips and I let my hips rock with explosive impatience against his. I am as greedy as I am wrathful.

He smirks, and takes this as his cue to continue, for he lifts me onto the bar, both hands now cradling my waist, his body gliding between my legs; I part them in eager acceptance, hips once more seeming to have a mind of their own as they rut against his. I link an arm around his neck and pull him to me in a kiss that I have every intention to deepen to its farthest limits. My other hand slips from his tie and reaches for the buckle on his belt; I yank the leather past its loop as fiercely as I would shed armour after a battle.

He breaks our kiss, my teeth snagging his bottom lip as he pulls back, and I expect him to chastise me for not being more careful with what is likely an expensive belt, but he grins at me and says, “There’s no rush. In this moment, time is all yours.”

If this isn’t all some cruel trick, then he is right; I should savour this, relish in its sordid bliss.

My fingers reach almost instinctively to his jaw, brushing the sharp line of bone in reverence, my touch more delicate than it had been even with Father’s most treasured artifacts. They linger there for a moment, before dipping below his chin, running down the lines of his throat and thumbing the ridge of his clavicle beneath the collar of his shirt.

But I find myself blocked by the fabric, by the tie around his neck, and so my fingers thread through the weave of the tie, tugging gently as I swallow, almost ashamed, my cheeks ruddy and warm.

He smirks, but says nothing, and loosens his tie in one fluid motion, undoing the two ends so that they fall around his neck. He knows I’ve never done this before.

I unfasten the first few buttons of his shirt, my fingers now gliding across flesh that burns hot, that burns living – flesh that thrums, steady, with the beating of a seemingly-mortal heart.

Though fascinated, I let my hand travel some more, leaving the volcanic veneer of his flesh and letting it slip back over his shirt, running down the thin fabric until my fingertips tease the hem of his slacks, and I notice his eyes flutter, irises darkening with ink black, as I begin to grope at him through fabric that is frustratingly denser than his shirt. I feel him twitch beneath my palm. I bite my lip, a jolt of electricity shocking me from the depth of my core to the top of my skull, and a demur smile quirks at the line of my mouth as he moans out a beautiful sound, hot breaths fanning my already-burning cheeks.

Fingers tighten around my waist, and he leans in again, our lips brushing and our breaths panted fervently against each other’s teeth before I pull back, only half an inch or so, to smirk and say, “What happened to ‘no rush’?”

“That was before you decided to take advantage of the situation,” he huffs, mousy lashes shrouding those ocean eyes as his gaze darts to my lips to the line of my breasts to the hem of the fabric that he thumbs above my hipbone. For someone who can command the clock with a mere whistle, he is surprisingly impatient in this moment that he can stretch to eternity if he so desires.

“I’m only making use of my token,” I tell him, a thread of mischief entwining itself into my tone, and I notice him catch his teeth in his lip. Our noses are brushing, breaths still entangled, and I bring my hand up to undo the slacks that have been forgoing my descent into debauchery.

He is eager to shed my clothing; my shirt comes down at my elbows from buttons that may have been popped, my boots clatter to the floor, my trousers are slipped from the bare of my legs and goosebumps raise along the flesh, the lacquer of the bar colder than I had initially thought.

He looks me in the eyes as he sidles my panties down my hips, oceans seeming to catch fire, surely turning mine to molten rock.

I shiver, not from the cold, but from the light fabric that brushes the crest of my toes, and then he has all of me before him – all of my vessel, in her battered, bruised flesh and her sunken eyes but her purity.

Long fingers pry my legs apart, and he breaths his question down the nape of my neck, setting the fine hairs on end, “And you’re sure you don’t want your wings back?” His voice has dropped into something husky, something dark. But it does not bring me fear. Only want.

I swallow, tongue dry, the moisture perhaps evaporated from the magma that bubbles from the very core of me to the top of my head, and I spare the thought only a moment of consideration.

I never want to go back. To go back would be to live an eternal nightmare. And would that be any better than a fleeting dream?

And his touch, it feels too heavenly to be a sin, the sharp, sun-kissed lines on his softened face too angelic to be of Hell.

“Yes,” I breathe, running my hand down the bare trail I had revealed of his chest, fascinated still by the faint thrumming of his heart and the flesh that has become volcanic as mine, still burning to the touch.

His lip twinges into a smirk, the flash of gapped teeth and sparkling eyes in my vision before it undulates, seems as if I have been thrust underwater, staring through the surface of the waves and catching the glitter of two suns tinted by blue.

I am no stranger to pain, but even I gasp as he seems to split me in two; the magma in my gut seems to solidify, crack, fragment into fiery ropes that slice through me.

I grasp feverishly at his loose shirt, but it only tugs him closer to me, his shattered breath fanning across my collarbone and the strip of hot flesh down his chest meeting mine. I am whelmed by fire, thrust into the deepest pit of Hell only to emerge above the highest clouds of Heaven as new sensations begin to race through me, from where he buries himself inside me all the way out to my forearms, up to the crest of my tingling skull that falls back as lips part in panted, ardent breaths.

His warm lips are on my neck, his hot, shattered breaths coming against it, the graze of his teeth against my flesh as his fingers brace my hips, the chafe of my thighs against the lacquer barely a fragment of the entire innervation.

My muscles seem to tense, my legs kicking upward to engulf his waist, currents of electricity pointing my toes and my loins burning hot as they tuck around him, as if to pull him closer into the inferno that is our lust. My hands have resorted to gripping his shoulders now for stability, though one slips to cradle the hammer of his heart against his ribcage, as if it is mine to hold, if only for this moment.

Though there are no words spoken between us, we create music; there is a rhythm to our fevered breaths, a beauty to our moans that seem to echo their yearning for more, voracious yet elegant.

That is until I am plunged into rapture, my soul grasping at my ribs as if begging to leave my body, my head lost in the ether, my spine a gateway for the streaks of bliss that envelope every nerve, every fiber of my being, and for a moment I am almost afraid that I will combust; my insides burn hotter, and I collapse over the man’s shoulders, my chin settling limp into the groove of his neck.

The guttural sounds that are cast to my ear seem to ground me, bring me back down from my blithe, though I am undone; and so, it seems, is he. I am not sure which one of us is trembling, but despite our plummet back to Earth, we are alive with a hum of energy, and that ethereal thread that had once pulled us close seems to tether, knot. My soul is not reaching for the sky at all, but for him, for the beating of his heart, and for what may as well be an eternity, I let the remnants of what I have been reduced to remain captive against its pulse, let him remained buried inside of me so that that thread never frays.  

When he does leave me empty, I ache; my own heart freezes in my chest, and as I pull my head back, strands of messed hair cut my vision as I seek out his eyes.

They are there, their tides finally calmed, but still alive and glittering, still entrapping my soul. His thumb comes to brush along my jaw, and I can feel the tease of his lips against mine, feel the way my soul reaches for his as I sink into the kiss eagerly.

But he pulls away with that gloating smirk, and his sharp whistle stirs the unruly strands of hair from my face. The light moves again across his features, and the faint lamentations of gulls echo in the backdrop of our little, seemingly-separate existence. But it is not the high pitch of his whistle that instills dread heavy in my gut or animates my spent body with a horrid flinch, but the tenebrous note of the clock. 

Tick.

---

Humans talk about Heaven as if it is an escape from life, some craved destination that they are all too eager to reach. But they don’t know what they have.

I wouldn’t trade the sunset for anything, the brush of magenta beneath the darkening clouds, the soft glow of fire as the sun melts into the ocean. I wouldn’t trade the touch of a man, the warmth that seeps into every pore, the elation of mind and body. I wouldn’t trade the tinny yet resonating notes of the vagrant’s guitar, the way your soul leaps at every note, the way they become your lifeblood if you allow yourself to sink into them.

I linger a while at the festival in the darkened alleys, trying to mimic some form of dance beneath the glow of the paper lanterns as I bump shoulders with people of all shapes, sizes and energies; once a concrete sea, the city is alive, bursting with colour and music and heady aromas of perfumes and spices.

But as much as I attempt to sink into the lovely notes of the song, the buzzing of life, the lurid yet enchanting lights strung in the air above like pigmented stars, the weight of Emit’s token seems to lift me above it all, the incessant feel of it in my pocket. He had given it to me before I left the bar.

I freeze in my languid motion, my body and soul snared by the steel-blue gaze that peers at me from the sea of bodies. Still swathed in a black suit, he would be almost invisible if he were to step from the glow of the lanterns and into the shadows of the alley, but against the colourful robes and costumes of the crowd, I am amazed that no one else seems to notice him.

A sigh of air crashes from my lungs like a tide, and my shoulders loosen, as his gaze flits down to a pocket-watch that he holds in one hand, the brass winking in the glow of one of the lanterns.

Past the soothing notes of the guitar, I can almost hear the faint yet drilling sound…

Tick.

I blink, and he is gone, and I wonder if he was ever there.

Time is haunting me.     

I leave the festival, enter once more the wasteland of the drab streets lit by simple, white lights; I pass by the shop in which I had glimpsed the crystals, know that I am close to where the old woman had perished.

The sidewalk where she fell is empty. The crowd, having dwindled in the absence of light, pass by, as if she had never even existed. The only semblance of her left are the bitter threads of fear that slither across my heart.

I never want to be emptiness, never want to be gone.

The thought is enough to make me look around, casting glances at the shadow of each alley, seeking out the blue-eyed man as if in comfort. But he, too, is gone. And his remnant lies in my pocket.

The air is stale, though the fresh yet salted kiss of the ocean still lingers on my tongue; the sweetness of vanilla seems to have seeped into the fibers of my clothing, and as I settle into the abandoned building I have been subsisting on, hear the patter of the crying roof, the creak of the rotting boards beneath my boots, I keep these gifts with me, bringing my nose to the fabric of my shirt once I free it from my body, roll my tongue in my mouth as if to savour that kiss of the ocean forever.

A storm had broken the dark clouds of the evening, and the patter of rain against the floor seemed to grow louder each minute, seems to mimic that wretched clock in its perfectly-timed beat.

At last, I dig Emit’s token from my pocket. It is a bottle, barely the length of a small dagger. I can just faintly catch the reflection of my vessel’s hollow eyes in the dull sheen of the flickering candlelight that dances across the glass.

The bottle itself is empty, save for a small, folded note.

“Take this,” he’d said, his hot breath raking down the side of my neck as he slipped the bottle into my pocket, that sea-gaze catching mine once more. “Open it whenever you wish to relive the moment.”

I look out the cracked glass of the window, at the newspapers and wrappers that swirls, rampant, in the storm, in the deadness of the street. My soul aches; it yearns to become alive as it stares into the empty.

So I open the bottle, popping the cork and letting the note fall into the palm of a hand I hadn’t realized was shaking until now.

My heart is in my throat as I unfold the note, my breath trapped in my lungs. The unending rain patters against the floor.

It reads:

SALLY’S, 1029 BLEAKER STREET.

Something in my soul stirs, quirks my lip into a smile, and my breath is released from the cruel cage of my lungs, and the pockets of my chest that have been stripped so bare begin to warm with the faintest trace of feeling, of hope, of what I have sought ever since my fall.

Time is mine.

#fanfiction #willem dafoe #writing #emit flesti #faraway so close #1993 #the willem dafoe challenge #my writing #smut #mdni #fanfic #wings of desire

[anonymousbeefriendfanfics]

Hello! I have a few small but important announcements to make!

I have officially decided to tag my creative work with a specific tag to make it easier to find! The catch-all tag is #beefriend-writes, but I'll also use #beefriend's-fics and #beefriend's-hcs! And theoretically #beefriend's-drabbles, if I can ever, you know, write one of those... unfortunately my mind insists on all or nothing. Sigh.

Now that I've got that ironed out, I'm going to resume posting queued things from the fandoms. I hesitated before, mostly due to disliking how cluttered my blog got from doing it, but... well, that's what tags are for! Should I make a tag for the queued posts, too?

Holy jesus it's Mermay! I've always wanted to participate in that, so please, send me ideas and requests! I'll try to track down a prompt list or three somewhere and toss them your way. No promises they'll get written in May, but I do promise I will try!

Also, teeny update on the oc front: I've gotten some very good work done on developing them into something I'm not terrified to share, and I'll be revealing them sooner or later! Stay tuned~

And again, I feel I must apologize for my frequent absenses and thank you all for standing by me. You're a truly wonderful community, and I feel blessed by every single interaction I receive. Seriously, I have some of your comments and tags saved on my phone because they made me so happy! My mental health is... not great, as usual, but slowly improving for once. I simply cannot manage to force myself to write anything I don't feel the motivation to do, which is why I've barely been posting. I cannot tell you how many times I've scrolled through asks or stared blankly at an empty page struggling to start on something, anything. My interest in nearly everything has withered and died, and I've been fighting to try and get it back for several months. I am far from out of the woods yet, but I promise I will not disappear for good. I will come back and write for you all whenever my mind permits. I hope to get through all of the requests I've been given one day, but for now, I'm simply choosing whatever sparks my interest the most at any given moment. Requests are still open, and they have a tendency to spark new ideas and give me more motivation, so please don't worry about overwhelming me! I welcome them, even if I cannot write them immediately.

#just some updates #tags are good #what tags am I using again #<- I'm hoping that will help if I go looking for this post because I forgot lmao #mental health struggles #Don't worry y'all I'll be fine I promise

[perzawa]

drabble of tutor toji cause i’m horn :/

“yeah, keep your focus right… here.” toji’s rough hand seizes the back of your neck, squeezing tightly until you’re withering in pain. you were supposed to be studying for finals. ‘supposed to’ being the key word.

with a tutor like toji fushiguro, you should’ve known you’d never be getting any legitimate work done. your downfall was your own underestimation. your cheeks are flat against your textbook, thighs quivering as you began to reach your breaking point.

“what a slutty little girl,” he grunts into your neck, cock splitting you open. his thighs spread your legs a few inches wider in order to get a better angle. you can’t help yourself, it’s becoming impossible to stay even remotely silent. saliva begins to seep from your mouth while you cry out, fucking yourself back onto him. “only thinking about cock… nothing else.”

it’s like he’s purposely pushing your head further into your books now, no regard or care for this painful position you’re in. if you weren’t so needy, you’d have been complaining. surprisingly, though, you could barely even bring yourself to speak. the most you could do was squeak, simply dwelling in the feeling of your pussy getting pounded.

his cock aches inside of you, thick length slowly dragging against your wet, gummy walls. he just huffs a breath out, thick fingers still pushing on the side of your head, forcing you to keep your position steady.

you feel so, so good. knees buckling as his balls slap against your ass, the sinful squelches from your stretched pussy playing like music. you can feel yourself gush on him, pussy sucking his cock inside after each and every overwhelming thrust.

“fuck yeah, baby, just keep going.” he encourages, pace becoming sloppier the more you clamp on him, trying your hardest to keep your own composure. you ultimately fail at this, snaking a finger down to rub tight circles on your clit until you reach your orgasm, desperate whimpers running from your mouth carelessly. you can feel sparks flying through your body while you come down, focus on the rush of toji’s cock inside of you.

toji’s hand travels to your waist, giving it a gentle squeeze before he’s fucking himself into you at a greater speed, heavy cock pulsing inside of you while he spurts his thick cum all over your walls. his pace comes to a standstill once again, hands still tightly gripping your sore hips. with your head still glued to your book pages and saliva leaving a mark, you can only think about what’s next to come.

you are definitely gonna fail these finals.

#toji smut #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro smut #jjk smut #toji hcs #jjk hcs #jjk x reader

[fizzydrink698]

late night bite | jisung

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 3.2k

genre: vampire au; college au; friends-to-lovers

warnings: swearing, blood, biting (’tis a vampire fic, after all), i don’t know how to describe this beyond “feeding - gone wrong! gone sexual!”, sexual content

summary:

You sigh, and tilt your head a little more to the side. Slowly, you bring one hand up to curl a finger around your collar, tugging it down to reveal the smooth, bare skin of your neck. “Come on, Count Dorkula. Snack time.”

Jisung gulps – like, visibly gulps – as his eyes follow your movements. He’s utterly transfixed by your neck, lips parting at the sight.

this is part of the six month drabble event!

prompts: “Quit it or I’ll bite.” “I just like proving you wrong.”

“I’m hungry,” Jisung whines, letting his phone drop face-down into his lap.

Those aren’t words you should ever want to hear come out of a vampire’s mouth - especially when you’re sitting only a few feet away from them.

Common sense would tell you that you shouldn’t be so calm. It would tell you to run, possibly screaming, and arm yourself with a wooden stake and a big bulb of garlic.

You don’t do that.

Instead, you sigh loudly, not looking up from your chemistry notes. “How sad for you.”

Befriending a vampire is a lot easier than you’d think, it turns out. You just have to be generous with your class notes and get weird, outdated pop culture references.

And be somewhat understanding of Jisung’s…dietary requirements.

Speaking of…

Jisung huffs, and sprawls dramatically across his armchair, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m going to wither away, slowly desiccate–”

“Does it have to be slowly?”

Jisung’s head jerks up to glare at you, pouting. “Mean.”

You roll your eyes, but finally grant him the attention he’s been seeking as you look up from your notes. “Fine. It would be very sad if you desiccated into some dusty, half-corpse thing.”

Jisung’s eyes shine, basking in your words. “It would?”

“Yes. I might even cry.”

He grins, delighted at the idea. “Really?”

You turn back to your notes. “…From happiness.”

You don’t have to look up to know that the pout has returned.

Still, despite your teasing, you and Jisung are fairly close. There’s a reason you’re here on a Friday night, lounging on Jisung’s couch with your classwork. You still haven’t changed out of your work uniform – the blazer is off, at least, but the blouse and pencil skirt stay on, albeit somewhat rumpled by your position on the couch.

Jisung manages to keep quiet for a good few minutes, giving you enough time to reach the end of your page before he speaks up again.

Well, maybe ‘speaks up’ isn’t the right phrase. Jisung doesn’t speak, exactly. He just whines loudly, the sound drawn out and pitiful.

You snap your notebook shut, very close to reaching your limit. “Why don’t you just go feed if you’re so hungry?”

Jisung sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…so much effort.”

You’re about to strangle this man. Undead or not, you will find a way to throttle him to death. “Seriously?”

“I mean it!” Jisung complains, straightening up, fuelled on by his own indignation. “I’ve got to drive all the way off campus, get into some random club somewhere, actually find a target and then that’s not even getting into how hard it is to get them alone and wipe their memory after. So much work, all for some meh feeding.”

Huh. You suppose you’ve never thought about it that way. Every time Jisung wants to feed, he basically has to do the equivalent of going out and finding a hook-up. You suppose that’s got to be difficult to do on such a regular basis.

It’s a good thing he’s pretty, you think idly – before immediately catching yourself. Where the fuck had that come from?

“Why would it be ‘meh’? Isn’t blood, like, your whole thing?” you ask.

“Alcohol makes it all…bleh. Like the taste and stuff, it’s all off,” he says, making a face. He then looks down at himself, at his grey sweatpants and well-worn hoodie. He holds up his hands, currently half-hidden in his makeshift sweater paws, and eyes them with a sigh. “And I’m all comfy now. I don’t want to have to get dressed again.”

“Makes sense.”

“Being a vampire sucks,” Jisung sighs, sounding so utterly forlorn. Until he cracks up, snorting. “Heh. ‘Sucks’.”

…You’re going to throw this book at his head.

Controlling your pun-induced urge for violence, you turn to the next best thing: opening your notes again to re-read your chapter summary – moving your attention away from Jisung once more.

That might be enough, but you can’t help annoying him just a little bit more. It’s just what friends do, after all.

“Still, it must be a rush,” you say, drawing out your words just slightly. “Finding someone. Getting them all alone, seeing that neck all bare and delicious, all exposed–”

“Stop it,” Jisung complains, one hand on his stomach.

“I bet it’s all warm and tasty. All nice and hot, just for you–”

“Quit it,” he whines, mouth turning down into a frown. “Quit it, or…”

You turn to him, raising an eyebrow. “Or what?”

Jisung sits tall, narrowing his eyes at you as he does his best to radiate that terrifying, vampiric aura of intimidation. “I’ll bite.”

You blink, as silence settles between the two of you. You stare at each other, Jisung’s warning hanging in the air.

Before you shrug. “OK.”

There’s a split-second of surprise, of Jisung’s expression faltering in confusion at your response, before he splutters. “What?!”

You close your notes again, and this time, you drop them onto the coffee table in front of you. “Yeah, why not? I’ve not got anything planned tonight.”

You’ve never seen Jisung struck so utterly dumb before, and it brings a strange amount of satisfaction to see him lost for words.

“What?” you ask, lounging back against the couch, the picture of nonchalance. “You were the one complaining about being hungry.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…” Jisung stumbles over his words, before clearing his throat. “Stop making fun of me.”

You tilt your head at him. “I’m serious.”

Jisung stills, staring at you, eyes wide.

You sigh, and tilt your head a little more to the side. Slowly, you bring one hand up to curl a finger around your collar, tugging it down to reveal the smooth, bare skin of your neck. “Come on, Count Dorkula. Snack time.”

Jisung gulps – like, visibly gulps – as his eyes follow your movements. He’s utterly transfixed by your neck, lips parting at the sight.

Something pulls at your gut, seeing such an immediate reaction to your simple offer. You had assumed Jisung would laugh it all off, or go along with the same kind of nonchalance you have.

Apparently not.

You chalk it up to scientific curiosity.

“A-are you…” Jisung stammers, hands nervously moving to his lap. He laces his fingers together, each digit twitching as you can practically see the cogs turning in his head. “Are you serious? Because I…like, if this is a joke, it’s really too far, I–”

“It’s not a joke,” you tell him, firmly.

Jisung swallows, still fixated on your neck. But when he speaks again, his words are gentle, even timid. “…I might…this could be dangerous. I don’t want to hurt you.”

His admission tugs at your heart, just a little. You give him the most reassuring smile you could. “I trust you, dude.”

Jisung’s eyes break away from your neck to meet your gaze. There’s something soft in his big brown eyes, and you’re reminded of just how sentimental Jisung can be – it’s one of your favourite things about him, as much as you’d never admit it to his face. It’s refreshing to be around someone who wears his heart so openly on his sleeve.

“O-OK,” he says. “If you want.”

Your smile widens. “Cool.”

You move to get up – at the very same moment Jisung does. There’s a second of awkward silence, as the both of you stand, confused.

“Wouldn’t…” Jisung trails off, nodding towards the couch you’d been sitting on. “Wouldn’t the couch be more comfortable?”

“I was thinking the armchair made more sense,” you reply, faltering slightly for the first time since this conversation began, but you stick to your convictions.

“How? There’s not enough space for both of us?”

“Well, yeah, but…” you shrug. “You were worried about this being dangerous, so I figured it would be safer for me if I’m on top.”

“On...” Jisung averts his gaze. “Right, yeah. That works.”

“Why? How do you usually do it?” you ask, intrigued despite yourself.

“Uh…” Jisung’s expression morphs into one of embarrassment.

Was this a personal question for vampires? Had you crossed some kind of supernatural taboo?

To your relief, he answers your question soon enough. “Standing. It’s usually…you know, dark alley. Against the wall. That sort of thing.”

“We can stand up if you’d prefer it?”

Jisung pauses. Like he’s debating something. Like he’s torn. After a few seconds, he finally speaks up. “…No. No, we can…we can do what you said.”

“OK.”

You wait for him to make a move, but he just stands there. Waiting for you.

You raise an eyebrow, taking in the sight of this nervous man, his hands still fidgeting nervously in front of him. He looks about two seconds away from wringing them. What a big, scary predator he is. “Sit down, Jisung.”

Jisung’s lips part, and he follows your order immediately, dropping back down into the armchair.

You move forward, perfectly confident…until you finally reach him, and you realise the one thing you didn’t account for.

Your skirt.

Still, no backing out now. Determined to keep up that air of confidence, you climb onto Jisung without hesitation, planting both knees either side of his hips. Your skirt rides up to about your mid-thigh, and you’re forced to stay kneeling a little, hovering over him. Sitting down would probably have it bunching right up around your hips.

Plus, just sitting in Jisung’s lap seems…

Well, it seems…

…You just shouldn’t do that. You’re already very pointedly ignoring how the soft fabric of Jisung’s sweatpants feels pressed against your legs already.

He’s perfectly still under you, almost like a statue – and your new position puts you at just a few inches taller than him, forcing him to lift his chin up just slightly to meet your gaze.

It’s strange to see him from this angle, especially so close. Your eyes wander to that little beauty mark on his right cheek – stark against that smooth, vampiric, almost sheen his skin has.

It’s strangely cute.

He swallows again, and the movement of it, the bobbing of his throat, catches your eye.

“No one’s, uh…no one’s asked me to bite them before,” Jisung confesses.

You blink.

“Like I said, it’s always…you know, all scary alleyways and…” Jisung rambles on, looking away from you. “I always feel guilty after.”

Once again, your heart aches a little for him. There’s no hard edges to Jisung, no guard up at all. He’s soft, and empathetic, and you worry what kind of toll the vampire lifestyle has taken on him.

You’re not sure how to put this into words without sounding gross, though, so you settle for a poke to his shoulder. “Well, no guilt needed here. Got it?”

Jisung glances up at you, blinking – and smiles. “Got it.”

“Good.”

A moment of quiet falls over the two of you, as you realise what’s about to come next. No more stalling, or talking around it. Jisung is about to bite you.

Jisung seems to be having the exact same thought, as his gaze falls once more onto your neck.

You feel something strange in the pit of your stomach, almost like butterflies. That makes sense, you suppose. Of course you’re a little nervous about a vampire taking a big old chomp out of you, friend or not.

“So, I’m assuming you just go for the neck, and…” you pause, trying to think of how to phrase it. “…Om nom nom.”

You expect some sort of reaction to your attempt at levity – but Jisung’s eyes are dark, pupils swallowing up any trace of brown iris.

Jisung leans in, and there’s a split-second of feeling his lips brush against your skin, like the gentlest of kisses.

And then his mouth opens – and his fangs sink into your neck.

You hiss, involuntarily, at the briefest sting of pain – but the sound is almost immediately drowned out by Jisung’s groan at the taste of you.

The noise reverberates through you, filling you with a strange kind of warmth. Already, the bite is having some sort of effect on you. Every ounce of tension in your body is slowly melting away – your muscles relax, your breathing slows, even your thoughts slowly quieten.

It’s not quite like sleep – you don’t feel tired, you just feel…

Content. Relaxed.

And then Jisung’s hand curls around your leg, and you’re jolted back to reality.

It’s one thing to know objectively that your skirt has ridden up, and another thing entirely to feel his hand on your bare thigh, gripping you firmly, holding you steady.

It sparks something deep inside of you – and with every pull Jisung takes from you, it grows. And grows.

Fuck. Fuck.

Your eyes close.

This is doing something to you. This is doing something for you.

The neck is an erogenous zone, a tiny voice whispers at the back of your mind. But that doesn’t explain how every little sensation that comes from Jisung’s bite is radiating through your body – and concentrating at your core, right between your legs.

Your hands reach for his shoulders, shakily, just to keep hold of something while you’re so overwhelmed.

You feel his tongue press against your neck, wet and warm, laving at your skin.

And you can’t stop the whimper that escapes between your lips.

Jisung freezes, his hand tensing on your thigh – but you’re too desperate to explain yourself, to feel embarrassed.

You just need more.

One of your hands darts up to tangle your fingers in his dark hair – twisting slightly as you push his head into you, and you both groan as you feel his teeth sink even deeper into you.

And just like that, Jisung is spurred back into action. His free arm wraps around your middle, crushing you into his chest. His tongue is on you again, giving you little kitten licks that has your core muscles twitching. Aching.

This is torture. Slow, sweet torture, like the worst – best – kind of foreplay. There are no clear thoughts in your head, just a delicious kind of fog that swallows you up entirely.

The hand on your thigh slides higher up your leg, stopping at the hem of your skirt.

You need…you need it higher.

Fuck, you need him to touch you, you might actually die if he doesn’t. You whine, eyes closing as you resist the urge to rock into him. The muscles in your thighs are shaking under the strain of holding you up, of keeping you from grinding down onto him.

“F-fuck,” you murmur. “Jisung…”

You’re getting light-headed, dizzy, overwhelmed with just…everything.

Jisung suddenly tenses, going rigid under you, and you whine in protest when he immediately withdraws from your neck.

You open your eyes to see Jisung staring up at you. His lips are stained crimson, and it takes you a second to piece together why.

Oh, you think, dazed. That’s you.

It takes you another second to realise that Jisung’s stare is panicked.

“Are you OK?” he asks.

You realise that you’re shaking.

“I tried not to take so…I tried to go gentle, but…fuck, that was…”

You’re not shaking from fear, or from shock, or from any kind of blood loss.

You’re shaking the same way you do in bed, when a partner teases you, reduces you to a whimpering mess, and then stops.

Fuck. You’re wet. Wet and aching. You can feel your underwear sticking to you, how damp the material is.

Oblivious to this, Jisung is only growing more and more rattled at your state – at your dazed stare, at your silence. “Please talk to me, I…did I hurt you? Please, I didn’t mean to–”

Your voice is hoarse when you finally reply. “I…I…”

How do you explain it? How do you tell him how fucking ruined you are?

“Please,” Jisung says, voice tight, swallowing thickly, as he confesses to you. “You’re scaring me.”

The arm around your waist falls away, and you jolt when you feel the hand on your thigh withdraw–

You grab it, the motion so fast that you don’t even realise you had done so until you feel his wrist in your tight grip.

Jisung blinks at you, at the way you’re squeezing his wrist so tightly, and his concern morphs into confusion.

You don’t know what to say, or what else to do with his hand – so, wordlessly, you pull it back towards you. Under your skirt. Right to where you need him.

The face Jisung makes when his hand meets you, when the backs of his knuckles brush against your underwear and he feels the effect he’s had on you, burns itself into your memories.

“…Oh,” he murmurs, speechless.

There’s the barest prickle of embarrassment as his reaction, and you clear your throat. Already, you’re starting to regain the ability to form words – and form thoughts, honestly – and you’re scrambling to take control of the situation.

So, you settle for a disapproving frown, as if the hand under your skirt isn’t affecting you at all. “You didn’t tell me this was…like, a sex thing.”

“It’s not!” Jisung exclaims, jarred by your accusation. “It’s…well, not usually. I–”

“‘Not usually’? And you didn’t think to warn me about this?”

Jisung blanches, ducking his head. “It…it only happens when there’s…”

He trails off, and suddenly, he’s lifting his head back up – and you blink at the way the corners of his lips are twitching. Like he’s fighting a smile.

Or a smirk.

“It only happens when there’s already interest there. And I didn’t think you…”

…Shit.

Your face flushes, as you realise you’ve been caught out.

“Y-yeah, well…” you flounder for words, face growing even warmer. “You know me. I just like proving you wrong.”

Jisung’s wrist suddenly twists under your grip, as he turns his hand to press his palm up into you. You inhale sharply, as his fingers rub you through your underwear, testing just how wet you are. “Very wrong, apparently.”

“You little shit,” you hiss through your teeth.

“What was that?” Jisung asks innocently, as you feel his thumb rubbing circles into you, searching for something. He knows he’s found it when you suddenly buckle, gasping, and your hand goes flying to the back of the armchair to support yourself. “Oh, someone’s sensitive.”

“Someone’s about to get his undead ass kicked,” you mutter, but the threat is marred slightly by how shaky your voice is.

“Is that before or after I help you out with this?” Jisung asks, and your breath catches.

You stare at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t. He just stares back, complete sincerity in his eyes.

“…Are you offering?” you ask, unsure.

“I’d be an idiot not to,” he remarks. “Especially when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

You’re expecting some cheesy pick-up line, or some kind of teasing remark about how desperate you are. But instead, Jisung just smiles sheepishly. “…Looking at me.”

You blink – and it all makes sense. All those little plays for attention.

All this time…

“…It’s hard not to,” you admit, reluctantly. “Look at you, I mean.”

Jisung’s smile widens, eyes wide and utterly delighted.

You fight the urge to scowl, already embarrassed before you’ve even truly begun, and add. “Dick.”

“Maybe,” Jisung teases. “If you ask nicely.”

taglist:  @buntrsh @liz820 @sunnyville36 @sleepylixie @healinghyunjin​ @randombutyeah @aliceu @laikaya @the7thcrow @woofwoofbangbang @lynx-paw  @im-questioning-my-existence @mainexiii  @springdeity​ @koroleva–rezni​

#straykidsland #stray kids #stray kids fanfiction #han jisung fanfiction #han jisung fanfic #han jisung smut #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fic #skz fanfiction #skz fanfic #skz fic #skz han fic #skz han fanfiction #skz jisung fic #skz jisung fanfiction #vampire au #friends to lovers #halloween #han fanfiction #jisung fanfiction #han fanfic #jisung fanfic #han fic #jisung fic #skz han smut #skz jisung smut #han smut #jisung smut #tw: blood

[emissaire]

✎ geto suguru ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. it's him [sfw]

002. working that hand & tongue [nsfw]

003. bf! suguru [sfw]

004. when he's a tease // i - ii [nsfw]

005. morning routine [nsfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

001. goodbye lily w/ gojo satoru [dc/nsfw]

002. withering aster w/ nanami kento & gojo satoru [nsfw]

003. forbidden you [dc/nsfw]

004. yours, ardently [sfw]

✎ gojo satoru ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. we're a team [dc]

002. to be the strongest is to be alone [sfw]

003. your wake up call [nsfw]

004. the pringle prank [sfw]

005. beneath a shadow, for all eternity [sfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

001. same ground [sfw]

002. withering aster w/ nanami kento & geto suguru [nsfw]

003. goodbye lily w/ geto suguru [dc/nsfw]

004. all night [nsfw]

✎ nanami kento ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. lose yourself [nsfw ]

002. where his good girl at? [sfw]

003. slipping resolve [nsfw]

004. boys my age could never [nsfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

001. amber tint to your rose [dc/nsfw]

002. perfect present [nsfw ]

003. withering aster w/ geto suguru & gojo satoru [nsfw]

004. start your day [nsfw]

✎ fushiguro toji ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. being toji's prettiest girl [nsfw]

002. bestfriend's dad [nsfw]

003. being toji's dumb baby [nsfw]

004. pretty red lace [nsfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

001. taste of gerbera [nsfw]

✎ ryomen sukuna ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

000. page empty

⌦ one/two-shots

000. page empty

✎ kamo choso ↷↷

⌦ drabbles/headcanons/thirsts

001. choso-nii [dc/nsfw]

⌦ one/two-shots

000. page empty

✎ miscellaneous ↷↷

⌦ chaptered fics

001. amour éternel [nsfw] : on - going

002. lewisia on my path [sfw] : on - going

003. teacher series [nsfw] : on - going

004. is it hot in here? [sfw] : i // ii

⌦ social media au

001. you, me & a treat – (gojo, nanami, geto) ¦ (toji, sukuna, choso) ¦ (megumi, itadori, inumaki)

002. boyfriend who? – (gojo, nanami, geto) ¦ (inumaki, itadori, megumi)

003. random texts with the jjk men - (toji, nanami, geto, gojo)

004. random texts with my top 5 faves from tr and jjk - (toji, nanami, geto, gojo, sukuna)

⌦ multiple characters

001. exploiting jjk men on tiktok [sfw]

002. satosugu calling you mommy in public [sfw]

003. couple quiz w/ jjk men [sfw]

004. lick, lick, lick - geto, nanami, gojo [sfw]

005. sex tapes - gojo, nanami, toji, geto, choso [nsfw]

006. my own siren - itadori, inumaki, gojo, nanami, geto, megumi [sfw]

007. juicy and cold - toji, nanami, geto, gojo, choso [nsfw]

008. needy jjk men - nanami, choso, toji, geto, gojo [nsfw]

009. jjk men and soundwave tattoos [sfw]

010. risqué photos [nsfw]

©emissaire - all rights reserved

#masterlist #jujutsu kaisen masterlist #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jjk masterlist #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

[nakaharaxchuuya-blog]

for @silxntrabiddog continued from here

Days passed, and slowly, the moment Chuuya will need to come back to his university classes inched closer. The week together helped him and little Ryuu grow to understand one another better. Now, that he grew more and more sure that Chuuya won’t throw him out upon getting bored of him, little Ryuu seemed to allow himself to grow more and more attached to the redhead.

He showed it in various ways, all of which left Chuuya smiling to himself, warmth spreading inside his chest.

Like when he started to wake up with little Ryuu cuddled up to him in the morning, despite them falling asleep in their own beds.

Or how little Ryuu would insist on coming with him to the kitchen, no matter how sleepy he was, and help with making breakfast, even if that help was usually limited to sitting on the counter with a mug of cocoa while Chuuya prepared them food. 

Or how little Ryuu once woke up and, upon not finding Chuuya in the redhead’s bed, went exploring, only to find him asleep by the desk, busy copying notes from the classes he skipped. Little Ryuu tried to wake him, but once that didn’t work, he wrapped a blanket around him the best he could and bundled up beside his guardian, sleeping right there with him the rest of the night. 

And so, when the dreaded Monday came, and Chuuya woke up early and got quickly ready for school, fretting how little Ryuu was going to manage on his own, the little hand tugging on his sleeve startled him as he looked down, before picking the boy up and seating him down on the counter, in his usual place.

“...I’ll be okay.” little Ryuu murmured, looking at him with that sweet, determined look on his face. Chuuya smiled lightly and ruffled the boy’s hair. 

“...yeah? I’m just worried for you... I shouldn’t be leaving you like that, all alone... hey, how about I’ll try to get off early? We could...”

“No.” the boy shook his head vigorously; so vigorously he almost fell down from the counter. Chuuya blinked at him, holding him in place. 

“...you... you need to go to school...” little Ryuu looked down at his little hands, curled up in fists. “...you can’t skip because of me... no matter what...” 

Chuuya smiled softly, dropping what he was doing and pulling the boy into a tight hug.

“...you’re one amazing kid, Ryuu, you know that?” he murmured softly. “Okay. I won’t skip school, and I’ll pay extra good attention there, too, yeah? So you be brave, too. And in the evening, you’ll tell me all the awesome adventures you had today, okay?” 

He pulled back, catching a rare smile on the boy’s usually so serious face. 

“Mhm.” he murmured, and Chuuya smiled back; for a moment, they just beamed at each other. 

“You know what, Ryuu?” Chuuya hummed, coming back to making breakfast.

“Yes?”

“I really like making you smile. I want you to be able to smile all the time when you’re here, y’know? I want you to be happy.” 

“...I like when you smile, too, Nii-san.” 

#silxntrabiddog #;my little treasure [Akutagawa Ryuunosuke] #;withered pages [drabble]

[c-e-d-dreamer]

your enchanted prompt was AMAZING but how about another one inspired by the "please don't be in love with someone else" part

angsty nessian version where cassian is pining over nesta after she decidedly feels like getting back together with her ex eris (cuz I want a lil neris based jealousy in there haha)

Thank you so much for your kind words and for sending this! Two drabbles in one day? I'm on a roll! Even though this has been sitting in my ask box for too long, and I'm really sorry about that. But this definitely has pining and angst, so I hope you enjoy! :)

“And a grilled chicken caesar salad for the lady.” 

Cassian holds the plastic container out across the table, a fork carefully balanced atop it. Nesta looks up from her papers just long enough to take the offered food, setting it down beside her. Cassian settles back into his own seat, unwrapping his sandwich and taking a bite as he watches Nesta work. 

She’s decided to let her hair down, complaining that the pins for her usual updo were starting to give her a headache, and Cassian revels in the sight. The way the golden brown strands curl where they lay across her back. The way they brush against her shoulders and neck each time she turns her head. He can’t help but wonder if her hair would feel as soft as it looks if he threaded it between his fingers. She’s also discarded her blazer, leaving her in just her suit pants and the blue blouse she’s currently wearing. It brings out the color in her eyes in a way that makes them almost sparkle under the office lights, leaves Cassian wanting to stare at them for hours on end. 

“Do you have the numbers for the past month we pulled?” Nesta asks, drawing Cassian out of his thoughts and back into the present. 

“Uh, yeah,” Cassian offers, standing to rifle through his own papers before he finds what he’s looking for. 

Cassian hands the paper to her, and Nesta’s eyes dance across the page as he walks around the conference room table to settle behind her. 

“We had a nice spike here,” Cassian explains, leaning forward to point on the page poised between Nesta’s hands. 

This close, he can smell the vanilla of her shampoo, the soft jasmine of the light perfume she wears every day. It has heat licking up his veins like a wildfire and his throat drying up until he has to swallow hard. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest, and he prays that Nesta can’t hear it. How easy would it be to lean that little bit closer, to kiss that spot behind her ear and find out if it would make Nesta shudder. He could follow the path of her eyelashes as they kiss her cheek with every blink, could count every faded freckle that’s dusted across her nose. 

“We should definitely call that out in the presentation,” Nesta’s voice breaks through again. “Prepare some insights of what we can learn from that.” 

“Agreed.”

“Alright, I think we can finally call it a night.” 

“Finally,” Cassian teases, as he watches Nesta start to pack up all the papers. Even though he knows it’s a lie. He’d spend the whole night in this conference room if it meant he could spend it with her. 

Something about Nesta had Cassian enraptured since the first time she walked into the office, head held high like she owned the place already despite being a new hire. In that moment, he knew he had to know her, so he had made it his personal mission every day to visit her desk. She would send him withering glares and roll her eyes at every friendly attempt, parrying every jab he sent her way before replying with her own quip. He lived for their game, for the way Nesta got under his skin in the most delicious way. 

Over time, those eye rolls turned teasing, those glares and glowers softer around the edges. He got to see the way her face would light up when she properly smiled, got to hear the soft lilting melody of her laugh. He tucked every single one of those moments close to his heart, his heart that stutters and beats just for her every time she’s near. 

“Get home safe, yeah?” Nesta offers, pulling back on her blazer before tugging on her winter coat over top and winding her scarf around her neck. 

“Are you going to the holiday party?” Cassian blurts out, desperate for something to keep this conversation going, to keep Nesta here just those few extra minutes. 

“You think I’d miss the company splurging on an open bar?” 

“I’ll save you a drink then.” 

~ * * * ~

Cassian swirls the ice cubes in his drink around, once again glancing over his shoulder toward the door. He pushes a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a knot there. He’d taken the time earlier to actually brush through the dark strands, made sure they looked nice and presentable, and of course, he’s already messed that up with his nerves. 

At least the rest of him looks nice. Or he hopes he looks nice in his button up and slacks. Mor always told him dark green was his color, that it looked good with his skin tone and brought out his eyes. He hopes she wasn’t lying to him when she said that. 

Cassian takes the final swig of his drink as the song blaring through the speaker system switches over to the smooth voice of Bing Crosby. He’s trying not to look too anxious, too much like a creep, but his gaze goes toward the door once again. This time, he catches sight of golden brown hair moving along the windows outside toward the door. He turns back toward the bar, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering two drinks. 

He can hear the sound of chatter and greetings, and when Cassian turns, he finds Nesta in a second. She looks absolutely stunning in the silver dress she’s wearing, and Cassian’s breath hitches in his lungs, heart ticking up between his ribs until he fears it plans to beat right out of his chest and into Nesta’s arms. 

It takes Cassian longer than he’d care to admit to notice the man standing beside Nesta, the arm wrapped delicately around her waist. Cassian doesn’t recognize the redhead, but he knows a high end suit when he sees one. He watches the confident, sure way the man holds himself, the way he tugs Nesta closer into his side as they chat with Balthazar and Clare and their respective significant others they brought to the holiday party. 

Cassian’s heart sinks at the sight, drowning somewhere deep in his gut. He can already feel a lump threatening to take hold in his throat, shards of ice cutting their way in before settling in a cold, tight grip in his chest. He scrubs a hand down his face and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, like that will somehow help the burning feeling, like he can somehow get rid of the image of Nesta smiling at and tucked into the side of someone that is decidedly not him. 

With a sigh, Cassian turns back around to lean against the bar. The bartender sets the two drinks he ordered down in front of him, and Cassian wants to laugh. Mostly at himself. How could he be so stupid? All those nights he’d lie in his bed, praying that Nesta wasn’t in love with someone else. Of course she is. Nesta is gorgeous and smart and funny and amazing, and of course, someone else saw that. Of course, someone recognized that Nesta deserves to be worshipped every day, and that someone wasn’t a coward like Cassian. 

Cassian tosses back both drinks one after another, setting the glasses back down on the bartop probably harder than is necessary. The song playing switches over to one of the more upbeat Christmas songs, but Cassian finds he’s no longer in the holiday cheer mood. He allows himself one more glance toward Nesta before shaking his head and heading toward the back exit of the building. He can feel eyes on him as he leaves, but he refuses to twist the knife firmly embedded in his chest any more by looking back.

—

Taglist: @moodymelanist @hellogoodbye14​ @nestaspegasus​ @confusedfandomslut​ @sv0430​ @angelic-voice-1997​ @talkfantasytome @azreilsblade

#my fic #acotar #nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #technically neris briefly #but idk if that tag should count here #sooooo we'll go without

[redeyedryu]

The Emptiness

『 The Siren: The Emptiness 』| Raft AU / Siren AU A Your Boyfriend Reader Insert Drabble

Just a heads up that you don’t need to decode the cipher. It’s a background element for the AU that doesn’t directly affect Reader. But this series will be shifting towards darker content from here on out.

Summary: The ocean has never seemed so empty.

It's strange.

You know the sea is a lonely place, that running into others is a rare occurrence. It's something you quickly grew accustom to; something that you accepted. But never have you gone this long without any contact at all.

The ocean is a lonely place but it is not desolate.

There have been signs, however: traces of those that have been before you but also remnants of those that have clearly been living alongside you. And yet...

You stare at the raft that floats before you, weathered and abandoned. It is small—about the size of what you had once started out with—but there is obvious care that had been put into its construction. A worn and well used hammock not unlike your own. A planter full of withering plants—potatoes and turnips that had clearly been cared for long enough to ripen and yet now sit forgotten. A loose scrap of fabric fashioned into a rug...

You have anchored your own raft beside it, taking in just how much more worn it looks up close. You can even see the telltale signs of a shark that had gotten a little too close for comfort along its edge. With a silent prayer to whomever lived here, you board the raft. Unsettling and eerie as the empty vessel is, one should always take any opportunity provided to gain supplies.

The raft is so small that you can circle it in several quick paces, with a small roofed room settled at the center. Inside you find what little items and supplies belonged to the raft's former owner shoved in a little plastic cooler: a couple potatoes sprouting eyes, a recipe for fish stew, and a couple bolts left screwed in a hinge. You spare a curious glance around the small room, at the walls of carefully weaved palm leaves and wood. A handmade calendar hangs on the wall, the only decoration, and you can't help but notice the sixth circled multiple times. You wonder if that day held some kind of significance. Continuing your exploration, there are loose papers scattered about the floor that look to be pages from waterlogged books, ink too smeared and smudged to read but clearly reused by the raft's owner, if the scribbled gibberish and numbers are any indication.

Your foot brushes against something and, looking down, you notice a crumpled ball of paper. Bending down, you grab it and unroll it, not knowing what you expected but not surprised to see more gibberish.

24 9 8 14 • 14 12 15 13 14 • 14 2 21 14 • 13 7 3 6 25

This person sure seemed to really like numbers, didn't they?

With your inspection complete and nothing else of note to discover, you make your way back to your own raft with the little cooler in hand, having gone so far as to stuff the loose papers and stray sticks of charcoal you had found scattered about. Paper wasn't exactly something you managed to get your hands on often, after all; much like its previous owner, you'd take what you could get.

As you reel the anchor up and your raft continues its aimless drifting you can't help but wonder what happened to whoever had lived there. Perhaps they had just met up with people on a larger raft and had been invited aboard? You ignore the cynical whisper in the back of your mind that tells you no one would ever be so wasteful to just leave a raft behind, with no signs whatsoever of an attempt at dismantling or recycling anything.

#Your Boyfriend #Your Boyfriend AU #Your Boyfriend Fan Fic #YB Siren AU #YB Raft AU #Red Drabbles #Red Ert #The Siren #Not sus at all