#Emerald Enigma

[enigmaticvariation]

not to be a petty vindictive little bitch but I'm so happy that the wuthering heights casting is making people mad and causing them to realize that emerald fennel is not all that. I have been in the anti emerald fennel trenches since day one but all the "let people enjoy things" saltburn lovers kept trying to silence me. She's a shitty writer with unoriginal ideas, too rich and out of touch to create anything with interesting social commentary and as we are now seeing had little respect for the source material she's choosing to adapt. If emerald fennel has no haters I am no longer on this earth.

[pilot-boi]

pls tell me the fact about your ocs that they would hate for someone else to know :) or like their favorite color if you want

Anita would probably hate it if her friends found out why she REALLY had to move there from Milwaukee. The accident wasn’t (entirely) her fault, and her friend eventually made a full recovery, but the stigma and rumors forced her and her family out of town

Nick’s only secret is that he’s gay, and he really only keeps that from his family. His favourite color is green, like baby leaves

Demetri is trans and her sister is depressed, but pretty much the only people who don’t know that are her parents. Her favourite color is sky blue

Nero’s sister was murdered by her boyfriend three or four years ago. The guy was caught and charged, but sometimes when his mind is being mean Nero worries that he could become just as bad as that guy

Emerald doesn’t really have any bad secrets, so favourite color it is. Emerald really likes red, cherry red, there’s a reason she uses them in baking so much

Anthony doesn’t really have any secrets anymore. After getting shot all of his secrets became more than public knowledge, they became newspaper material. His favourite color is bright dandelion yellow, or maybe green like pine trees

Cecilia would probably be horrified if anyone found out she actually cares about the idiot gang. But seriously, her only defense against her emotions is her apathetic exterior, having to acknowledge that she cares would SHATTER her

Lena again doesn’t really have any secrets, at least none she’d be devastated if anyone found out. Her favourite color is also purple, same as her hair

[rileyclaw]

emerald trio: enigmas to all, but most especially amity blight

[valentine-cafe]

Can I please get a macchiato? [amab reader]

thinking about buying alessio a cute pair of lace lingere and him getting all shy while getting fucked in it...mmm...

˖⁺. “ dolled-up, filled-up ! ” : 

﹙ top male reader x bttm mercenary antihero bf ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . alessio 781 x male reader !! 🍓 : ﹙ mercenary ˖ antihero ˖ bad boy esque ˖ enigma  character ﹚

he's always been so cocky and yet now that you have him all dolled up and pretty - he's getting shy. 

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ lingerie ˖ edging ˖ penetrative sex ˖ nipple play ˖ rough sex ˖ hand job ˖ creampie ˖ multiple orgasms ˖ mirror sex | wc : 2k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: whoever requested this I am giving you my first born child !! top that top! DOM THAT DOM!

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Leather is his signature, and yet lace makes him a masterpiece.

Your hands trail over the canvas. Eager to touch. Grip. Feel him. Dig you nails in and create beautiful red lines over his fair, olive skin.

“Such a pretty boy. . .” your croon to his ear is met with a low grunt. Nothing of contempt. The pink on his helix told you all that you needed to know. The shivers that vibrated against your palms too. And those emerald eyes staring back at you from the mirror he faces? Oh, they spoke thousands.

The black lace feels perfect against his skin. Looks even better on him. Both in reality and reflection. You run your fingers over his hips and trace them to his thighs. Trailing them into the slip of the garter you simply had to buy with. You stretch it away from his skin - before allowing it to smack back into his muscular thigh.

You nurse the noise that he makes. Your hand quickly slips between his legs and palms at his leaking cock. Slow. Purposeful. Easing that perfect sound into a long-winded whimper.

“Querido. . .”

“I know baby. I know.”

Your free hand finds his jaw. Tightens and yanks so that he stares at the beautiful piece of art your eyes hungrily rove over. “Look at yourself. Watch as I do this to you, Alessio.”

His name on your lips always has him elated, but this made him dizzy. Makes him weakly buck up into your hand that devilishly strokes along his pulsing nerves. You make sure to shove the soft fabric off so that you an see the way his tip throbs. Pink and begging for your thumb to swirl around mercilessly.

You wet your lips at the curve that his back takes. Your hips keenly following by grinding your wet dick up against his ass. Wanting another go at fucking him raw.

“Need this baby?” Your hiss elicits a whine. With a rough shake of your hand on his jaw - you shove your thumb past his lips and roughly pad down on his tongue.

“Said fucking watch yourself.”

His eyes flutter at the rough treatment. If only to cross when you slip back in. Your groan mixes with his series of moans and you buck your hips up to sink further into his tight rim. It mattered not how much he took your cock. He always clamps like a needy little slut.

Instead of the harsh skin-slapping that filled the room prior, you bite on your tongue and force your thrusts to slow. Ease your dick into his gummy walls. Retreat. Fill again. Till your balls tap at his ass gently and he’s whining about you being deep.

Or going slow. You’re not sure yet.

“That feel good baby? Yeah?” Huffs meet his ear. You stutter your hips against the plush of his ass and grin at the moans that fall from him. His large hands grip at the edges of the mirror and he bends slightly. Steering his hips back into your cock and giving you the perfect angle to bury your hand into his messy black hair.

You so desperately want to fuck him until he’s drooling again. Have him bounce on your cock so you paint his insides and thighs white. But this time you want to adore the lace on him. Trail your fingers over the black fabric and feel the way it frames his body so perfectly. Enhancing some of the beauty spots along his sides. Riding up his waist with each thrust back into you. An invite to grip and yank him back against you, if you do say so yourself.

“So gorgeous. God. Do you have any idea?”

He whines at you. You just so manage to hear the low mutter. The soft shut up. So you curl your fingers into his tousled strands and jerk his face to the mirror properly again. Resuming your harsh treatment with hard. Yet slow thrusts. So that at the very least his plush flesh claps with each smack of your hips. Tempered. Punishing.

“Oh no. You’re not getting away from this.” You grunt through clenched teeth. Just like he’s clenching around your dick. Begging to be filled again most probably. As though your slick isn’t still staining his thighs from earlier. “You’re gonna watch. Gonna see what a pretty lil’ toy you are for me.”

The restraint bubbles away. You start fucking him a bit faster. The wet squelching fills the room quicker. So do his moans that catch in his throat or whine out when his mouth falls open and his face scrunches up.

“A-Am - Am - hhh - or fuck -!”

“Say it. Fucking say it.”

The growl comes from deep with you. Rough like the way you start humping his ass. The way you start slamming at an angle - against that one bundle. So that Alessio can’t even buck back into you properly. All he can do is take it. Like he’s good for; in that pretty lingerie of his.

Your mouth finds his ear. Clamping teeth as you speed your thrusts. Cramming your hips into his and using another hand to shove his legs together. So that he’s squished, pressured — all the more to add to the intensity. “Want you to say you’re a pretty little toy. Pretty little whore.”

“I-I - I-hhh - m- ah! Fuck - po-por f-ffff-fuck please-”

The whining caught in his throat is so endearing. You bark a breathless laugh into his ear and yank him back. Stumbling through your bedroom floor and shoving the mercenary onto the bed. Hands gripping at his forearms as you squish him onto his stomach. Rail him from behind until tears squeeze out of his emerald eyes and his moans turn into drooling words.

You know how stubborn he is. Know that you have to force compliments down his throat. The same way your forcing your dick into his thigh ass. Mercilessly slapping. Addicted to the lewd sounds of his ever-taking hole. The slop of your cum all over his thighs. His own on his abdomen. The sheets.

It’s such a mess. And still - he’s the most beautiful thing that you’ve seen. Something you are ready to drill into his head. Even if it takes all night of you pulling and twisting him. Fucking him full so that he’s crying. He’ll repeat your words. Even if he has to sob it while you are pounding him ball-deep.

“A-Am- Amoor-ciiitttooo -! No - N-No puedo -” ( “I can’t-” )

Liar. He always could. He proves it with the way that his little hole spasms around you when you shove him onto his back and bully your way back into him. Fucking every inch in until he’s stuffed full and arching because of it.

“Yes you - hah - yes you can baby. You can. Look at me.”

Your hand reaches down to caress his tear-stained face. You abruptly slam into him. Cram your hips against his and jostle him further up the sheets. Wrecking the bed like you’re wrecking his trembling body. This position allows you to see just how much he’s creamed himself all over. The sticky substance clings onto the material pooling around his waist.

The sight has you groaning. Your hips stutter to shallow. Fuck him full repeatedly while also grinding into that spot hat has his eyes threatening to roll back again.

Your hand takes a quick detour to roughly tug at the trap of the lingerie. Gentleness be damned. You’ll buy him a new one. Buy him five. Ten - as many as he wants. Anything if it meant getting him to squirm beneath you like this.

Skilled fingers brush the fabric away and you give one of your favourite parts of him some love. Tugging at his nipple piercings before hurling a small wad of spit. So that you can swirl your thumb around the sensitive bud and watch as he crumbles even more.

Your name on his lips is so broken. So pitiful. You simple have to dip your head down and suck on his nipples. All while your hips make bruises on his. Pounding his poor little ass into the sheets until he’s crying out all sorts of phrases in his mother-tongues you can’t eve decipher.

“N-No p-pueeedddoo! D-Dios - ah- Por dios - e-es t-aaan profundo -hngh!” ( “I can’t - oh god - it’s too deep.” )

As if you knew what he was saying, you try to bury yourself deeper. Grip at his thighs and fuck into him with your own desperation. A desperation to claim. To pleasure. To remind. You force yourself away from his nipples slathered in your saliva to instead crane your head over his. Shut your eyes, crease your brows and focus all your strength into fucking his poor hole raw.

“Goood baby I - hngh - fuuckk you’re too fuckin’ pretty -”

His moans sound odd suddenly. You let your gaze fall to investigate. If only to be met with the sight of his head flicked to the side. The back of his knuckles covering the lower half of his face. The mere gesture warms your hearts — to think. The cocky bastard. Your flirty charmer of a boyfriend. Shy over being called pretty and fucked in a lingerie.

It’s such a pitiful sight. Such an endearing one. Your hand returns to brush some of his messy strands back. Before clicking your tongue and drawing out your thrusts again. Slowing them so that you might piston him in that way that shakes his body and slams the headboard into the wall.

“Did I say you could do that?” You snatch his wrist and pin it firmly. Giving a harsh squeeze to remind it to stay there. Before you reach up to cup at Alessio’s reddened face. So that you might tilt it up and pour your loving gaze down into his teary ones.

“You still haven’t said it. Please. Baby please.”

Your pleading combined with your thrusts shallowing once more. Rolling and fucking him just right. There was no denying you this time. Not when you looked down at him as though he was every star in the fucking universe.

“I-I’m - I hah -”

“You can do it. Come on. Say you’re my pretty boy.”

To motivate, your slip a grip under his thigh so that you can toss his leg over your shoulder. Invade his space further. Bring your warm bodies together so that you can make him cum again. You’re not sure how long you might last either. But one thing’s for sure. You’re using his body through the night.

His teary eyes meet yours. His hand weakly reaches to cling onto your bicep - and at last, he rasps out in a trembling voice: “I’m . . . I-I’mmm - fuck -” he gasps at your little spank to his ass.

“I’m your pretty - your p-pretty boy youur prettyy boy - ah!”

You have to reward him by cramming your hips into his. Snatch at his cock and pump him until he’s creaming all over again. The sobs that leave his lips as he tosses his head back into the sheets makes all the strain in your muscles worth it.

No - the sight of him laying there. In that black lingerie that has nothing on his beauty - taking it like your good, pretty boy. That is what makes everything worth it.

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[dreamingkitsunewrites]

A "The Picture of Dorian Gray"!- inspired Nanami fic in two acts (From my Jjk Penny Dreadful Series-here)

*°࿐ Synopsis: After a harrowing escape from the hell of Shibuya, Nanami Kento finds a dark, twisted method to conceal the deep wounds forever etched on his flesh and spirit. He relocates to Malaysia, shedding his former identity in search of s fresh start, driven by the allure of an hedonistic lifestyle. He quickly resigns himself to a solitary existence, prioritising secrecy above all else's -that is, until one evening at the theatre, when your paths fatefully cross. What will happen next in this unfolding tale of tragedy and rebirth?

*°࿐Tags: Act 2- Nsfw + dark content (Katoptronophilia- mirror kink, softdom!nanami, fem! masturbation, pinv, breeding kink, graphic description of scar and injuries)

This work is part of the SPOOKINKY 2024 event hosted by @tsukimefuku 🖤

"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic (...)Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." -Oscar Wilde

࿐✧˖*° Fic Moodboard here✧˖*°࿐

Beneath the dim, flickering glow of the bakery where you work everyday, you move like a shadow, wiping the counter where the day’s sweet offerings linger—croissants, chocolate éclairs—fragrant remnants of a life half-lived. The scent clings to you, comforting yet oppressive, as you linger on the past. A year has passed since you fled into this quiet corner of Malaysia, seeking escape, yearning for the hum of the ocean outside your window. Here, in the solitude of this bakery, you’ve become a ghost—part of the background, invisible to all but the clock and the empty tables.

Yet tonight, something stirs deep within you. At the end of your shift, you return to your cozy apartment, heading to your bedroom to let your fingers graze the golden ticket on your nightstand, a silent promise of a dream that has been lingering in your personal space for weeks: The Tempest. Tonight, the magic of Shakespeare’s world will finally become your own. You slip into the emerald night dress you bought for this occasion, catching a fleeting glimpse of a brand new woman reborn in the mirror, staring back with a defiant gaze.

…

The air of the theater hums with electricity as you step inside, your dress shimmering like a forest at dusk. Eyes turn, glances linger. The crowd falls into a hush, a soft murmur ripples through the room. You feel their gaze—a strange, unknown sensation, both exhilarating and disquieting- you’re definitely not used to being the focus of the attention around you. As you navigate the rows to your seat, eager to find yours and hide among the crowd of faces, a chill runs down your spine. There, across the balcony, a familiar figure watches you—a tall, elegant man, poised in a timeless black tuxedo.The tailored jacket hugs his athletic frame,  the deep midnight black fabric contrasting strikingly with his fair complexion. A white pocket square elegantly peeks out from the breast pocket, while a finely knotted bow tie adds a sophisticated touch. His reserved nature, shadowed by a hint of intrigue, seems to enchant every woman in the auditorium, inviting curiosity from all who cross his path. With an air of mystery that surrounds him, he garners attention effortlessly, embodying both charm and enigma in every subtle movement.

It’s him—Mr. Nanami, the enigmatic man who has haunted the bakery for months. Always at his corner table, always with a book in hand, always distant, as though carved from some distant age. His gaze is now fixed on you, unblinking, his caramel eyes drinking in every movement you make. Even among the crowd, he is a statue, an artifact of mystery, his blonde hair gleaming under the theater’s lights, his presence too immense to ignore.

«If by your Art, my dearest father, you have

put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,

But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,

Dashes the fire out.»

The character of Miranda finally speaks, signalling the start of the play. Lights go off, the world fading into darkness around you, but his gaze never wavers. It pulses between you, an electric current that thrums in your chest. Even as the actors bring the stage to life, Nanami’s attention is all on you. His eyes trace the delicate curve of your neck, they notice the way the silk of your dress clings to your feminine figure—every movement, every breath amplified. In the silence between the scenes, memories of brief encounters in the bakery flood both of your minds—small gestures, the fleeting brush of hands as you served his command. Every mundane act now seems to acquire a deeper meaning, hinting at the long buried electricity now resurfacing in all of its power.

The actors' words echo in your mind, their tale of rediscovery mirroring your own. You feel the thread between you and Nanami tighten with each passing scene. Your heartrate is accelerates inexplicably, his hands itch imperceptibly. By the play's end, the applause is drowned by the weight of his gaze, a fleeting glance that feels like an unspoken invitation. The crowd fades, and you are lost in the depths of his eyes—amber pools that seem to hold unspeakable secrets. What darkness lingers behind them? What truths lie hidden beneath his composed exterior?

In that moment, you are both spectator and part of the story, caught between the stage and the gaze of the man who watches you from the shadows, as if you are both part of the same forgotten tale.

The applause swells, a rising tide of sound that drowns everything around you. The faces blur, the claps echo like thunder, and your senses are swept into the frenzy. Yet, goosebumps rise along your exposed back, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. In the midst of chaos, your consciousness fails to identify the tall figure slipping quietly behind you, a shadow stretching long across your seat. But your body doesn't: every fiber of your being tenses in alert, time stretching as if waiting for something to happen at any moment.

Nanami’s hand lingers for a heartbeat before resting on your shoulder, a firm, yet gentle touch. The unexpected pressure makes you gasp, the sound barely a whisper.

"Mr. Nanami... What a surprise," you murmur, turning to face him, your voice trembling like a prayer as you feign surprise. His name spills from your lips, the remnants of the performance still thick in the air.

"Good evening, Mrs... I apologize for the intrusion," he says, his tone softer than you expected. "I saw you in the crowd and... I couldn't resist."

His apology is followed by a smile—small, sincere, and unlike the elusive stranger you’ve come to know. You blink in disbelief, caught off guard by this sudden warmth.

"Good evening," you reply, your words stammered. "No need to apologize. I’m glad you noticed me." Beneath the surface, you are deeply surprised by the fact that he did really recognize you, a simple waitress, a face everyone easily forgets.

He chuckles softly, eyes flickering with interest as he watches you. "The actors were amazing tonight, weren't they?" he continues, easing into the conversation. " Yes, indeed” you answer “I've always been fond of drama... the way music, scenery, poetry, and dance all blend into one living thing."

He catches the spark igniting your eyes as you speak, lost in your own enthusiasm. "Yes, I think it's the perfect kind of art... a fusion of all forms. A single experience woven from many threads."

He watches you, entranced by your remarkable passion for arts. Nanami always secretly thought you looked beautiful, admiring your kind nature from afar while you served tables at the bakey. But tonight he can't help feeling drawn to your every movement, noticing every detail of you, the most attractive woman he has ever laid eyes on in a while. Suddenly a low chuckle escapes him, catching you by surprise: "A real aesthete, aren’t you? I think I’ve finally found a worthy companion for my abstract musings." He muses.

You smile back, amused by the compliment. "So…you are... an ‘aesthete’ too?" you ask playfully.

"Ah... I prefer the term hedonist. There's a difference. An aesthete merely appreciates beauty for its own sake. A hedonist seeks to immerse themselves in it, to live for the pleasure it brings. Do you understand?" He smiles wryly.

You nod, half-missing the full meaning. "It makes sense to me... though 'hedonism' isn't a word you hear much these days."

At your remark, something flickers in his eyes—a momentary hesitation. His gaze drifts away, as though lost in a distant thought. Then he snaps back,as shaken from a dream.

"I have a question for you," he says, his voice now heavier. "Since you’re so drawn to this kind of topic... what do you think? Does life imitate art, or is it art that imitates life?"

You blink, caught off guard. His question is as profound as it is unsettling. Sensing your confusion, he continues, voice tightening with a quiet vulnerability.

"I know it sounds tautological... contradictory, even. But these thoughts are born from years of reflection, of trying to make sense of life."

He pauses, and for a moment, the air between you thickens with unspoken tension. The weight of his words settles around you, and you sense his inner battle—fear of revealing too much.

"Life is indeed the most intricate of masterpieces," you say softly, your voice soothing the strain in his words. "But I believe we create it. We choose the colors, the shapes, the shadows of our existence."

His eyes soften, a long, silent moment passing between you. Then, as though the walls around him have cracked, he sighs, and his words spill out.

"I’ve always had a special sensitivity... but my past... it hardened me, consumed me. I spent years hiding from it, burying my feelings beneath logic and calculation. And when I finally faced those demons, I realized..." He trails off, the confession hanging between you.

You wait, breath held, as he collects his thoughts. "I thought the pleasures of art and literature were gone forever. I thought I had lost them. But then..." He falters again, lost in the depths of his own emotions.

You try to simplify his cryptic confession. "So... you retired early and moved to Malaysia, didn't you? It's not something to be ashamed of, it's common practice here, Malaysia is such a dreamy place. I myself have left everything behind and fled here…" You try to make him feel at ease, failing to notice the deeper meaning behind his words.

His lips curled up in a faint smile, a touch of sadness in his eyes. How could such a pure soul like yours grasp the horrors hidden behind his elegant appearance? "Yes... escaping a life I didn’t recognize anymore seemed the only choice I had a year ago."

You smile back, unaware of the weight of his past, yet moved by his vulnerability. "It seems like we both needed to escape something,then" you say gently.

He watches you intensely, and for a moment, the shadows of his past flicker in his gaze, along if something else- quiet admiration for your spontaneous genuineness. Then, without warning, he clears his throat, inviting you to continue your discussion elsewhere:

"I hope you won’t misunderstand," he says, his voice low and hesitant. "But...would you join me for a drink tonight? I’d love to continue this conversation... and perhaps share a book with you. If you'd allow me."

You accept without hesitation, the thrill of the unknown surging through you. Walking side by side along the moonlit shore, your steps are light, the air thick with possibility. The evening unfolds before you, a path leading to an unseen discovery, your heart fluttering, unaware of the darkness that lurks just beyond the light of the moon, reflected inside his golden irises.

The ebony door creaks open, a haunting sound that reverberates through the dimly lit corridor as Nanami, with an air of quiet dignity, unlocks the entrance to his home, his quiet sanctuary. Leaning forward, he flicks the light switch, and with a courteous gesture, steps aside, allowing you to cross the threshold. Click. A warm, golden light floods the space, spilling like liquid amber into the darkness, inviting you into the treasure trove that is Nanami's home.

As you step inside, the musty scent of aged books mingles with a faint undertone of turpentine, whisking you away to a distant realm where art and literature reign supreme. The air is thick with stories untold, whispers of creativity echoing off the walls. Each available inch of wall space is claimed by an eclectic mix of paintings, their colors vibrant against the deep shadows. Books of every genre crowd every angle of the refined, tastefully furnished open space that stretches before you. Your eyes widen, your jaw drops; you are mesmerized, trying to absorb every intricate detail of this artistic sanctuary.

"I hope this is to your liking," Nanami's amused chuckle pulls you from your reverie, his voice like a gentle breeze stirring the still air.

"This... all of this... is yours? The paintings, the books, the antiques? How...?" You stammer, incredulous, as you survey the vast collection that feels both intimate and monumental.

"Yes," he replies, a contemplative smile gracing his lips as he leans against the doorframe, the shadows dancing across his features. "This collection is my legacy, the thing I’m most proud of..." His voice trails off, and as you admire his possessions, you fail to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, filled with a blend of longing and admiration. In his mind, your figure blurs with the contours of the most graceful of Aphrodites, the missing piece of his collection, the first soul to step into his sanctuary after a long, lonely stretch of time. He watches you spin around his living room, a vision of grace in a flowing dress that clings to your curves like a delicate drapery on a marble statue.

He could grow accustomed to this sight, to you... And in that fateful moment, he lowers his guard, granting you access to the most secluded part of his soul, a realm he has shielded jealously over the years. "Why don’t you take a tour of the house while I pour us a drink? What do you prefer: Cabernet or Whiskey?" he asks, his genuine smile like a rare gem in the dim light.

"Thank you, I’d like to explore your collection further… as for the drink… you choose, surprise me," you reply chuckling mischievously, a thrilling tension crackling in the air as your eyes lock with his, an electric connection that sends shivers down your spine.

The floorboards creak beneath your feet as you venture deeper into the labyrinthine layout, navigating narrow corridors flanked by towering shelves that groan under the weight of Nanami's extensive collection. Each step draws you further into his world, a place where dreams and memories intertwine.

As you explore, you ascend the stairs to the first floor, stumbling upon a cozy library. A plush, crimson armchair beckons you, piled high with dog-eared paperbacks and a precarious tower of art monographs. The adjacent bookshelf stands as a shrine to literary giants—Austen, Dickens, Joyce—their timeless works nestled alongside a first edition of Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea."

You are about to descend when something catches your eye: A door at the end of the corridor is slightly ajar, challenges you, invites your curiosity. A thrill courses through you, an all-consuming desire to uncover the mystery hidden within. Drawn by an unseen force, you approach, your heart racing as your trembling hand hovers over the doorknob. With a gentle push, you swing the door open, and a sudden burst of light slices through the darkness, momentarily blinding you. As your vision clears, you find yourself staring at your own reflection, an astonished figure in a green dress, caught in the web of shadows.

Stepping further into the room, you realize you’ve entered Nanami's peculiar bedroom. A quilted round bed dominates the space, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that create a dizzying effect, reflecting your image endlessly in the dim light. Your gaze travels, and you find a portrait hanging on the wall—a blond man who looks strikingly like Nanami, but marred by burn scars that crisscross his body like a roadmap of pain, telling a story of flames that once ravaged his skin. His eyes, a deep, piercing gold, seem to harbor the weight of those infernos, a flicker of fire still smoldering within.

“Is this... Nanami?” you whisper to yourself, disbelief coursing through you.

"So you found out..." a faint, emotionless voice emerges from the shadows, and you immediately turn: Nanami stands on the threshold, his attractive features marred by a mask of suffering and resignation. He holds a single book in his hands: The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

"Nanami... I didn’t mean to intrude. The door was slightly open, and I..." you stammer, searching for an excuse. " But…What is this? Who is the man in the portrait?" you finally manage to ask, your voice trembling with confusion.

His gaze drops to the floor, a deep sadness enveloping him. "I wanted to lend you this book…maybe it would have helped you better comprehend this situation of mine. I’ve always related to Wilde’s work…and its Preface holds everything I’ve painfully learnt about life” his words ring hollow in your ears, emptied of any meaning. “This portrait... It represents the state of my soul. This... is what I really look like." His voice is heavy with truth, and the weight of his words hangs in the air like a dark cloud.

A storm of questions swirls in your mind, casting you into a sea of panic, while your gaze flashes between him and the man of the picture "This...  it can't be real. Nanami, what really happened? What is this story about?"

"Please, listen to me..." he interrupts, his tone now urgent, demanding your full attention. "Over a year ago, I was involved in an accident in Shibuya,on the night of Halloween and got severely injured. I barely managed to survive, but half of my body was burned, damaged irreparably..."

He takes a step closer, his expression lost as he struggles to share his truth. "When I woke up in a hospital bed, I took a look in the mirror, and realized I would have never been the same man I was.” He pauses, trying to steady his accelerated breath “ seeing my condition, an old friend of mine decided to set off, travelling the world for weeks in search of a way to restore my appearance. And I thought he had returned victorious at first, when he proposed to me an ancient curse allowing me to channel all of my pain and ugliness into that portrait. So I ended up switching places with the man now hanging above my bed. My friend helped me escape to start anew in this secluded place of Earth, but the truth is that this was never meant to be a blessing…with time I fell prey of the illusion of my appearance, trapping myself in a cage of mirrors, constantly afraid to see my real aspect resurfacing…I’ve been such a fool to forget the real nature of this expedient: a curse will always be always a curse"

He retreats, hiding behind a wall of shame and guilt. "I don’t expect you to understand. You know nothing of the world of sorcery from which I came... and...I wouldn't blame you if you turned your back at me now, pointing at me like a devil…"

As he fights to suppress the lump in his throat, you stand in front of him, your knees threatening to give in at every word spilling from his mouth. But it's in this moment that you see his true nature for the first time—a broken man, whose defenses are now crumbling under the weight of his long-buried secrets. "I’ve missed my chance with you, I cannot hide from the monster I’ve become," he whispers, his voice cracking with guilt and regret.

Without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you. Nanami's breath hitches as your hesitant hand cups his chiseled jaw, grounding him in the moment. It is high time to free him from the demons of his past.  "Destroy the picture, Nanami... don’t let that portrait weigh down your soul any longer." 

Your words provoke an earthquake into Nanami's world: his eyes widen, meeting the compassionate determination in your gaze. "And this doesn't change anything, I’m not leaving…You don’t have to hide anymore, not from me," you say softly, knowing in your heart that this moment could be the key to unlocking the darkness that has held him captive for far too long.

…

His resolve wavers as he gazes upon your lips, mere inches away from his, a tantalizing promise lingering in the air. The last thread of self-control snaps when you pull him closer, pressing your curves against his sculpted form. In that intoxicating moment, he crashes his mouth to yours, a desperate kiss that spills forth your insecurities in a breathless plea for understanding. Lips collide, and the world fades, leaving just the two of you suspended in a cocoon of time and space. 

Fingers roam restlessly, exploring, dancing over each other’s bodies in a fervent embrace, like lightning illuminating a starless sky with passion's raw energy. The kiss deepens, heats, igniting flames of longing as he pins you against the cool surface of the mirror, your bare back shivering at the sudden chill. He looms over you, strong and commanding, tension rippling through his broad shoulders before he seizes the lower edge of a golden-framed picture, throwing it to the ground with a shattering crash. 

The echo reverberates through the room, breaking the spell that held you. As the cursed image lies in shards, you blink to find the real Nanami before you, a man sculpted by both fire and fate, his scars merely facets of a twisted charm. He holds his breath, waiting for your response, his vulnerability laid bare in the depths of his eyes. 

You stay silent at first. Your trembling fingers deftly start to unbutton his shirt, tracing a path from fine fabric to the rough, fibrous tissue of his burned skin. “You look even more handsome in my eyes now,Nanami... ripped at every edge but still holding your original charm, like the finest masterpiece” you finally speak, voice thick with emotion “you’re strong, you can heal. Let me help you, please... let me…” The weight of your invitation hangs in the air, a siren's call that stirs something deep within him. He hesitantly captures your wandering hand, “Are you sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against yours, a silent confession of both uncertainty and deep care. 

In answer, you push his shirt off his shoulders, your hands gliding over the contours of his biceps, igniting a wildfire in his chest long thought extinguished. You offer him compassion and heartfelt affection, and in that moment, he feels worthy of love again. “I am sure, Nanami… give me all of you without restraints tonight…show me you’re willing to start anew” 

“Fuck,” he gasps, his hands gripping your waist, spinning you around to face the mirror. “See how stunning you look? You are too much for me now,do you understand it?” He desperately spits out through gritted teeth “but if you choose to give yourself to me tonight, know that there will be no turning back. I won’t accept being left alone tomorrow...” His breath tickles your neck as he nibbles at your soft skin, pulling back to meet your gaze with a gravity that sends shivers down your spine. “What do you say? Do you accept my condition?” 

“Yes,” you simply breathe out, eyes locked on the reflection before you, feeling small yet cherished in his powerful embrace. “I guess I am the luckiest of  men, then…” His warm breath cascades over the delicate flesh behind your ear, a relieved smile curling against your skin as you tremble between his arms. 

“I could hold you like this forever…” he whispers, tracing the line of your spine with his index finger. His hands find the thin straps of your dress, gently coaxing them down your shoulders. The silky fabric slips away, pooling at your feet, revealing you in all your glory. “You are a masterpiece here, the most exquisite work of art I have ever seen.”

His gaze drifts to the mirror, breathless as he drinks in the sight of your curves, fingers exploring the valley between your breasts, brushing against your hardened nipples with a soft touch that ignites a deep groan from his throat. “Look at you; I’m going to worship every inch of your delicious body tonight, just like a painter brushing the pure canvas in front of him, I will paint your body with pleasure and reverence” With a confident caress, his hand glides down, cupping your sex, igniting a spark of longing that makes your breath hitch. 

“Nanami,” your voice is a prayer, each syllable infused with need as he parts your folds, cool air colliding with your now exposed clit. His experienced fingers start to explore your womanhood and a shiver dances along your spine “So soft,so wet for me already… keep those beautiful eyes open for me,I want you to watch as we create a work of art of pleasure tonight.” his other hand cups your chin, preventing you from looking away from your entwined image.

He moves with purpose, fingers drawing delicate circles on your sensitive nub, escalating your breaths into gasps. “You know, I’ve always believed that sex is a form of art—the highest, perhaps. The sensations it creates, the way bodies merge in a symphony of unbridled passion…” His rhythm quickens, pressure mounting until you scream his name, your body arching as waves of pleasure crash over you. 

“Let it happen, just like that, give in to it, feel the way your body yearns for mine” he encourages you, guiding you throughout your climax with his confident ministrations. “Look at you now,” he cups your jaw, tilting your head to see the beauty of your flushed cheeks and wild hair. “You are alive… the essence of beauty.” His kisses scatter across your skin, igniting every nerve, his hardness pressing against your plush curves, a testament to his hunger. 

His veiny hands unfasten his belt, pulling down his elegant pants to reveal himself to you: a glorious display of manhood, standing proud and ready in the mirror facing you. The base is girthy, the long shaft crossed by a single bluish vein up to the swollen tip, already for glistening with precum “look what your beauty does to me” his hips jacks forward instinctively as he notices the hunger in your eyes “Ready?” he asks once more, searching your gaze for any hint of doubt before entering you slowly from behind, his eyes locked on yours in the reflective surface, watching as pleasure and pain intertwine on your face. 

He’s barely halfway in but you already feel him everywhere, a melding of flesh and desire driving you mad as he fills you completely. A strangled groan escapes him. “fuck, you're too tight… "His eyes flutter shut as he revels in the sensation of your snug channel stretching apart for him, sweaty pearls coaxes his forehead, brows furrowed in concentration “you were made for me.” He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent as he stills for a moment, savoring the connection of your entwined bodies. 

When his hips begin to move, there is no gentleness—only a primal need. He slams against you, each thrust sending you gasping against the mirror, fingers clutching the golden frame for support. Your body turned into a canvas painted with pleasure: head tilted back, throat exposed, breasts heaving with each  fervent thrust, trembling legs on the brink of surrender.  The smacking sound of flesh meeting flesh reverberates, a wild melody echoing in the room as you surrender to the rhythm of ecstasy, bodies swaying in perfect synchronicity. 

Together, you reach the precipice of bliss. The mirror captures the art of your union, an abstract painting of two entwined souls—calling out each other’s names, your bodies slick and sticky, pressed together in a tender embrace. In that moment, you know that this is more than just a union of bodies; it is a celebration of art, love, and the unyielding spirit of desire.

 Nanami’s eyes roll back as he feels you envelop him in a fierce grip, but he forces his gaze open, eager to witness the masterpiece unfolding before him. “I'm almost there…” He announces, grunting in your ear as he surrenders to your magic. Warm spurts of his very essence paint your walls white, making you his in the most primal of ways. He groans in pride and delight when the glass reflects the lewd sight of his overflowing seed dripping down your leg. Turning to face him, a loving smile dances upon both of your lips, the calm after a storm. “That was incredible, my diamond… thank you for sharing this masterpiece with me,” he murmurs, placing gentle kisses upon your closed eyelids, the warmth of his damp hair brushing against your forehead. “You’ve shown me that with you, I can finally find my way back to beauty.” He nuzzles your noses together, laughter bubbling forth as he regards you with a playful glint in his eye. “But I fear I need more from you tonight… are you ready for another round?”

You nod, a spark reigniting within you, a shared yearning to delve deeper into the connection that has blossomed between you in the stillness of the night. Without warning, he lifts you off the ground, effortlessly cradling you in his arms, bridal-style, and carries you toward his round bed, laying you down upon the luxurious velvet sheets. The sensation takes your breath away, and you gaze up at him, wide-eyed with wonder.

He kneels at your feet, crawling onto the bed, leaving a trail of kisses along your calves, thighs, and stomach, until he reaches your lips. For a moment, he pauses, studying your moonlit features, before pushing himself into your inviting warmth once more. This time, there is no urgency; instead, he makes love to you with a tenderness that transcends flesh, his thrusts slow and deep, punctuated by soft kisses and feather-light caresses. You gaze upward at the mirror hanging from the ceiling, capturing your supine figure beneath his muscled torso, tensing with every intimate movement.

In that sacred moment of Epiphany, the truth unfurls before you: together, you and Nanami create a beauty that has always eluded you both, a beauty that defies the boundaries of time and space, a masterpiece beyond convention. You were each other’s missing piece. Each creak of the bed beneath you resonates with magic, a spell binding you to this moment of bliss and rebirth, witnessed by every mirror surrounding you.

“We are art,” you lean in and whisper into his ear, your voice filled with newfound conviction, as the night wraps around you like a cloak, and the shadows dance in celebration of your fateful union.

Thanks for reading this far!🙏

Comments and Reblogs are appreciated 💕

Don't repost my works without permission.

[aventurineswife]

YOU NEED REQS??? I HAVE REQS

model aventurine X designer reader and like aventurine is basically reader’s muse and she legit starts to fall for him

A Beautiful Wager

Summary: As a celebrated designer, your work thrives on inspiration from the extraordinary, and Aventurine—model, IPC executive, and a walking enigma—proves to be the perfect muse. Beneath his charm and confident smirk lies a man of contradictions, and as your creative collaboration deepens, so does your bond. When the walls Aventurine hides behind begin to crack, you find yourself gambling on something more valuable than art: his heart.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn Romance, Designer x Model Dynamics, Mutual Pining, Flirty Banter, Emotional Vulnerability.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma, Emotional manipulation, Themes of self-doubt and trust issues, Subtle exploration of power dynamics.

The golden glow of Penacony’s fading sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of your studio, painting the room with a surreal warmth. Rolls of luxurious fabric spilled across the tables, and half-finished designs cluttered the walls, each sketch a testament to your restless creativity. At the center of it all stood him—Aventurine.

He leaned casually against the fitting stand, his long overcoat draped over one shoulder, golden jewelry catching the light. His eyes sparkled with a mischief that seemed to challenge the very laws of fate. “So,” he purred, voice smooth and tinged with amusement, “am I the perfect muse, or is my reputation doing all the work?”

You laughed, though his question wasn’t entirely untrue. Aventurine had become both a fascination and an enigma for you. As a designer, you sought inspiration in the rare and extraordinary, and he was all of that—and more. His flamboyant charm, the intricate details of his appearance, even the way he adjusted his glasses with a knowing smirk—it all captivated you.

“I wouldn’t call you perfect,” you teased, stepping closer with a measuring tape. “But you’re close enough.”

Aventurine grinned, tilting his head to let the light catch the peacock feather earring that dangled from his ear. “Close enough? My, my, darling, that stings. I’ll have you know, the IPC considers me the definition of perfection.”

“Perfection isn’t always inspiring,” you replied, your voice laced with a quiet sincerity that caught him off guard. “Flaws, contradictions—those are what make people fascinating. Like you.”

For a brief moment, Aventurine’s mask slipped. His ever-present smile softened, and something unspoken flickered in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual devil-may-care bravado. “I’m flattered. Truly. Tell me, do I inspire chaos or brilliance?”

“Both,” you admitted, stepping back to admire your work. You’d chosen a deep emerald-green fabric for his ensemble, tailored to emphasize his sleek frame and finished with intricate golden embroidery that echoed the roulette wheel motif he favored. As you adjusted the final piece, your fingers brushed against his wrist.

It was subtle, but you felt him tense under your touch.

“Do you always gamble this much on your work?” he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place.

“Only when the stakes are high,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

“And what’s at stake here?” Aventurine leaned in slightly, the playful edge in his tone giving way to something deeper.

You hesitated, caught off guard by the intensity of his question. His eyes searched yours, no longer masked by his usual flamboyance. For the first time, you glimpsed the man behind the facade—the vulnerability, the pain, the weight of secrets he carried.

“You...” you said softly.

The word hung between you, delicate yet unyielding. Aventurine’s expression shifted, the cracks in his armor widening as he considered your answer. He could dismiss it, turn it into another joke, another game—but he didn’t.

Instead, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a gesture that felt both tentative and deliberate. “Careful, darling,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with warning. “You might win more than you bargained for.”

You smiled, refusing to let him retreat behind his walls. “Good. I don’t design for safe bets.”

Aventurine chuckled, the sound soft and genuine, and for the first time, his smile felt real. “Well then,” he said, his voice a mix of challenge and admiration, “let’s see if you can outplay me.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as the two of you stood there, a designer and their muse caught in a moment that felt like the beginning of something neither of you could fully understand—yet neither of you could walk away from.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Two Princes

Characters: Loki x reader

Summary: Torn between Thor’s steadfast love and Loki’s magnetic allure, you must choose which Asgardian prince will claim your heart.

Word Count: 1707 words

Prompt: Two Princes – The Spin Doctors

A/N: For @caplanbuckybarnes Decades Challenge. 

The warm golden glow of twilight bathed the room, creating a soft haze in contrast to the palpable tension hanging in the air. Standing in the meeting hall of New Asgard, you felt the weight of two pairs of eyes on you. One gaze was familiar, teasing, playful, and filled with warmth. The other was intense, cold, calculating—yet equally magnetic.

Loki and Thor, two princes of Asgard, stood before you. Each was a force of nature in his own right, and both were vying for something you never thought they’d want from you: your affection.

"Have you made your decision yet?" Loki asked, his lips curled into a half-smirk as he leaned casually against the wall, but you could see the storm brewing in his emerald eyes.

Thor stood tall, arms crossed, his massive frame radiating authority, yet his blue eyes softened as they met yours. "I would never force you. You know that. But you must choose."

You sighed, your heart pounding against your chest. How had things gotten so complicated?

It had started simply enough. You had been asked to keep an eye on the Asgardians as they settled in their new land.

Thor was your first real connection. From the moment he met you, he was charming, kind, and always attentive. You were drawn to him, not just because of his looks or status, but because he radiated warmth. Thor was like the sun—bright, reliable, and so easy to be around. With Thor, life felt simple, like everything would be alright as long as he was near. He would fight for you, protect you, and give you a life of adventure.

But then there was Loki. The dark prince, the trickster, the enigma who had always seemed just beyond your reach. Loki’s attention had been unexpected. He had watched you with amusement from a distance at first, his sharp wit often at your expense. But you saw beyond his sarcasm. Beneath the layers of mischief, there was a vulnerability to Loki that tugged at your heart. With him, everything felt unpredictable, exciting, but also dangerous. Loki was the night to Thor’s day—a storm waiting to sweep you away.

It had been a simple conversation with Loki that changed things. You had spoken about magic, of the realms beyond, and the weight of loneliness. That evening, something shifted between you. His gaze softened, his words became less biting, and his walls began to crumble just a little. The connection with Loki was electric, but it came with a price—the constant question of trust. With Loki, you were never quite sure if what you saw was what you got.

Now, you were caught between them. Thor had made his feelings for you clear. He didn’t need to woo you with tricks or fancy words; he simply laid his heart bare. "I want you by my side." he had said one evening while the two of you stood looking out over the harbor. "Not as a subject of Asgard, but as my equal. You belong here, with me."

It was easy with Thor—so easy it was almost tempting to just say yes. But something held you back.

Loki, on the other hand, was a different story. He never outright confessed his feelings, but his actions spoke louder than words. The way he would linger in the shadows during formal gatherings, always keeping an eye on you, the subtle ways he’d brush his hand against yours, the long, silent conversations shared through stolen glances. He had whispered to you one night, “I could give you the world, if you dared to follow me into it.”

The rivalry between the brothers was no secret, but now, it had taken a far more personal turn. Thor was everything any sane person would want: kind, heroic. But Loki—Loki was a world of passion and danger. You were drawn to him like a moth to a flame, despite the warnings.

“Choose me,” Loki said, his voice softer now as he stepped closer. His long fingers brushed a lock of hair from your face, and your skin tingled from his touch. “We don’t belong in the light. Not entirely. You and I… we could be extraordinary.”

Thor frowned but remained composed. “Loki, this isn’t about power or proving something. It’s about her heart. Let her decide freely.”

You looked between them, torn. Loki, who stirred something wild and untamed inside you, and Thor, who offered stability and unconditional love.

Weeks passed, and you avoided making a decision, hoping for clarity. But it never came. As you spent time with each of them, you realised the depth of their feelings, and the intensity of the rivalry that had only grown between the brothers. They were both so different, yet each one drew out a part of you that you couldn’t deny.

One evening, Loki invited you for a stroll along the coastline. It was quiet, the stars above twinkling in a velvet sky. He looked at you with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked softly, stepping closer until you could feel the warmth of his body next to yours.

You swallowed hard. "Feel what?"

“This pull between us,” he whispered, his eyes locking with yours. “It’s not something you can ignore forever. You and I… we’re alike. The darkness, the magic, the rebellion. You know you want more than Thor can offer.”

Your heart raced. You did feel something for him—something deep and consuming. But Thor's face flashed in your mind. He had been nothing but honest with you, and the last thing you wanted was to hurt him. Loki might be right about the connection you shared, but could you really trust him with your heart?

“It isn’t that simple.” You sighed, torn as you looked up at him.

“It can be. I could be so simple.” Loki said softly, true vulnerability in his eyes. “I know that I am not always the easiest person to be around, but… but you make me feel like who I am may be enough. Please. Please choose me.”

"I... I don't know," you whispered desperately, stepping back from Loki. "I need time."

That was when Thor found you. His eyes fell on Loki, and a familiar tension filled the air. “Brother, I think it’s time we let her breathe. This constant pull isn’t helping.”

Loki’s jaw clenched and you could see his walls coming back up as he stepped back, giving you space. "I won't wait forever." he warned, before disappearing into the night.

Thor approached you cautiously. “I’m not like him,” he said softly, brushing a gentle hand against your arm. “I won’t make promises of worlds or magic. But I can promise you honesty, love, and a life of adventure. I’ll never make you doubt where you stand with me… and I would never make you feel bad if you decided your heart lay elsewhere.”

Your heart ached. How were you supposed to choose between them?

As days turned into weeks, you found yourself reflecting on what each brother offered. Loki was a tempest—a force that would sweep you off your feet, filling your veins with fire and daring you to chase the unknown. You thought of the secretive glances shared in shadowed corridors, the thrill of his touch, like lightning barely contained. But could you ever truly trust him?

Thor, on the other hand, was the embodiment of stability, his presence like an anchor in the storm. You remembered the warmth of his arm around you as you both watched the stars, his voice a steady hum of promises he would never break. Life with him would be simpler, yes. Safer, maybe. But did your heart crave that kind of safety?

You woke one morning your decision as clear as an azure sky in the depths of summer. The choice had settled in your heart, and while it wasn’t easy, it felt right.

You found both brothers in the meeting hall. Their eyes watched you expectantly as you entered.

Taking a deep breath, you looked at Thor first. “I care about you, Thor. You’ve shown me things I never thought possible. But…”

Thor's face tightened, his eyes reflecting a brief, raw ache that he quickly hid behind a soft, resigned smile. "I see. I accept your decision." His fingers lingered against yours, just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his skin—and then he lifted your hand, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. When he released you, his voice was a murmur, almost too quiet to hear. "Be happy, that's all I ask." Without another word, he turned and walked out of the hall, his shoulders squared but his steps slower than usual.

You turned to Loki, nerves twisting in your stomach as his sharp gaze searched your face, guarded but vulnerable, as if bracing himself for the blow.

"Loki..." you whispered, stepping closer.

He gave a nervous laugh, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes that he quickly masked with a smirk. "On second thought, perhaps it's better if you don't say anything." He looked away, jaw tightening. "I think I already know."

You took his hand, refusing to let him slip away. "No, Loki. You need to hear this." “Very well.” Loki braced himself for what he believed was inevitable rejection.

"Loki, you are... impossible," you said, voice catching. "Infuriating, reckless, unpredictable." You tightened your grip on his hand, feeling his pulse quicken under your fingers. "And yet, somehow, you've made a place for yourself in my heart. Against all reason, all logic... I choose you."

His eyes widened, flickering with disbelief. "You... choose me?" he whispered, as if the words were a spell that might break if spoken too loudly. “I do.”

The two of you stood there, sharing a fragile, unspoken promise in the stillness of the hall. But even as Loki's hand tightened around yours, a shadow of doubt lingered in your mind—a warning whisper that he could be as fleeting as a storm. You brushed the thought aside, smiling up at him, hoping desperately that this time, he wouldn’t break your heart.

[rex3o]

The Eternal Enigma 2

a/n: yooo this is chapter 2, I know things are going a bit slow as of right now but dont worry it will spice up lmaoooo but I hope you enjoy chapter 2 pls do like and leave a comment on how it is >:)

Summary: Y/n grapples with her new life in Sukuna’s fortress, where lavish attire and rigid routines dominate her days. During an intense dinner, she confronts Sukuna, leading to a dramatic confrontation that forces her into a perilous situation outside the palace. As she faces a harrowing chase, Sukuna's actions reveal more about his controlling nature. Y/n's return to the palace leaves her confronting the harsh realities of her confinement.

also posted on ao3

>> chp 1 chp3

The days blurred together in a strange rhythm within the darkened halls of Sukuna’s fortress. Y/n found herself confined to her quarters for much of the day, her only reprieve being the times she was summoned to join Sukuna—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was an odd routine, one that gave her more questions than answers. She was never left to her own devices for long; each time she was summoned, the maids would arrive at her chamber with a new, elaborate gown—more intricate and luxurious than the last.

Today, it was a gown of deep emerald, the fabric shimmering under the dim light of her room. The maids worked silently, their hands deftly fastening the dress, brushing her hair into an elaborate style, and placing delicate jewels around her neck. Y/n couldn’t help but wonder why Sukuna bothered with such grandeur. Was it a show of his wealth, or was it something else? She wasn’t sure, but each time she entered the dining hall, she felt like a doll dressed for display.

The meals with Sukuna were strange, to say the least. He would sit at the head of the long, polished table, his monstrous form cloaked in shadows, his red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

The first few days had passed in near silence, save for the occasional clink of silverware on plates. Sukuna barely spoke, and when he did, his voice was a low, rumbling command that sent shivers down her spine. Yet, despite the quiet, there was an undeniable tension between them—a pull that she couldn’t quite explain.

As she sat across from him once more, she found herself studying him more closely. His monstrous exterior, with those four glowing eyes and massive frame, should have repulsed her. And yet, there was a gentleness in his manner that she hadn’t expected. His movements were deliberate but never cruel, his voice commanding but never harsh.

“What are you staring at?” Sukuna’s voice broke the silence, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart race.

“I—" Y/n quickly looked down at her plate, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I wasn’t—"

“You were.” His tone was flat, but there was a strange amusement in his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his chin on one of his clawed hands. “Do I intrigue you, little one?”

Y/n felt a lump form in her throat. How could she answer that? The truth was yes—she was intrigued. He was a monster, a cruel and cursed king, but there was something more beneath the surface. She could feel it, like a faint echo of sadness wrapped in all that darkness.

“I don’t understand you,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Sukuna tilted his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. “Good,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Keep it that way.”

The tension between them was palpable, and yet Y/n found herself unable to look away. She felt torn—between the fear of what he was and the fascination with what he could be. There was a darkness in him, yes, but she could sense the weight of his burden, the loneliness that came with his curse.

As the days passed, their meetings continued in the same strange silence, though it felt as though something unspoken was shifting between them. Y/n found herself growing less afraid, though no less confused. The pull she felt toward Sukuna was undeniable, but it frightened her. How could she be drawn to someone like him?

Yet, each time she looked into his glowing eyes, she couldn’t help but wonder—was he truly the monster he appeared to be, or was there something more?

After a couple days y/n got sick and tired of the same announced silence ensuring tonight will be the night she gets answers. The grand dining hall was an expanse of dark opulence, every inch of it designed to intimidate and overwhelm. Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their candles flickering like tiny stars casting a dim glow over the long banquet table. Despite the grandeur, the room felt empty—just the two of them, separated by what felt like miles of polished wood and cold silence.

Y/n adjusted the blood-red silk of her gown, its luxurious folds clinging to her form as she sat straight in her chair, trying to make sense of the tension between them. The gown matched the embers of Sukuna's eyes, as if it had been chosen to mirror his power and presence. She had worn many such dresses over the last few days—each one more intricate than the last, but tonight, the weight of it felt suffocating, almost as if the gown itself was a chain holding her in place.

She stared at Sukuna, who seemed as distant as ever, a shadow among the finery. His form sat hunched over slightly, nonchalantly cutting into his meal as if the silence didn’t suffocate the room. The tension stretched unbearably as they ate. Sukuna’s movements were slow and deliberate, as though every gesture was a calculated display of his indifference. He barely acknowledged her, his monstrous gaze flicking across the room, uninterested.

Every bite of food tasted like dust to Y/n. She felt like she was on the verge of screaming, each clink of silverware sending fresh waves of frustration and unease through her.

The final straw came when Sukuna’s gaze flickered to her, and then, without a word, he looked away again.

Y/n couldn’t stand it any longer.

She set down her utensils with a sharp clatter, breaking the silence. “Why?” Her voice trembled, but she pressed on. “Why these grand dresses? Why these meals at specific times? Why can’t I leave my room without being summoned?”

Sukuna didn’t lift his gaze, merely continuing to eat, as if her questions were nothing more than background noise. “Why does it matter to you?”

“It matters because I’m not a prisoner,” Y/n replied, her frustration rising. “You drag me here, dress me like I’m some sort of doll, but you don’t explain anything. You demand love from me, but all you give in return is silence.”

He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You think you deserve answers?”

Y/n bit her lip, trying to hold back her frustration. She inhaled deeply, trying a different tactic. “I’m just…trying to understand you, Sukuna.” Her voice softened. “I thought maybe we could try—” She hesitated, searching for the right words, “—to be civil.”

Sukuna’s lip curled into a smirk, his four eyes watching her intently as if she were some amusing toy. “Civil?” He raised an eyebrow, mocking her. “You’re here because I allow it. Don’t mistake this for anything more than what it is.”

Ignoring the bite of his words, Y/n tried again. “Do you like the food?” she asked, her voice softer now, trying to ease the tension. “What do you do in this palace all day?” She was grasping for something—anything—that would open a door between them.

But Sukuna merely let out a humorless chuckle. “What I do is none of your concern. You’re here to fulfill your purpose. That’s all.”

Y/n’s patience snapped.

She slammed her hands onto the table, her voice rising in a rush of anger. “I’m trying to make things better for both of us! You say you want me to love you, but you act like I’m nothing more than an ornament in your twisted little world. How do you expect anything to change if you keep treating me like this?”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening. Without warning, he stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the room. His patience had run out. In one swift, forceful motion, he grabbed her wrist, yanking her to her feet.

“Enough,” he growled. His strength was overwhelming, and before she could protest, he dragged her out of the grand chamber, out of the palace the maids swiftly looking at her in shock and then back their work and out unto the cold night air.

“Sukuna, wait! Please, what are you—” Y/n’s words were cut off as they passed through the massive gates of the fortress. Panic seized her. “Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer. With a cruel twist of his hand, he threw her down into the dirt just outside the gates. Y/n gasped as she hit the ground, the cold earth biting into her skin. She scrambled to her knees, her gown now stained and torn from the rough landing.

The cold night air bit at Y/n’s skin. The sky above was pitch black, the moon barely visible behind a thick shroud of clouds. The forest beyond the castle loomed, its gnarled trees twisted and dead, their branches reaching out like claws. The weight of her fear pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Run,” he said coldly, folding his arms across his broad chest. “You complain so much—so go. Leave.”

Y/n stared at him, stunned. Was this a trick? Or some twisted game? Her mind raced as she slowly climbed to her feet, trembling. “I don’t understand…”

“Run,” Sukuna repeated, his voice more menacing. “You’re free to go. I have no use for a disobedient brat.”

Her pulse quickened as she turned to face the forest. The shadows between the trees seemed to beckon her, thick and foreboding. She took a step, then another, the torn silk of her gown whispering against her legs as she broke into a slow, shaky run.

The farther she went, the darker the forest became. The air grew colder, and the silence was so oppressive that it felt like the world had stopped breathing. Every snap of a twig underfoot made her jump, her heart pounding harder with every step.

And then, she heard it—the growl. Low, guttural, and inhuman.

Y/n froze in place, her breath catching in her throat. She turned, eyes wide with terror, just in time to see the cursed spirits emerge from the shadows.

They were hideous, their twisted forms defying the natural order. One creature’s body seemed made of raw, pulsing muscle, with bones protruding at odd angles. Its jaw hung open, a stream of black saliva dripping from its gaping mouth. Another had eyes scattered across its grotesque face, each one staring at her with an insatiable hunger.

A sudden snap of a branch behind her sent a jolt of fear down her spine. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the monstrous forms of the spirits closing in—twisted, grotesque figures with gaping mouths and glowing eyes. They were faster than she anticipated. Her heart raced, and panic clawed at her chest, urging her to run harder. But the forest was unforgiving. The ground was littered with roots and debris, the darkness almost impenetrable.

And then it happened.

Her foot caught on a root, and with a sickening jolt, she went crashing to the ground. Pain shot through her ankle as she twisted it, the impact sending a sharp ache up her leg. The breath was knocked from her lungs, and for a moment, she lay there, stunned, struggling to regain her bearings.

The cursed spirits didn’t give her time to recover.

She lifted her head, her vision blurred with tears, just in time to see them advancing—closer now, their grotesque faces illuminated by the faint moonlight breaking through the trees. The one with too many eyes licked its cracked lips, its misshapen body trembling with anticipation. The other, its jaw unhinged and dripping with black saliva, let out a sickening growl as it moved in for the kill.

Y/n’s blood ran cold as the spirits loomed over her, their claws outstretched, their breath foul and rancid. Her body trembled uncontrollably, paralyzed by the sight of them. Every instinct screamed at her to move, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Her ankle throbbed, and the gown twisted around her made it impossible to get up.

The nearest spirit lunged.

Y/n screamed, flinching as it came within inches of her, its claws slicing the air just above her head. The ground beneath her shook as the cursed spirits circled, growling and snapping their jaws. She could feel their vile hunger, their desire to tear her apart.

Desperation filled her, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she struggled to crawl backward, to put any distance between herself and the monsters closing in. Another spirit leapt, and this time its claw grazed her arm, leaving a stinging cut as blood welled from the wound. She cried out in pain, her tears blurring her vision as the darkness around her seemed to close in, suffocating her.

This was the end.

Her heart pounded as the cursed spirits, now circling her like vultures, readied themselves to strike. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the agony she knew was coming. Their growls grew louder, the anticipation of their meal driving them into a frenzy.

Then, just as the first claw was about to tear into her, a familiar voice, cold and mocking, cut through the chaos like a blade.

“What would you do without me, brat?”

Y/n’s eyes widened as she saw Sukuna standing just behind the cursed spirits, his monstrous form illuminated by the faint moonlight. The cursed spirits hissed and recoiled at his presence, but they didn’t retreat.

“Beg,” Sukuna ordered, his tone dark and mocking. “Beg for mercy.”

Y/n’s heart sank, her body trembling in fear and exhaustion. “Please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please…”

“Louder,” Sukuna commanded, taking a step closer as the cursed spirits circled her.

“Please! Please don’t let them kill me!” she cried, her voice raw with desperation. The cursed spirits loomed closer, their claws reaching for her.

At the last moment, Sukuna smirked and waved his hand, and the cursed spirits scattered like ash in the wind. The illusion of the cursed spirits still playing through y/n head like clockwork.

He walked over to her, crouching down, and gripped her chin roughly, lifting her tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. “Oh, sweet pet,” he mocked, his thumb brushing over the cuts and bruises on her skin. “Look what you’ve done to your pretty face.”

His grip tightened, his nails biting into her skin. Then, without warning, he crushed his lips against hers in a brutal, punishing kiss. Y/n’s mind swam with confusion, fear, and something else she didn’t want to admit. When he pulled away, his eyes were darker than before.

“You are mine,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You will wear what I give you. You will speak when I say. You will go where I tell you. You are my wife. And you will love me.”

He released her, standing tall again. “Disobey me again,” he warned, his voice cold, “and I’ll let the cursed spirits tear you apart. Just like they were about to.”

Sukuna’s massive form loomed over Y/n battered figure as he stood before her, his presence a dark, intimidating shadow against the night’s cold glow. Without hesitation, he scooped Y/n up into his arms, holding her bridal style. Her body was limp and frail, barely conscious from exhaustion and fear. The delicate silk of her blood-red gown was stained and torn, and her face was streaked with dirt and tears.

As Sukuna carried her, the forest seemed to retreat into the darkness, shrinking away from the imposing figure of the cursed king. His strides were long and effortless, each step resonating with a heavy thud that cut through the eerie silence of the night. The cold air was sharp against Y/n’s exposed skin, but Sukuna's grip was firm and unyielding, his heat contrasting with the night’s chill. They passed through the massive gates of the fortress, the clanking sound of the gates closing behind them echoing ominously.

The transition from the wild, untamed forest to the cold, calculated order of the palace was stark. The cold marble of the palace’s entrance was a jarring contrast to the warm, chaotic woods. Inside, the grand entrance hall stretched out with its high, arched ceilings and opulent decor. The air was filled with the musty scent of the palace, mingling with the faint aroma of burnt candles.

Footmen and maids stood in stark, practiced formations, their faces blank and unyielding as they awaited Sukuna’s command. Their eyes flickered momentarily towards Y/n, then quickly averted, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and dispassion.

Sukuna’s entrance was as imposing as ever. His regal and terrifying aura seemed to dominate the entire space, making the room feel even more cavernous and cold. He carried Y/n with a casual cruelty, as though her plight was of no consequence to him. When they reached the center of the entrance hall, Sukuna dropped Y/n onto the cold, unforgiving marble floor with a dismissive shove. The impact jarred her, causing a sharp gasp of pain to escape her lips. Her limbs, already weak and trembling, failed to support her as she lay sprawled on the floor, her gown pooling around her like a tattered red halo.

Sukuna's gaze swept over her with a disinterested flicker. “Clean her up,” he commanded, his voice a harsh, echoing tone that seemed to reverberate off the walls. There was no warmth in his words, only an icy detachment that emphasized the disdain he felt for her current state.

The maids moved swiftly into action, their faces composed masks of efficiency. They approached Y/n with practiced precision, their movements a blend of speed and careful handling. They lifted her limp form with a professional detachment, their hands deftly maneuvering her as they prepared to take her away. Her gown, once elegant and shimmering, was now a mess of dirt and tears. Her face was bruised and swollen from her fall, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. As the maids carried her through the opulent corridors of the palace, their soft whispers and the gentle rustling of their skirts were a stark contrast to the harshness of Sukuna’s earlier actions.

The journey to her quarters was brief but felt interminable. The palace’s grand architecture loomed around her, its beauty now marred by her recent ordeal. The familiar grandeur of her quarters now seemed cold and distant, a prison of luxury rather than a sanctuary. Once in her chamber, the maids set about their work with quiet efficiency. The warm, soothing water of the bath was a welcome relief against her battered skin, though it was almost overwhelming in its comfort. The lather of soap and the gentle touch of the maids were a small solace amid the pain.

As Y/n laid in the tub, the weight of the day’s events pressed heavily on her. The once-beautiful palace, with its opulent decorations and grand halls, now felt like a gilded cage. The realization of her entrapment in Sukuna’s world, surrounded by luxury but bereft of freedom, settled heavily upon her. In the dim light of her quarters, she closed her eyes, trying to push away the fear and confusion, but the reality of her situation remained a heavy, inescapable burden.

[nincompoopydoo]

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

BETRAYAL — ; PART 8 / 9

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.7k SUMMARY: Awakening in an unfamiliar setting with restored memories, you encounter someone familiar. However, a lingering sense of betrayal clouds the reunion. Meanwhile, Theseus uncovers a concealed message in your letters, hinting at the potential discovery of your location. A/N: Hi everyone! I know I said I was going to put this on permanent hiatus until I was ready to pick it up again, but your girl finished her degree (kinda did badly, but glad it's over!), and now I have ample time to put all my energy of my one brain cell into finishing this series before I fall into depression again lol. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this and thank you for all the love for this series and my baby, Theseus <3 I'm also sorry for ending it with another cliffhanger haha WARNINGS: Angst. Kinda scary shit (I literally scared myself while writing this lol) no beta we die like men. MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Your environment is an enigma through the lenses of tunnel vision—hues of darkness circle in textures, contrasts of colour that dance along with your darting eyes. Your slow mind tries to keep up with your sight, unravelling the mysteries of your surroundings.

You first notice wood. Brown, battered, dim–a wooden beam trailing along the expanse of plastered white walls, grimed with dirt and age. Through blinkered sight, you catch a glimpse of light, dim orange hues casting fluttering shadows on the wall. You see it now, a flame dancing upon melting wax perched on a rustic candlestick. 

Flame. Fire. Heat.

You remember it all now.

Inferno swept through the foundations of your tiny household, leaving you and the fragility of your lungs gasping for air as you stumbled around for an exit. Yet, things were dense, billowing colours of deep grey and red, blinding your vision. You still feel the parchedness scratching down your throat. 

You remember how your hands clambered to grasp something before falling to your knees. You remember how your environment began to twist and spurn before your very eyes, vivid colours of the blaze swirling.

Then, everything went black.

…

…You…

You remember emerald cobblestones—a mesmerising golden statue.

You remember the warmth of the colour red – the trees in fall, the crackling of a fireplace, a desk with scattered papers across its surface. 

You remember.

Theseus.

Dim blue eyes. Sad. Freckled cheeks. Flushed. Brown hair curled and tumbled in autumnal hues. Trees. Barcham trees that line the sidewalk are carpeted in autumn gold. The tenement. His home. Warm, petite, charming. Gardenias. Tea. Your suitcase. Magic.

Little glimpses of returning memories flood your whirling mind like gushing water. It’s overwhelming. For weeks, you sat with a sense of longing, a missing piece, settled within the depths of your mind. And now, it all traces back to the odd familiarity of the man you met on the bus. Perhaps you recognised the glint in his eye when his eyes met yours or the patterned freckles along his cheeks, tinted in blotches of red from embarrassment.

You remember.

Your elbows immediately shift under you, perched as you rose midway, wondering yet blurry eyes moving along your surroundings. You’re in a room, and it’s not your own. Small, humble, solid walls encircle your surroundings. You have seen places like these during the war. You push yourself up, weight now on your splayed-out palms on what you realise to be a settee. It creaks at your very touch, and every little shift echoes throughout the room.

Its walls are far from pristine, with petite flowers scattered across the yellowed wallpaper with tears at its curling edges, perfectly still yet timeworn.

Your eyes trace the trails of sunlight that glow through the room, diluted by a translucent curtain that hangs before a window, shadows of a tree swaying in the gentle wind.

There’s a bed on the far left of the room, narrow and meticulously made with a quilt reminiscent of autumn hues. You can barely distinguish its patchwork from where you are, and it itches a part of your brain – a sense of familiarity.

Before you can make sense of that feeling, you are overcome with searing pain. Tearing through your head and coursing through the very confinements of your skull as if something was begging to break free from the back of your mind.

Eyes squeezed shut, you cannot help but bring your palms to the sides of your head, the heels of your hands harshly pinned to your temples, yet all you see are flashing lights dancing around in the darkness. 

Then, a flash. White. Blinding.

At that moment, you found yourself transported to an apartment. Yellow-bricked, warm honey-coloured hues of Autumn. Golden, falling leaves. Bright eyes, cheeks tinged with a touch of red. Theseus looks at you like you’re the sun. Like you hold a weight of significance, a tapestry to his existence.

“I know I’ve said this a thousand time before, but I’m sorry. Truly. You don’t deserve to be involved in this.”

You feel yourself smile; tears threaten to slip from your saddened eyes. 

“I would usually say it’s alright, but I don’t think I can say it for everything that has happened. But, thank you.” 

A hand reaches for his, gentle and soft to the touch. You feel his fingers twitch under your hold.

“Truly.”

Theseus looks at you like you’re the sun.

Theseus looks at you…

Theseus…

Suddenly, you find yourself in a narrow bus. You see him blinking wide-eyed at you, his expression paled. You had said – no, asked something. 

“No. I don’t think we do.”

You see it, the pain in his eyes, the sadness in his tone. It clenches your heart, but you don’t know why.

That was the first time he had lied to you.

…

You hear your name.

Distant but frantic. It repeats again and again and again.

A grip on the curve of your shoulders, and you find yourself back in the narrow, unknown room you awoke in moments ago.

But then you see his eyes, his tousled hair. It’s him who calls you.

“Theseus?” you breathed, disbelief flickering in your wide eyes. Without a second thought, your hands reach out to grasp his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his dress shirt as if to ground yourself in the reality of his presence. A counterpoint to the disarray within your mind.  

But as Theseus meets your gaze, a furrow forms on his brow, and a shadow eclipses the warmth in his eyes. The frown, subtle yet profound, settles an uneasiness in you. Your grip weakens.

“We need to go. Now.” His tone is cut-throat, laden with urgency, and you cannot help but jolt at his words. You find your fingers slowly releasing their hold as the weight of his statement settles in the room.

He pulls away and reaches for your elbow, swift and deliberately, that reflects the gravity of the situation. His touch is so firm that it prompts you to stand. Questions hang heavy in the air, but you know you’re in some kind of trouble. Yet, you catch your eyes lingering on the dark look in his own, and you can't help but think he's changed since you last saw him. Since you last remembered him.

Something feels…wrong, but you don’t give yourself a chance to even think about it before you’re being led out the door. 

The narrow corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit, bricked walls with a single lamp casting a glow across the space, revealing its worn walls and your flickering shadows. The air is cool, carrying a faint scent of dampness that permeates the space. All you hear is footsteps reverberating along the narrow passage, echoing against the walls. You realise you are underground and feel your stomach lurch at that thought, making your skin crawl.

“Come on.” Theseus pulls you along, the grip on your elbow never weakening. You can feel the tension emanating from him, the stiffness in his movements, the rigidity of his jaw.

You find yourself staring at the back of Theseus' head, studying how the dim light catches on his hair. He seems so different.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask.

He doesn’t respond.

Theseus continues to pull you down the corridor, and you take the time to scan your surroundings despite the quickened pace. You see the occasional rusty pipes that snake along the ceiling, contributing to a low mechanical hum and the flickering of overhead lights that seem to swing periodically at a light rumble that makes the ground shake for a second or two.

Then, he eventually comes to an abrupt halt, revealing a dead end. Your feet stagger back, trying to stop yourself from bumping into him. You see Theseus' brows furrowed in thought, eyes darting between the walls, searching. His fingers trace the rugged surface and abruptly pause as you catch sight of a carving on a specific brick, nearly invisible.

Theseus taps it, and a warm glow emanates from the wall. The carving becomes illuminated, and the wall seems to dissolve into seemingly ethereal dust. It shines golden under the dim buzzing lights. What once was a wall reveals an entrance to an alleyway; it greets you with a rush of cool air and the sounds of the city.

You step through the entrance after Theseus as he beckons for you to follow hurriedly. Yet, your focus is elsewhere as you close in on the intricate symbol carved into the brick. As you inch nearer, the features sharpen, and a sudden recognition sparks within you.

It's a Gardenia, delicately depicted.

Gardenias always had a particular significance in your life, and it’s all because of your mother. That same Gardenia on your mother’s necklace is an heirloom that spanned many generations. It was important and personal to her, and you don’t know how or why it is doing here.

Flowers for your mother – a bouquet of Gardenias.

The bigger picture materialises as if the puzzle pieces are beginning to click.

Your place in the unfolding mess remains unclear, but it hints that you've anticipated the arrival of this revelation for a long time.

Theseus is calling for you, a slight note of panic in his voice, but you ignore his calls, remaining rooted in place. As you watch the glow that details the symbol disappear, you wonder if Theseus knows everything, even though you swore you never told a soul.

Unless…

You still don’t know how you got your memories back.

As you finally turn to Theseus, there’s a gripping sense of uncertainty. His approach, marked by a frustrated expression, erodes the strong familiarity you once held for this man, a trust built in such a short time. With each step towards you, that trust begins to dissipate.

That vulnerability quickly turns to anger – betrayal.

“What the hell is happening, Theseus?” you question fiercely, pressing him for an explanation. 

Again, Theseus dismisses your insistence and attempts to reach for your arm, but you instinctively step back, maintaining a wary distance. 

“Answer me.” you insist, voice growing louder, eyes boring into his.

His gaze lingers on your face, and you watch his expression harden, jaw tense.

“Look, you’re in deep trouble right now and it’s best we leave right now he’ll come looking for you.”

He.

Not they. Not she.

Not The Restoration Movement. Not Morrigan.

Something is very wrong.

And his eyes. You can’t quite place it, but something about the look in his eyes has shifted. They look so different.

In moments like these, you aren’t sure what to do, but you know to trust your gut. Your mind races at the possibilities of how this could all end, and the only thing you can think is to run.

And so, you run.

—

Theseus believes he has only survived through self-deceit – the deception of his ability to stay grounded and keep his emotions at bay. His heart was never to be trusted, never to give in or give up. Yet, how does one cope when a situation relies on promised perseverance but is tangled amid his emotions he suddenly lacks control of in your presence?

Theseus knows there was something between the two of you, but he will never admit it despite his now aching heart caused by your sudden disappearance, even though you might as well be considered dead to the muggle world. The thought of your death pulls his thoughts to the night he first met you, how an unforgivable curse nearly struck you, how you looked at him, knowing you couldn’t have survived if he hadn’t been there in time. 

Merlin, he hopes you aren’t dead.

No, you’re not. He knows it. You’re relentless. So relentless that death would never want to claim you without a fight. So relentless that you manage to squeeze yourself into his thoughts at every waking hour. Every fibre in him wishes he hadn’t let you slip away that day, wishing he hadn’t abandoned you, betrayed your trust.

He wishes you hadn’t agreed to leave.

To leave him.

Now all alone.

Alone.

Theseus was never certain of his feelings for you when you were ambling within the expanse of the four walls he calls home. Whether affections were simply out of pity or was it his admiration for your entire being, your perfections, blemishes, and everything in between. Yet, at this very moment, he couldn’t be more unequivocally sure that his affections are true because presently, you have consumed all his waking days and nights, leaving a hollowed space perhaps once filled by your presence. The constant worry in his brow made his eyes tired but sleepless due to his fear of the worst for you.

Dread fills his senses, and tears threaten to seep through the cracks of a carefully sculpted, hard-headed man he had spent years practising, performing as a so-called war hero. Theseus never let himself cry, especially over you, not even when you parted with a touch to his cheek. Not even when he set his eyes on you again and you were completely unaware of him. 

Yet, it’s the possibility he has lost you forever that he’ll never see you again. Never.

Theseus breathes a shaky breath, fingers clamped in his trembling hand as he tries to remember what he’s been told to do. To find you. To stop Morrigan. To stop whatever mess he has landed you in.

No, you’re not. You’re not dead. He reminds himself again.

The sun had set moments ago, darkness creeping between the cracks of light, shimmering from the candle alight by his tableside and the flames of the fireplace. Its crackling grounds his very notion of stirring into panic. Theseus finds himself tucked in the same corner of his living room, and his couch now houses a collection of books and particular pieces of evidence of your whereabouts.

He merely fears this has everything to do with Morrigan, the Restoration Movement, your supposed living brother and perhaps your mother – also dead. Theseus gains a strong premonition, a gut feeling that your disappearance is all a part of a larger plan than he had initially expected. Your disappearance may have caused a flurry of commotion amongst the Aurors. Still, the ministry has its sights on the movement rather than your supposed connection as more than just your brother, which Theseus feels strongly about. Yet, with Travers breathing down his neck to arrest Morrigan and her acolytes, Theseus needs solid evidence rather than vague instances and misdirected clues that all seem to lead to spiralling trails.

Frankly, his career is at stake, but he couldn’t care less.

He just wants to see you again.

Theseus heaves, fingers carding through his deep brown locks when his eye catches sight of the only two letters that he found to be related to you in one way or another. He finds himself drawn to it, finding the letter from your brother within his grasp for what seems like the millionth time this month. The same words, again and again, were already engraved in his mind.

When he shifts his elbow, the letter catches the candlelight from behind, and something immediately seizes his attention. Something he hadn’t recognised before now.

Inscribed in the very material of the parchment – the symbol of a Gardenia, its intricate lines glowing against the candlelight, seemingly burning. Theseus props up in his seat, back straightened, shoulders tensed, and eyes wide.

Bloody hell…

He scrambles for the other letter, holding it up against the light, eyes settling on the darkened edges of the page only to discover the very same symbol.

A Gardenia.

How could he have been so blind?

It must have been instinct when he decided that the two letters were puzzle pieces meant to be joined. Theseus would try anything at this point.

Seemingly, luck was finally on his side when he pressed the letters together, above one another – new words formed before his eyes, written with burning lines, every curve of each letter appeared between the gaps of the original text to only form a new paragraph.

Sister,

If you're reading this, I'm likely gone, and you're in trouble. Morrigan and The Restoration Movement hide a darker truth. Their agenda involves our mother and a woman named Miriam Monet. I'm unsure of the details, but Miriam plays a crucial role. Stay safe.

As his eyes shift down the page, his heart nearly stops when his name comes into view.

To Theseus,

If you see this, my sister is in danger. You know more than you think.

TAGLIST (tagging everyone who commented in my last post just because it's been awhile <3):

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

@inlovewithfictionalcharacters27

@aterriblelangblr

@yournewmommy

@mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@never-let-them-change-your-self

[brucestalia]

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The portrait of the Wayne household hangs above the grand, winding staircase looming over the manor’s entrance. It has grown over the years, accommodating the likenesses of the Bat-Prince’s many squires. Yet, despite its embellishments, a vague silhouette endures—untouched and ethereal, a phantom of the portrait’s earliest form.

When young master Tim Drake inquires about it, Bruce finds himself adrift in memories of simpler times.

He has been a Prince, a King—even if only in name—a Knight, and, at his lowest, a Sellsword; a warrior reduced to a weapon for hire. How the mighty fall, he muses.

Each mantle carries its own weight, yet none heavier than the one he bears now. The thought stings like a wound.

The al-Ghul lands stretch endlessly—deserts, jagged peaks, and sprawling plains, vast, untamed. 

Bruce first encounters her there, in a foreign wilderness, bleeding and battered from wounds earned in battle against a chimaera horde. Distrust has long been his armour, even against beauty cloaked in mystery, but he lets her tend his wounds.

Her face remains obscured, veiled beneath layers of silk. She introduces herself as Talia, daughter of he who is called Ra’s al Ghul. 

The name is spoken amongst soldiers and merchants alike in hushed whispers, reverent and wary. The Emperor, some call him, a title carrying as much menace as majesty. That night, Bruce camps near the capital, the stars above dimmed by the brilliance of the city’s lights. It loomed on the horizon, a city of impossible grandeur. 

A servant named Ubu ushers him to the bathing house, where the grime of travel is washed away. He’s cloaked in robes—rich and foreign. Alfred’s absence is a thought he quickly buries.

His armour was taken to be polished, leaving him feeling bare – vulnerable, as though the steel had been his skin.

She was there again—Talia—her presence disarming in its constancy. He dined in the Princess’ tent, finding in the warmth of her hospitality, a haven against the desert’s chill.

 Yet, unease coiled in his gut like a serpent. It grew sharper within the Palace walls, where her family’s emerald eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. It was a quiet tension that swelled each time eyes of polished jade seemed to glance into his soul.

Still, he accepted her offer: to become her sworn protector – a knight for the al-Ghul Princess. In return, he gained tutelage under the Emperor and his most skilled generals across the continent. 

But, he draws a line he refuses to cross—he will not kill. Talia understands, though her father does not.

The al-Ghul family defied easy understanding. The Empress – benevolent, poised, graceful, guarded the horrors of ages past. The Prince burned with ambition, bold, to the point of recklessness. The older Princess was an enigma; a riddle he had not yet solved.

Talia was a labyrinth of quiet strength and fleeting softness. She was the one part of their world that made him stay, though he knew he should not.

In time, her presence became a balm for the hurt he did not know he carried.

No beauty compared to her. Not the sands glowing under a silver moon, nor the jewelled skies of the East. Her laughter, soft and unguarded, as she bit into a slice of mango, juice tracing her lips. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she fed him a grape remained long after the sweetness faded. The victorious grin after a spar, or how she let frustration darken her features after she faltered – each a thread more vivid than the last, it all etched itself into him.

She would be the eighth Wonder of the world, if there ever was one, he decided.

Most nights, they sat beneath the stars. He wasn’t meant to linger in her chambers so late, but no reprimand came. It reminds the Emperor of a familiar tale–the mercenary and the warlord’s daughter.

A romance doomed to end as swiftly as it began.

The city adored its Princess. Her dark-armored guardian? Less so.

One evening, she dons a maid’s garb, and drags Bruce to the bustling markets. Without his armour, he feels the land in a way he hadn’t before—the heat of its sun, the press of its life. Spices, songs, and silken scarves weave a reality he might have loved under different circumstances.

She dances with him, her laughter spinning away with the fading music. It is a moment stolen from eternity.

The day of his departure arrives. His refusal to kill has become a wedge between him and the Emperor’s court. But as he treads the path away from the palace, Talia appears.

“Did you think I’d let you leave alone?” she says, a sly smile curving her lips. That is when her entourage unfurls—camels, a palanquin, soldiers, and servants, the unending desert beyond.

Bruce’s return to his kingdom is met with jubilation – a hero’s welcome that feels hollow at the sight of her beside him –  streets teeming with lords, ladies, and wide-eyed children. News of the Princess spreads quickly, much to one Richard Grayson’s chagrin.

Talia’s charm extends to even Queen Regent Lara Lor-Van and the butler, Pennyworth, with whom she hosts tea parties. Kal-El and Zala are won over in time. She is no longer just a guest; she is his betrothed.

Their peace is short-lived. When a former al-Ghul ally orchestrates an attack on the Empress, Bruce and Talia return to her homeland. 

After they end the threat, their union is sealed in a quiet ceremony, and Ra’s al Ghul himself oversees their vows.

But time, unrelenting, soon conspires against them. War breaks out, dividing kingdoms and hearts. She was with child, and Bruce knew she could not stay.

“Our son will be the next Alexander,” she whispers one moonless night. “He will bridge the West and the East.”

He studies her face as if it were a map of a world he would never know again. Perhaps the moon hides in envy of her radiance.

And so, the portrait of the Wayne household remains incomplete. Talia left before it could be finished.

She never returned.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

[miraculousystuff]

Enigma With A J: Chapter 2

𝔾𝕚𝕟𝕒 𝔻𝕦𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕖

Gina Dupaine was on her way home from her late-night shift at the flower shop, the cobblestone streets echoing with her footsteps. Gotham City was never truly quiet, but the alleyways had a certain kind of stillness that made her skin crawl. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the pavement, a stark contrast to the distant wail of a siren. It was a sound that had become almost comforting in its regularity. But tonight was different.

Her ears perked up at the faint cry of a baby, a sound so out of place in this concrete jungle. She paused, her hand resting on her chest as she took a deep breath. Her instincts screamed at her to keep walking, to not get involved, but something in that tiny, desperate sound tugged at her heartstrings. Against her better judgment, she turned into the alley, her eyes adjusting to the gloom as she moved closer to the sound.

There, nestled in a cardboard box, she found a newborn girl, no more than a few hours old, her tiny fists clenched as she wailed into the night. Gina's maternal instincts took over, and she scooped the baby into her arms, the warmth of the child's body seeping into her soul. The baby's cries subsided into whimpers as Gina held her close, her eyes scanning the area for any signs of danger. She knew she couldn't leave the baby there, not in a place where the most innocent could fall prey to the city's darkness.

The decision to take the child home with her was made in a heartbeat. As she cradled the baby against her chest, she whispered a promise to keep her, to give her a life filled with love and hope. The child she had just rescued was the daughter of a woman who had crossed paths with one of the city's most notorious criminals, a man whose very name sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest souls. But for now, all that mattered was the warm, fragile life she held in her arms, and the love she had to offer.

Gina took the baby to Gotham General Hospital, where the nurses and doctors were shocked by the condition she was in—so new to the world, yet so abandoned. The authorities were called, and they searched tirelessly for any trace of the mother, but she remained as elusive as the night that had swallowed her. With no relatives to claim her, the baby was handed over to Child Protective Services, the system designed to protect the innocent from the harsh realities of a city that often forgot to do so itself.

The thought of the baby girl growing up in the cold embrace of the system was too much for Gina to bear. She knew the risks of a Gotham orphan—how quickly they could be swallowed up by the darkness that lurked in every shadow. With a fierce determination, she called Tom and Sabine Dupain-Cheng, friends she had made while they were all students in Paris. The couple had since started their own family bakery and were expecting their own child, a little girl they had decided to name Marinette.

When Gina told them her story, her voice trembling with emotion, Tom and Sabine felt a surge of protectiveness for this tiny stranger. They knew the dangers of Gotham all too well—it was a place where even the most innocent could become collateral damage. They decided to take a leap of faith and try to adopt the baby, to give her a chance at a life filled with love and light. Despite the challenges that lay ahead, they were determined to be her beacon in the storm.

The adoption process was a labyrinth of paperwork and bureaucracy, but the Dupain-Chengs navigated it with the help of Gina's local knowledge and their unyielding resolve. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the day arrived when they could officially welcome her into their lives. They named her Jade, a nod to the emerald spark that seemed to burn in her eyes—a spark they hoped would never be dimmed by the shadows of her past.

With Jade now a part of their family, they packed up their lives in Gotham and headed to Paris, eager to start anew. The city of love and lights offered them a fresh start, a place where they could raise both Marinette and Jade in safety. As they boarded the plane, Gina watched over the sleeping babies, feeling a mix of relief and excitement for the journey that lay ahead. Little did she know exactly how much trouble that innocent face could really cause.

[awriternamedart]

“BWAHAHA-HA- GEPPIE??? SHY?!?”

Serval’s cackle echoed through the building, laughter building as she practically keeled over her desk, fist smacking the wood as she totally failed to contain herself. Wide, emerald eyes blinked at the outburst, slight shock echoing in Sampo’s face as his ramble was completely interrupted.

It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to hang out- Sampo had to get his useless pining out of the way somehow, and Serval was always willing to get more ammo against him- both of them were fully on the “fuck the government” side, and were naturally drawn together in their stark differences from their respective backgrounds.

But normally, she just rolled her eyes at Sampo’s whined out pining- not fully bursting out into cackling laughter. She was struggling to catch her breath, to, completely lost in the utter hilarity.

“You- wheeze- you did not just-” Finally pushing herself upright, tossing her hair out of her face, she took a deep breath. “-just call Geppie shy. We talkin bout the same guy here? I thought you were all over my brother~!”

He had, in fact, called Gepard shy. His exact words were “the gentle, quiet and shy Captain-” before he got brutally interrupted- and the confusion and surprise must have shown on his face because as Serval calmed down, she blinked.

“..oh my god. You actually think hes shy.”

“Well, can ya blame me?! The guy is so quiet, and he's never in the cityyy~! If I didn't know better, I'd think he was avoidin lil ole me!!” Sampo bemoaned, leaning into his palm. But still, he was caught off guard- he had heard all sorts of things about the beloved Captain of the Silvermane guards, and one of the most common sentiments among the wandering people of Belobog was that he must be shy- he rarely shows his face, after all, always out on field. Almost a sort of enigma, who you'd be lucky to see on patrol in the city, who’s touch most constantly whispered over- the betting pools in the ranks over Gepard were insane.

And yet, here he was, with Serval Landau looking so offended at the mere thought of her younger brother being shy.

“Dude- Geppie?? We talkin bout the same guy here?? Sure, maybe when he was a kid, but hes looonnggg since outgrown that!” Setting aside her work, Serval deemed this conversation fully worthy of her attention- this was something she had to set right. “Where’d ya even get that idea??”

“Garnered general opinion- the people are always talking, yknow!”

Serval just snorted at that.

“And ya believed them. Qlipoth give me strength- Geppie. Shy. Shy.” Another snort. “He ain't shy in the slightest. If he wants somethin, he’s askin for it. He's the strongest force a nature I've ever met- ‘n I’ve met alotta people!”

A wrench got waved at Sampo’s face, Serval leaning on her elbow atop her workbench. Snow gently fell out her window, the closed shop refuge to only the two of them in this storm.

“Sure, hes never loud. Unless hes barkin out orders. Observational type, yknow? Like you. But thats a far cry from shy. By Qlipoths name, he's a military captain. If he was easy to mess with, he’d be- well, he’d be dead.”

Something flickered in Serval’s eyes. Blue, icey, reflected back at the world with a burning passion- with pride.

“That man is one of the reasons Belobog still stands as it does today. He is one of the most competent, trustworthy, straightforward people I know, if not the. Do not disrespect him by assuming his weakness."

-

Quiet Nature's Misintereptation - awriternamedart

[pilot-boi]

What’s their (your OCs) favorite food/drink?

Ooooo yes!! Thank you!!

Anita drinks a lot of tea and eats a lot of roasted vegetables. She actually has a vegetable garden that she maintains to help keep her family’s food costs down. But her favourite food is probably apples

Nick is an absolute cliche farm boy. He likes mashed potatoes and gravy and grits. He’s also got a soft spot for mint chocolate chip ice cream

Demetri doesn’t really have a favourite food, but her favourite drink is hot chocolate because her sister used to make it for her a lot when they were kids

Nero LOVES really crappy Mexican food, if he could he’d have microwave burritos and enchiladas for every meal. He’s got that teenage boy diet where he eats anything and everything

Emerald drinks coffee like her life depends on it, especially during tech week and band season. As for food, she really likes baking and baked goods, especially chocolate cake

Anthony has the sweet tooth to end all sweet tooth’s, boy would survive on candy if he could, but he has to make do with fruit (mostly bananas) instead. Same as Nero he’s got that teenage boy appetite

Cecilia likes to say that she only likes things that are as dark and bitter as her soul, but in reality she’s a giant weeb. Girl is out here eating mochi and pocki unironically. She also really likes toast, cause it was the first thing she cooked after moving out

Lena is CONSTANTLY eating, no lie, and her palette isn’t that picky. The day you see her without a bag of Cheetos in her hand is the day she dies

[hoenoredone]

EXPENSIVE GIFTS THEY BUY YOU

tags: sfw, fluff, headcanons characters: gojo, geto, nanami, naoya

GOJO SATORU

versace butterfly sandals

did he see them on tiktok? yes. did he immidately think of you? also yes. he has never clicked "purchase" so fast in his entire life. he inteded for it to be a surprise but this man cannot keep his mouth shut, he blabbered about it the second he saw his order being shipped.

"babe i have something to tell you that i can't tell you"

huge sigh

GETO SUGURU

diamond and emerald necklace

one of his monkeys just so happened to be a terribly talented jeweler with an enormous outstanding debt towards the cult. geto didn't even have to ask, he was simply presented a series of necklaces, earrings, and rings, all for him to choose from. the diamonds and emeralds paired perfectly with the yellow gold the jeweler had used, and the thought of the contraste between the stones and your skin almost sent him into another plane of existence.

NANAMI KENTO

jackie 1961 gucci bag

he's not too fond of shopping, but he'd literally give his right hand for you, so when he sees you eyeing the bag in the shop window he takes a mental note of the name and moves on. he looks it up on the website as soon as he gets home and almost has an aneurysm at the price, but then he imagines the look on your face as you opened the carefully packed present. it's not his hands that buy the bag, it's his heart.

ZEN'IN NAOYA

enigma pour femme edition spéciale

you've been together long enugh for him to be sure that it's because you love him, and not because you're after his fortune or future title. so he decides you deserve a reward for being one of the few good women in the world. he doesn't want it to be something too special, but at the same time it has to be expensive enough for you to know. so he takes his time – in secret, on his own – carefully choosing a perfume that would pair well with your skin, but remind you of who you belonged to at the same time.

[valentine-cafe]

I wanna see some of your characters (*any* of your characters honestly, i'm not that picky and theyre all attractive anyway😍) and their first time bottoming for dom!top male reader because ive been going through that tag specifically and i would just love more of that typa content with your characterss

(Ps. Ive been reading your works for a while now and i gotta say im a huge fan)

. ˚◞♡ 𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆◞ ₊˚

𖹭. a selection of characters when you top them for the first time /top male!reader

꒰ EEE we’re so happy that you like our content! we wanted to write this with all the characters but who knows how long that would take us sobs - might redo this req in the future with even more! BUT YES MORE TOP MALE READER <3 . . . might have gone a bit wild with rishen 1311 ꒱

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ ALESSIO 781 ꒱ is someone that people tend to forget is a switch. top-leaning, yes, but a switch no less. he’s gotta really trust you in order to let you take control though. but when you do? he makes you work for it. the first time you topped him was a late night in his apartment. both of you kissing and making out on the sofa after playing a few games. the last thing he expected was for you to actually fight him for dominance. it was thrilling - but what was even more thrilling was when you won.

admittedly he was a little nervous. it was so new. seeing the cocky merc now gripping onto your arms and looking at you with those glassy emerald eyes of his. “stop if I tell you to - okay?”

but oh he wouldn’t even dream of telling you to stop. he was squirming and creaming everywhere by the time you fucked the bratiness out of him. which took quite a bit in all honesty.

but when you had him there. pinned to his bed and pounding into him from behind. so that all he could do was cling onto the sheets and let out all sorts of noises of pleasure. his deep voice now pitched. whiney.

“a-amor - d-dios amoorcittooo,” he whines out as you milk another orgasm out of him. all while he whimpers for you to fill him up again. splutters about being a good boy for you. it’s like a complete switch up when you get him under you — and the poor thing cums like a fountain.

he wants you to manhandle him. to be rough. mean. put him in his place and make him feel vulnerable — because he let you. and he wants you to fuck him until he’s on a verge of tears. might as well make the most of it, yeah?

mercenary x reader, antihero x reader, enigma x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ RISHIMA 781 ꒱ would be quite the surprise for you as well. one would think that someone of her demeanour is a top dom, right? she’s a switch — she can quickly flip between being the mommy making you hump her high heel or the pillow princess.

listen, she also needs some taking care of. especially with how hard she works. so when you offered to top for the first time she wasn’t too opposed. doesn’t mean she didn’t make you work for it a little.

she can be a brat too — but one who backs off immediately when they know they’ve met their match. needless to say, when you had her bouncing on your dick and digging her black nails down your shoulders and back, she had long since given in.

“f-fuck - fuck anh doll - please - please can’tcantt-” she’d bury her face into your neck to try and hide her noises. you’d have to stop her from rolling her hips down and trying to please you instead. murmuring to her ear about how tonight was about her.

you’d push her into the pillow eventually. letting her rest comfortably while you did the work. being mindful of how overstimulated she can get and making sure to eat her out nice and slowly when it was all over. all so she could gasp into the air about how perfect you were while clinging onto your hair and whimpering.

scientist x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ RISHEN 209 ꒱ is another switch but god is this man a brat. he’s awful. riling you up in so many different ways because he wants to see just how far he can push you. because he’s in for it. whatever your kink is — so is his. he’ll go to the extremes and he wants to know just how far you go too.

so imagine his surprise when you pinned him over his examination table. pushing the dress he’d worn for work up and spanking his red-laced ass. how you tied his hands behind his back with his lab coat. pushing into him without a care and rutting his poor, bratty hole until he was creaming all over.

he’s sensitive. beyond sensitive. by the second climax he’d be whining for you. spluttering out apologies and trying to earn your favour. if only to grin at you all tiredly and splutter out a firm no when you asked if he was “really sorry?”

strap his wrists down to that examination table and make him fuck his hips back into you. make him work for it as he cries and whines to cum. because here's a beautiful thing about the scientist - he can’t make himself cum.

“p-please- por favor p-porr favv- hngh b-baby I - I’ll be good pleaseplease hnnhh need t-to cum so bad.”

be rough with him. force him to his knees and fuck his throat. he’ll look at you with pretty maroon eyes and beg even more. all so that you can ram him on your cock again and make him squirt until he’s seeing stars. make him feel helpless. make him feel like all he’s good for is clenching around your dick and cumming all over himself. he’ll love you for it.

mad scientist x reader, moth-mantis-spider monster x reader, yandere x reader, villain x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ HAITĀO 99484 ꒱ is a bottom who was more than thrilled to have you top. he did inform you of his scoliosis before hand, reminding you that while he did have quite the stamina as a reaper, to just not overdo it because of the pains in his back.

as such you’d make sure to lay him back nice and comfortably. your first time with him was rather slow and tender. mostly because you were a little afraid of hurting him.

he’s whiney. vocal. making sure that you know just how much he’s enjoying it. the way he keeps pressing desperate little kisses down your throat and stirring his hips up into you tells you that he wants you to feel just as good.

might at one point beg to take a break just so he can suck you off for a bit. he loves the feeling of your hand in his hair and gently guiding him. and his mouth? fuck it was heaven, he definitely knows what’s doing.

would eventually offer to ride you after. which you were a little hesitant about because of his condition — but he assured you that he’d be fine. so the night would drone on with your back against the headboard and arms hooked around you. kissing and whining into each other’s mouths as he bounces at the pace you set for him.

“s-s’good gege - gege,” he whines, creaming all over your abdomen again as he rocks his hips sloppily. “m-more please - please gege, promise I won’t break, please?”

grim reaper x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ YIZÉ 9948E ꒱ is another switch who really loves the rough treatment. he really likes the fighting for dominance. however, he might find himself in some conditions where he just wishes to be pampered and taken care of.

your first time topping was the former. he’s a mercenary and a reaper — he had you pinned and taking his dick first - if only for the tables to be turned before he even knew it. slammed into the sheets and forced to stay still as you snatched a pair of handcuffs he always seems to keep in his drawer.

oh he loved the way you took charge. how you degraded him. bit into his neck and shoulders. spanked and clawed and made his eyes roll back as you pounded him into his own sheets.

all so that he was drooling. all so that he could barely whine out your name. and when you’d slow - thinking he had enough?

why he’d grunt at you to keep going. maybe even call you a bit of a coward.

“wh-what? done? can’t fuck me right yeah?” would quickly turn into a series of gasps and sobs and - “s-sorryssooryy b-baby sorry I’m sorry nhhgfuck fuck! please!”

hes’s a loud one. that much you’d garner. until you fucked his mind numb and he was left to aimlessly cling to you. begging you not to stop. . . even if he blacked out. he’s a wild.

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ RISHEN 1311 ꒱ is a switch who just yearns to be taken care of. he wants it rough yeah, he’ll fight you for it a bit. but you know what? someone of his stressful work life and always having to be the one in control. . . he really wants to let go for someone.

he wants you to take it from him though. he doesn’t want you to be gentle — he’ll tell you that too. tell you that he wanted you to claw, and bite and take.

so when you yanked him by the hair and pushed him up against his desk - making him stand on his high heels as you leaned him over edge. pressing into his front and shoving your tongue down his throat. . . oh he was in heaven. how you gripped at his jaw and made him keep eye contact with you. ordered him too.

how you shoved his panties off to his thighs and mocked him for the lace. he’d be whining for you before you even put it in.

don’t expect him to be so pliant though. he’s got quite the sharp tongue. maybe he just likes the thought of riling you up too.

“that all you got?” “fuck hurry up.” just to see how he gets to you. but that would all fade the moment you’re fucking up into him. forcing his leaning body to steady itself on those high heels that are stained with the number of times both of you have come.

he’ll rake his nails down your shoulders. try to hold his sounds until you’re yanking him by the hair and encouraging him. make him ride you while you sit on his chair. fuck him until he’s squirming and telling you its too much. because it’s never too much. you can tell each time you try with withdraw and he instead pushes his hips down and forces his ass flush against your dick. squirming.

“f-fuck me - fuckmeeplease dios lo n-necesito tanto.” ( “god please I need it so bad” )

he’ll let you take him back to his apartment to go at it again. fuck him into his sofa, his bed, anywhere you want. he’s all yours. always. and god is he touch-starved enough to keep reminding you of that. even when he’s all covered in your cum.

assassin x reader, spy x reader, admiral x reader

 

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ DENARA 9819 ꒱ is a bottom who really wants to make you feel good and might tire herself out in the process. she’s so used to pressure and having to perform well so during your first time topping her you had to quite literally pin her down and tell her to stop. tell her that you were gonna take care of her. that she needs to relax and just let you fuck her the way she wants.

and oh once you got that out of the way she was all over you. denara is a freak. you got a kink? sure, she’ll try it out. her only request is that you fuck her dumb and drooling.

she was so loud when you took control and drove her into the sheets. admittedly she kept whining about wanting to ride you so eventually you let it happen. pulled her onto your lap and bounced her on your cock. didn’t even give her a smidge of control. watching as her tits bounced and her thighs jiggled as she whined for you.

“b-baby babybabyyy y-you’re sosooo mean angh- mnhhhhgg-”

she wants you to be mean though. wants you to pull at her hair. smack her. grab her. anything you want. all so that she can look at you with her black eyes all teary and her make-up all messy.

will probably beg to suck at your dick so give her that at least. you’ll end up fucking her throat anyway and making her cum untouched. if only to flip her onto her tummy again and fuck her until she’s drooling and whining.

she’ll probably hump at your thigh somewhere through the night when it’s all over. just desperate for more.

sorcerer x reader, healer x reader

[flight-of-the-sacred-eagle]

So, I’m still yelling about Sonic Prime season 2. It’s. So fucking good?

And not just because someone on the writing team 100% ships Sonadow because, holy crap, so much of that episode feels shippy.

So, full disclosure. Shadow is my favorite Sonic character. Ever since I saw him in Heroes I loved him. As a kid I didn’t notice the real “constantly shifting character” thing. Now, having played almost every major 3d Sonic game (I didn’t play Forces and refused to play Boom), having watched shows like Sonic X and Sonic Prime (again, I stayed away from Boom but I’ve heard it’s amazing), I think it’s obvious that he gets wildly mischaracterized.

He’s angsty, yes. I mean, he watched his child best friend/sister get shot to death in front of him when he was… five (Look, he’s simultaneously Sonic’s age, over 50, and like five- his age is an enigma), that would make anyone angsty. But he’s also genuinely caring, even if he rarely shows it.

Look no further than 06 when he accidentally releases Mephelis because he picks up Rogue to move her away, or when he intercepts Silver so Sonic can go save Elise. He’s actively saved the world three times- SA2, Shadow the Hedgehog, and 06, with him sacrificing his life in his first appearance. And let’s not forget how he genuinely seemed upset in 06 when Sonic died.

Actually, 06 is the best characterization of Shadow since his introduction. And it can basically all be summed up in his own words. “If the whole world chooses to turn against me, then I’ll fight like I always have.”

He’s brooding. He’s harsh. He’s proud and independent. But by god will he fight to the death for what is right. He cares about people, but he uses actions not words.

Now, what does this have to do with Sonic Prime? Well, this is probably the best characterization of Shadow they’ve ever done. He’s still broody and much more reserved, but everything he’s doing is selfless. He’s not beating up Sonic just because.

He’s beating up Sonic because he, rightfully in my mind, sees Sonic as a threat to his world. He isn’t trying to prevent Sonic from saving the world, he’s basically trying to put him in time out for ruining the world.

This is more than proven when he not only realizes that he can’t do something, but he also realizes that the only way to fix everything is to work together. And he actively admit that. Reluctantly, yes, but he says they need to work together.

He’s still angry and is currently furious at Sonic, but… he kind of has the right to be. Interestingly, he actually spoke to Sonic before fighting him (which, side note, was animated amazingly).

And let’s not forget his cockiness. It’s done perfectly. He’s not taking it too far like Sonic tends to do, but him being a smug little shit is great. And I think it really helps to show the dynamic he and Sonic have because he’s just. Not like that around other characters.

Without using words, they managed to show that, despite the fighting that’s happening, there’s a bond between Sonic and Shadow. One that can only be forged by fighting to save the world side by side.

I think it’s also important to mention that Shadow clearly was enjoying his fight with Sonic. Probably because it’s the most normal thing he’s experienced in forever. His friends are gone. Green Hill is gone. The chaos emerald is gone (though I have a suspicion that it’s going to come back at some point. It fell into the void for a reason and that void was shown for a reason. My bet is that they’re going to need to enter the void at some point). He’s trapped in limbo.

Fighting Sonic is a constant. One he desperately needs.

I know I’ve been rambling but for the first time in over a decade, they’ve gotten Shadow’s personality perfectly. Makes me wonder if the writers, or at least some of them, played SA2 growing up. After all… it’s been long enough since he was introduced that the target audience for SA2 when it was released would be old enough to work for the SEGA team.

It also makes me crazy excited for the third Sonic movie. I know they’re different writers, but they have hit the nail on the head with each character, and if a different show can characterize Shadow that well… maybe Sega is relaxing their iron grip on him and allowing him to actively shine.

Also that scene with Shadow falling to the void and Sonic sounding genuinely panicked was amazing. You can tell he was getting SA2 flashbacks. Someone likened the scene to Andrew Garfield’s Spider-Man watching MJ fall in No Way Home and catching her when he couldn’t catch Gwen, and yeah. The emotional impact seems to be the same.

Sonic couldn’t save Shadow then, but he can save him now.

Just… go watch Prime if you haven’t. Sonic fans have been treated well these past few years and I can’t wait to see what comes next.