#Reflection of Unwavering Obsession

[dissapointu]

how about arcane characters with a s/o that has a cat companion. Like his cat is seen everywhere they can go, on there shoulders, runs to the market, gang shootouts( for some of the more morally grey characters in zaun.) ect. The cat is very protective of there s/o and was hesitant when they first met the characters in question, but the the less is a good boy/girl.

A protective, ride-or-die cat as your constant companion? ICONIC. This little feline bodyguard is out here stealing hearts and taking names, while also being suspicious of anyone who gets too close to you. Spoiler alert: they’re gonna be OBSESSED.

Jinx

Jinx would be INSTANTLY fascinated by your cat.

• The first meeting? Pure chaos. Your cat hisses, and Jinx hisses back just to mess with it. “Oh, so YOU’RE the boss here, huh? Let’s see how long THAT lasts!”

• Once your cat warms up, Jinx is smitten, carrying it around like a baby while saying stuff like, “We’re gonna blow stuff up together, kitty. You’re in the gang now.”

• She’d build it little accessories, like goggles or a harness for “maximum chaos.” (“Every sidekick needs gear, babe!”)

• During fights, Jinx is cackling as your cat perches on your shoulder like a tiny warlord. “Look at us—unstoppable!”

Vi

Vi would think it’s hilarious at first, but the cat’s loyalty earns her respect.

• The first time the cat hisses at her, Vi raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you? Just like your owner.”

• Once she gains the cat’s trust, she’s giving it belly rubs and calling it tough-sounding nicknames like “Scrapper” or “Claws.”

• She LOVES how the cat follows you everywhere, even into sketchy situations. “Guess I’ve got competition for best protector, huh?”

• If anyone messes with you, she’s jokingly like, “Back off before my partner—or their cat—tears you apart.”

Sevika

Sevika would be skeptical at first, but the cat would win her over.

• The initial meeting? Your cat hisses, Sevika laughs. “This one’s got guts. I like it.”

• Eventually, your cat starts curling up on her lap while she’s playing cards or sharpening her arm, and Sevika’s like, “You better not tell anyone about this.”

• She secretly respects how loyal and fearless the cat is, especially during high-stakes situations. “That furball’s got more spine than half the people I know.”

• Sevika would jokingly side-eye the cat whenever it interrupts your time together. “I get it—you’re the favorite.”

Silco

Silco would be intrigued by your cat’s protective nature but would take his time earning its trust.

• The first time the cat hisses at him, he just raises an eyebrow and calmly says, “Loyalty. A rare trait.”

• Once the cat warms up, Silco quietly appreciates its presence, occasionally letting it lounge in his office or sit on his desk.

• He admires how the cat mirrors your loyalty, seeing it as an extension of your character. “A creature so devoted is a reflection of its owner.”

• Silco would lowkey enjoy the cat’s protective instincts, smirking when it growls at anyone who gets too close to you.

Vander

Vander would LOVE your cat and its unwavering loyalty.

• The first meeting? Vander just chuckles when the cat hisses at him. “Alright, alright—I’ll win you over eventually.”

• He’d bribe the cat with scraps from the bar until it starts curling up next to him while he works. “See? Told you we’d be friends.”

• Vander appreciates how the cat follows you everywhere, especially in dangerous situations. “Good to know someone’s always got your back, even when I’m not there.”

• He’s always sneaking the cat treats, saying, “You keep looking out for ‘em, and I’ll keep looking out for you.”

Ekko

Ekko would LOVE your cat’s adventurous spirit.

• When the cat hisses at him, Ekko laughs and holds up his hands. “Okay, okay—I get it. You’re the boss.”

• Once the cat warms up, he’s geeking out over how cool it is, building it little toys out of scrap and playing with it whenever he gets the chance.

• He admires how the cat sticks with you through thick and thin, even during Firelight missions. “Your cat’s tougher than half my crew. Respect.”

• Ekko would probably try to teach the cat tricks, joking that it’s your team’s new mascot.

Jayce

Jayce would think your cat is the CUTEST thing ever.

• The first time the cat hisses at him, Jayce gasps dramatically. “Hey! I’m one of the good guys!”

• He’d try so hard to win the cat over, and when it finally lets him pet it, he’s grinning like a kid. “See? We’re friends now!”

• He loves how the cat sticks by your side no matter what, always making jokes like, “Your bodyguard’s doing a great job. I don’t even need to be here!”

• Jayce would probably try to invent something cool for the cat, like a heated bed or a high-tech collar.

Viktor

Viktor would be fascinated by your cat’s loyalty and behavior.

• The first time the cat growls at him, he tilts his head and says softly, “I suppose trust must be earned.”

• When the cat warms up, Viktor starts absentmindedly petting it while working, smiling softly when it purrs. “A loyal companion… quite remarkable.”

• He admires how the cat follows you everywhere, even into risky situations. “It seems I’m not the only one who values your presence so deeply.”

• Viktor would probably get distracted by the cat while working, letting it sit on his desk and bat at his tools.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn would be absolutely charmed by your cat and its devotion.

• The first time it hisses at her, she just smiles and steps back. “Fair enough—I’d probably be wary of me, too.”

• Once the cat accepts her, she’s all about giving it gentle head pats and sneaking it little treats.

• Caitlyn loves how the cat sticks with you everywhere, often teasing you like, “I think your companion’s better at keeping you safe than I am.”

• If the cat ever senses danger, Caitlyn takes it seriously, trusting its instincts completely.

Mel Medarda

Mel would be intrigued by your cat’s presence and loyalty.

• When the cat growls at her, she just chuckles and says, “Protective, aren’t we? I can respect that.”

• Once the cat warms up, she lets it sit in her lap during meetings, occasionally stroking its fur as she works.

• She admires the bond you have with the cat, seeing it as a reflection of your strength and loyalty. “A creature so devoted is rare. You must be someone truly special.”

• Mel would probably spoil the cat, commissioning a luxurious collar or bed for it.

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa would find your cat’s loyalty both amusing and impressive.

• The first time the cat hisses at her, she smirks and says, “A bold one. I like that.”

• Once the cat accepts her, she quietly grows fond of it, often letting it sit beside her during quiet moments.

• She respects how the cat stays by your side no matter what, especially in dangerous situations. “You’ve chosen your allies well—even the furry ones.”

• Ambessa would probably train the cat to follow commands, just to see how far its loyalty goes.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie would immediately be soft for your cat.

• The first time it hisses at her, she’d laugh nervously and say, “Alright, tough guy—I’ll win you over eventually.”

• When the cat warms up, she’s constantly sneaking it treats and letting it curl up on her lap.

• Maddie loves how the cat is always by your side, often joking like, “You’ve got the best backup anyone could ask for.”

• If you’re ever upset, Maddie’s probably cuddling you and the cat at the same time, whispering, “We’re both here for you.”

Lest

Lest would be enchanted by your cat and its loyalty.

• When the cat growls at her, she just smiles and says softly, “It’s alright—I understand. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

• Once the cat warms up, she’s gently stroking its fur and murmuring little compliments like, “Aren’t you a beautiful one?”

• She admires how the cat sticks by your side no matter what, seeing it as a sign of your kind and dependable nature.

• Lest would quietly make sure the cat feels as loved and cared for as you are.

[usagii-bun]

𝐄𝐗𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑. jing yuan x fem foxian! reader (nsfw).

In which Jing Yuan, a man renowned for his unwavering control and discipline, finds that resolve unraveling in your presence — your every move, every glance, every touch igniting a fire within him he can no longer contain discovering an intoxicating solace in the sensual art of your dance, each sway of your hips pulling him deeper into an obsession he cannot, and will not, resist.

word count : 12k (12k words of edging)

warnings: explicit sexual content includes detailed descriptions of sexual acts (fingering, oral—f receiving, dry humping, thigh riding, implied future penetration), obssesed jing yuan, possessive jing yuan, slight power imbalance implied, erotic dancing/ adult entertainment , sensory overload, marking.

minors are NOT to read this story. If you are uncomfortable with detailed sexual content or themes of dominance and obsession, this is not the story for you. please proceed responsibly and at your own discretion.

DO NOT REUPLOUD OR CLAIM my work as yours. i have taken a lot of time to write this and it would be very disheartening to see someone claim something i took so long to write and craft.

anways, please do enjoy and leave a comment :3 reblogs, likes and follows are high appreciated

— usagii-bun <3

The moon hung high, casting a silvery glow over the quiet, cobblestone streets of Aurum Alley. It was a place where the night whispered its secrets, and the air, thick with the heavy scent of incense and mystery, carried tales only the privileged knew. Tucked away behind a discreet set of bamboo doors was the establishment—a brothel veiled in silence but brimming with the hum of indulgence. Even a general like Jing Yuan, weighed down by the armour of responsibility, found solace in the allure of its hidden embrace.

His feet moved almost of their own accord as he made his way to the entrance. Tired eyes, burdened by countless battles and endless politics, sought release in the only way he knew how—a brief escape from the turmoil of his mind. The soft click of his boots echoed, barely audible against the gentle wind that danced through the alley. And there, the door opened, not by his hand, but by a woman’s, poised and serene.

The Foxian lady who greeted him stood in the doorway like an ethereal figure, her beauty transcending time. Her skin was porcelain, her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall, framed by the glow of lanterns. Dressed in silk, her robes shimmered in shades of crimson and gold, the fabric clinging to her form in ways both graceful and alluring. She held herself with an air of elegance, her fox ears twitching lightly with every movement, her tail curling behind her in soft, languid strokes. She was an embodiment of allure, wrapped in silk and mysteries, every inch a vision of untold desires.

"Welcome, General Jing Yuan," she said, her voice smooth as velvet, respectful yet laden with something deeper, something more intoxicating. "Please, allow me to show you the wonders within."

With a graceful gesture, she led him inside, and Jing Yuan, caught in the captivating pull of her presence, followed. The atmosphere shifted the moment he stepped over the threshold. The entrance was bathed in the soft glow of lotus lanterns, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The scent of incense—jasmine, sandalwood, and something sweeter—hung thick in the air, enveloping his senses like a warm blanket, clouding his thoughts and easing the tightness in his chest. The walls were adorned with delicate scrolls, ancient calligraphy curling like the wind in a lover’s embrace, telling tales of forgotten empires and lost passion. Red and gold adorned every corner, the hues rich like blood and treasure, a royal reminder of the power that pulsed through these hidden chambers.

The floors beneath him were smooth stone, cool and polished, reflecting the shimmering silk curtains that hung like veils, concealing whatever lay beyond. The gentle swish of the fabric was like a soft caress, a whisper of something forbidden. There were flowers everywhere—tiger lilies, peonies, and chrysanthemums—arranged in intricate vases, their fragrant petals drifting lazily in the air, mixing with the incense to create a heady perfume that seemed to linger in his very breath.

As they moved deeper into the establishment, the general’s eyes took in the sight around him. Men and women, dressed in delicate silk robes of every colour imaginable, wandered freely, mingling with one another. The silk shimmered in the candlelight, revealing glimpses of soft skin and delicate features. Women draped themselves over men, while men held women in their arms with equal parts reverence and longing. The air was thick with the hum of quiet conversation, with laughter and sighs mingling in a sweet symphony that seemed to be playing just for those fortunate enough to be here.

"Come," the Foxian lady said softly, leading him up a staircase adorned with red and gold lanterns. "If you wish, you may enjoy performance privately upstairs."

Her eyes, sparkling like the night stars, hinted at something playful, something dangerous. Jing Yuan, ever the composed general, only nodded, his lips curling slightly at the invitation.

The night stretched out before you, the rhythmic beat of the music setting the pace for the dance that would soon unfold. Your heartbeat in time with the soft melody, the flickering candlelight reflecting off your skin as you prepared to enter the stage. The room below you were full of people—men, women, all draped in delicate silks, moving among each other in whispered conversations and soft laughter. The atmosphere was intoxicating, thick with the scent of incense and roses, the air so rich with desire it nearly hummed.

Tonight, you were not just a dancer; you were a vision, a creature of silk and allure, meant to captivate every gaze that fell upon you. You had practiced this for hours, days, months—the art of seduction through movement. As you slowly ascended onto the stage, the soft rustle of your costume, the shimmer of the golden jewellery adorning your body, set the tone for the entrancing spectacle to come. Your tail swayed behind you, brushing against the floor like a soft whisper, your ears twitching with the anticipation of the performance to come.

The room quieted, the hushed murmurs dying down as you took your first step into the spotlight. The soft glow of lotus lanterns, their flames flickering in the dim room, bathed you in an amber hue. Your body moved, fluid and graceful, as if the music itself was a part of you, guiding your every step. You could feel the eyes of the room on you—every gaze fixated; each breath held in anticipation of your every move.

From the elevated room above, General Jing Yuan watched. The scene below him was nothing new—he had seen these kinds of performances before—but this time, something was different. As you danced, his attention was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame. There was something in your movement that was unlike the others. The grace with which you moved, the way your body seemed to flow effortlessly with the music, drew him in. It wasn’t just your physical beauty, though you were undeniably stunning—every curve, every movement was perfection—but something deeper, something intangible. It was the essence you exuded—the confidence, the strength, the raw magnetism that seemed to pull him closer despite the distance between you.

Your movements were slow, deliberate. Your arms flowed through the air, a soft trace of elegance, while your hips swayed in time with the rhythm of the instruments, your skin glowing in the soft light. Each step you took was an invitation, each flick of your wrist a silent promise, each roll of your hips a beckoning. It was erotic without being crude, sensual without losing its grace. You were a goddess in motion, a creature born to captivate and beguile.

As you moved, your eyes flicked upwards, meeting his gaze for just a moment. It was a brief connection—one that he felt more than he could explain. His breath caught in his throat as your gaze locked with his, your eyes filled with an emotion that seemed to pull him in, deeper than he ever expected to go. The flicker of awareness between you made his chest tighten, and his pulse quickened. It was like you knew exactly what effect you were having on him, like you could feel his gaze following every step, every motion.

Your body twisted and arched as you danced, the silk of your costume brushing over your skin like a soft caress. The jewellery you wore—delicate chains, pearls, and golden rings—clinked softly with every movement, drawing attention to the curves of your body. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, intoxicating and heavy, as your tail swished behind you, swaying in perfect rhythm with your every move.

Jing Yuan, sitting in his private alcove, could barely tear his eyes away from you. He felt an inexplicable pull, a hunger that wasn’t just for your physical form, but for the energy you radiated. It was raw and untamed, a force he couldn’t quite explain, yet he felt it in every fibre of his being. His hands clenched at his sides as the tension built in his chest, a wave of heat spreading through him. His body reacted against his will, betraying him as he watched you.

You were no longer just a dancer. You were the embodiment of something else—something deeper, more primal. You were pulling him into a world he hadn’t known he was even willing to enter, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something—something he hadn’t felt in years. The weight of his responsibilities, his title, the endless wars and battles that had marked his life, seemed to fade into the background. They no longer mattered.

The music picked up, becoming more intense, the tempo quickening. Your movements followed suit, each step becoming more deliberate, more daring. The room was alive with the heat of desire, the air crackling with tension. Jing Yuan’s breath caught in his throat, your body undulating in a way that was both art and allure. You were making a show of it—of him—and for the first time in a long time, it was his turn to be caught.

The music slowed, and you took your final step, the dance reaching its end. Your body twisted, swayed, and your movements grew more subtle, teasing. As the final note of the music played, the room fell into a hushed silence. Jing Yuan remained frozen, captivated by your performance. His mind buzzed with a million thoughts, none of them clear, none of them rational. All he knew was that he needed to be closer to you, to taste whatever you were offering.

As the lights dimmed and the room came back to life with murmurs and applause, Jing Yuan finally found his voice. He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving you. “Can I… request her?” His words were barely above a whisper, filled with an urgency that surprised even him.

The Foxian lady, who had been watching with knowing eyes, nodded with a smile. "Of course, General Jing Yuan. She is yours for the evening."

The air inside the private alcove was thick with a sensual tension, the dim light casting soft shadows around the space. Jing Yuan sat back in a velvet-covered chair, his posture commanding yet relaxed. His mind was still reeling from the magnetic performance he'd witnessed, but now, as he sat alone in this private setting, the anticipation built again.

The door slid open, and the woman who had greeted him earlier entered, guiding you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. Jing Yuan could now get a better look of you, the lingerie delicately adorns your body, the jewels that were placed on you still twinkled and shimmered under the dull lighting. Your fox ears were perked, stiff with nerves, and your tail swayed ever so slightly behind you, betraying your inner restlessness.

Your gaze never met his. You kept your head low, your expression unreadable, as if you'd become a different person. This wasn’t the confident, playful woman who’d mesmerized him with her dance. This was someone subdued, cautious, and perhaps even a little fragile. Jing Yuan’s brow furrowed at the sight, and a pang of something unfamiliar stirred within him. There was an undeniable sadness at the change, a realization that you were a contradiction, both in the freedom you’d shown during your dance and the restraint you now carried.

The woman who led you whispered softly to you as she passed by, "Take care of the general." Her voice was gentle but firm, as if entrusting something delicate to your care. She gave Jing Yuan a final look, a knowing smile before exiting the room, leaving the two of you in silence.

You stood in front of him, head lowered, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The air felt heavier now, the sense of being watched almost suffocating, yet you remained still, as though obeying some invisible rule.

Jing Yuan studied you for a moment, trying to piece together the shift in your demeanour. His mind, clouded with the memory of your dance, struggled to reconcile the two versions of you. His large, calloused fingers lifted from his side, brushing gently beneath your chin, his touch soft but insistent as he lifted your face to meet his.

"Why do you not make eye contact?" he asked, his voice low, his words smooth as they hung in the air. His gaze was intense, capturing you as he locked his eyes on yours. You could feel the weight of his stare, the depth of it, and it sent a flicker of something through you—surprise, confusion, maybe even fear.

You blinked rapidly, trying to avoid his gaze, but his touch lingered, a slight pressure against your chin. You quickly averted your eyes, your cheeks flushing at the intensity of his attention.

"It is not allowed," you murmured softly, the words barely escaping your lips. "I am not allowed to look at the customer unless... unless told to."

Jing Yuan’s expression softened, but his curiosity remained, his gaze never leaving you as you stood before him, silent and restrained. His fingers remained on your chin, though no longer pressing, just gently resting there. He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. He couldn't help but be intrigued by the contradiction you presented: the woman who captivated an entire room with her dance now so reserved, so obedient.

"You are allowed to look at me," he said, his voice almost playful, though the undertone of command was still present. "But for now, I will permit your discretion."

There was a quiet pause between you both, as you silently struggled with the unspoken tension that now swirled in the room. Jing Yuan leaned back, his large frame sinking into the chair as he relaxed, his eyes never leaving you. "Come, sit with me," he said, motioning to the empty seat beside him. "Let us share a drink."

His invitation hung in the air like a challenge, but it was delivered with a calm, measured tone. You hesitated for a moment, still unsure of how to act, still feeling the pressure of his gaze as he observed you carefully. Finally, you took a cautious step forward, your body moving with the grace of a fox, and sat at his side, careful not to brush too close against him.

The room was filled with the scent of incense and flowers, but the closeness between the two of you heightened the atmosphere, thickening the air. Jing Yuan poured two glasses of wine, his movements slow, deliberate. He handed one to you, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a brief moment, the touch felt more intimate than it should have.

"You have a beautiful presence," he said quietly, taking a sip of his own drink. "But I can see there is more to you than what you show. Tell me, what is it you desire, in a place like this?"

You remained silent, unsure of how to respond, but Jing Yuan didn’t rush you. His gaze held a quiet intensity, as if waiting for you to let down the walls you’d so carefully constructed around yourself. The tension between you both lingered, a palpable force, as your bodies sat close together yet distanced by invisible barriers. Your heartbeat faster, your breath shallow. This was new territory for both of you. And for Jing Yuan, it felt like the beginning of something far deeper than either of you had expected.

You shifted in your seat, thighs brushing together under the soft silk of your gown, the sensation sending a faint shiver through you. The air between you and Jing Yuan was thick, charged with an intensity you could neither name nor escape. His gaze was locked on you, and every question he asked felt like it was unravelling pieces of you.

"Why here?" he murmured, his voice smooth, like the finest silk. "A place like this—it doesn’t seem to match your spirit."

His words hung in the air, and you found yourself twisting the fabric of your gown again, seeking some kind of anchor. "It’s... complicated," you whispered, your eyes darting away from his. But the way he leaned closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him—made it impossible to hide.

"Complicated," he echoed, his tone laced with curiosity, as though he wanted to peel back every layer of meaning behind your answer.

You glanced up at him, and your breath caught in your throat. His amber eyes glimmered in the dim light, soft but piercing, holding you captive in their gaze. And then, he leaned in further, the space between you shrinking until you could feel his presence, overwhelming and intoxicating.

The scent of him—clean and faintly spiced—mixed with the sweetness of the wine he sipped moments before. The aroma seemed to curl around you, tangling with your thoughts. His lips were so close now, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from flicking down to them.

"May I?" he asked, his voice a hushed murmur, and his eyes searched yours, waiting. It wasn’t a command, as you’d expect from a man like him, but a request, gentle yet brimming with restrained desire.

Your throat tightened, and you nodded slowly, words escaping you.

His hand came up, fingers grazing your cheek before curling under your chin, tilting your face toward his. The touch was warm, firm yet tender, sending sparks skittering along your skin. Slowly, achingly, he closed the distance.

When his lips met yours, the world fell away.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle brush of lips, testing, coaxing. But then, like a flame catching the wind, it deepened. His mouth moved against yours with a slow-burning passion, drawing you in, leaving no room for hesitation. You felt the firm press of his lips, the intoxicating heat of him, and your heart thundered in your chest.

His hand slid from your chin to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking the edge of your cheekbone. It was such a careful gesture, but the kiss was anything but. His tongue swept against the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you yielded, parting your lips for him.

When his tongue slid against yours, a low hum of pleasure escaped you, your hands clutching at the silken folds of your gown as if it could keep you grounded. He tasted of wine, rich and heady, and the faintest hint of something sweeter, something entirely him.

His other hand moved to your waist, fingers splaying across the delicate fabric that barely covered you. The pressure was light, a silent promise of what could come, and yet it was enough to make your pulse race, your body alight with sensations you couldn’t control.

You couldn’t help but respond, your hands tentatively brushing against his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath his robes. His lips moved with a practiced confidence, but there was something raw in the way he kissed you, like he was holding back a storm, giving you only a glimpse of the tempest that raged beneath.

When he finally pulled back, his lips hovered just a breath away, his forehead resting lightly against yours. Both of you were breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his.

"You’re... mesmerizing," he murmured, his voice rough and low, as though the words had been dragged from somewhere deep within him.

You opened your eyes, and his gaze bore into yours, intense and unyielding. His thumb brushed against your swollen lips, and you could see the faint flush dusting his cheeks, a rare crack in his usual composure.

"I’ve wanted to do that," he admitted, his voice softer now, "since the moment I saw you."

Your heart raced, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the weight of his confession crashing over you like a wave. His touch lingered, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns against your skin, and you knew—this was only the beginning.

Jing Yuan’s hands were impossibly large, their warmth seeping through the sheer silk draped over your body as they slid down, slow and deliberate. His touch felt like a whispered promise, each fingertip tracing a path that left fire in its wake. You couldn’t help but shiver when his palms grazed the curve of your hips, his fingers splaying possessively over them as he was now on his knees between your thighs.

The silk clung to your skin like dew, yielding under his touch as his hands lingered, pressing into the plush softness of your thighs. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as though he wanted to savour every second, every inch of you that he claimed. His thumb stroked a languid circle against your skin, teasing the sensitive flesh just below the curve of your hip, and your breath hitched.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a deep, velvety whisper that seemed to echo in the dim, scented air. His words held a teasing lilt, but his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with something far deeper than amusement.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of silk and the faint crackle of a distant candle. His hands moved lower, trailing down the sides of your thighs as if he were sculpting you from memory. He paused, his fingers flexing slightly, almost reverently, before sprawling over the fullness of your legs. The pressure was firm but not harsh, his touch grounding you even as it left you breathless.

Jing Yuan’s head tilted, his silver hair catching the dim light like threads of moonlight spun through shadow. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your skin, and his hands tightened their hold on you ever so slightly. The contrast of his strength and the tenderness in his touch made you feel both vulnerable and cherished, like a treasure he had no intention of letting slip away.

"You’re exquisite," he murmured, his voice soft yet weighted, as though the words carried a gravity only, he could understand. His thumbs traced upward, following the natural curve of your thighs, his hands mapping you with a deliberate slowness that felt like an exploration, a quiet devotion.

When his eyes flicked back to meet yours, his gaze was molten, heavy with desire yet tempered by something gentler, something that made your heart stutter in your chest. His hands stilled, settling like a question, a challenge, as if to ask how far you would let him go. And in that moment, you were weightless, caught in the intoxicating pull of him, the world beyond fading into nothingness.

Jing Yuan's fingers, warm and deliberate, slid down to the edge of your thigh highs, the lace soft under his touch. He let his fingertips dip beneath the delicate material, brushing against the bare skin beneath, sending shivers coursing through your body. The contrast of silk and skin was electrifying, his movements unhurried as though he had all the time in the world to explore.

Your breath hitched, and you gripped the silk of your gown, desperate for something to anchor yourself. The sensation of his hands so close, his strength tempered by the tender way he handled you, made your mind race. The General of the Luofu, a man revered for his authority and composure, was here, knelt before you, his hands on your thighs as though you were the centre of his universe.

His thumb traced lazy circles against your skin, the pressure both teasing and grounding. "You’re trembling again," he murmured, the teasing lilt of his voice sending a new wave of heat through you. His silver hair gleamed faintly in the soft, golden light, the contrast between his composed expression and the intimacy of his touch almost too much to bear.

Then, without warning, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your thigh. It was a feather-light kiss, soft yet searing, and it stole the breath from your lungs. The warmth of his mouth lingered, a silent claim that left your heart pounding.

Your mind spiralled, the weight of the moment crashing over you like a tidal wave. This was the General—the General—his broad shoulders and imposing presence now knelt before you in an image that burned itself into your memory. The sight of him, his head bent, his lips on your skin, was something you knew you’d never forget.

Your pulse quickened as his hand slid higher, his palm pressing into the softness of your thigh with a deliberate slowness that made your body hum with awareness. He tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes flicking upward to meet yours, his gaze heavy with something that made your heart stutter.

"You’re beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice low and rich, the words wrapping around you like silk. His fingers flexed against your skin, and you swallowed hard, feeling as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you. The scent of incense, the warmth of the dimly lit room, and the weight of his attention made it impossible to think of anything else.

Your breath hitched as his lips lingered against your skin, so close yet unbearably distant. A soft whimper escaped you, unbidden, the sound trembling on your lips. "General..." The word was barely a whisper, carried more by instinct than thought, but it was enough.

Jing Yuan’s golden eyes gleamed at the sound, a primal intensity overtaking his usual calm. That composed facade he wore so effortlessly cracked, revealing something raw and untamed beneath. His lips curved into a slow, almost predatory smile, and you felt the heat of his gaze burn against your skin.

He leaned closer, his broad shoulders dipping as his face moved towards your clothed pussy, the faintest warmth of his breath ghosting over the flimsy material of it. The sensation was maddening, a tantalising promise that made your thighs tense under his hold.

Your ears twitched uncontrollably, betraying your spiralling emotions. You tried to steady them, but they betrayed you with every sharp intake of breath. Your tail curled and flicked at the edges of the plush cushions beneath you, the movement erratic, mirroring the storm building in your chest.

Jing Yuan noticed everything—of course, he did. His gaze flicked to your twitching ears, and the corner of his mouth quirked, a dark satisfaction dancing in his eyes. His hands remained steady, sprawling over the plush of your thighs, fingers pressing just enough to ground you while still making your skin tingle.

"You’re so responsive," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "It’s captivating."

The warmth of his breath fanned over the delicate fabric again, sending a shiver racing up your spine. He paused, his lips so close yet maddeningly still, his eyes watching every tremble, every twitch, every unsteady exhale. You felt utterly laid bare beneath his gaze, a mixture of vulnerability and desire tangling in a way that left you breathless.

"Tell me,” he said softly, the words a mere whisper against the heat of your skin. "Do you always react this beautifully... or is it just for me?"

Your entire body felt as though it had been set alight, the heat rushing from your cheeks to the very tips of your ears as Jing Yuan's lips hovered ever so teasingly over your cunt. The blush that painted your skin deepened, spreading like wildfire, your hands clutching the silken material beneath you in an effort to steady yourself.

And then, his lips pressed softly against your pussy—through the delicate fabric that barely served as a barrier. The kiss was unhurried yet deliberate, and the sensation made you gasp, your heart leaping into your throat. Your thighs quivered slightly beneath his strong, steady grip as your body betrayed the flood of emotions overtaking you.

Jing Yuan closed his eyes, the scent of you filling his senses as though nothing else in the world existed. Sweet and heady, with a potency that made his mind spiral, it was unlike anything he had imagined—and oh, had he imagined. His fingers curled slightly against your skin as if grounding himself from the overwhelming allure.

The sweetness of it mingled with something darker, more intoxicating, and utterly unique to you. It was pungent but not overpowering—an earthy, sensual fragrance that clung to the air around you and pulled him deeper into the haze you created.

His breaths grew heavier, his mind clouding as the scent wrapped around him like an invisible tether, binding him to you in a way that felt both maddening and necessary.

"Addictive," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the single word almost swallowed by the quiet intimacy of the room. His lips brushed against you once more, this time lingering a second longer, his tongue darting out briefly to taste the fabric.

A groan rumbled deep in his chest, and his grip on your thighs tightened ever so slightly, his composure slipping as he inhaled deeply again, utterly consumed by the fragrance of you. His golden eyes, now darkened with something primal and insatiable, flickered up to meet yours—a blush still staining your cheeks, your wide-eyed gaze unsure and yet filled with undeniable need.

Jing Yuan's tongue pressed firmly yet gently against the thin fabric, a deliberate movement that sent shockwaves coursing through your body. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt, the warmth and softness of his mouth combining with the teasing pressure to ignite every nerve in your skin. Your toes curled instinctively, the sheer intensity of the moment leaving you breathless, as though the air itself had thickened.

His large hands, splayed across your trembling thighs, gripped you tighter, his fingers pressing into your soft flesh in a way that left you aching for more. The contrast of his strength against your vulnerability only heightened the whirlwind of sensations overtaking you. He groaned softly, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through you, as if he too was succumbing to the weight of his desires.

Jing Yuan’s gaze lifted, drinking in every detail of you. The flush that coloured your cheeks, spreading down your neck and disappearing beneath the thin fabric of your gown. The way strands of your hair had fallen loose, framing your face like a delicate painting. The rise and fall of your chest as your breath quickened, each exhale shaky and unsteady.

He felt an unrelenting need to unravel you, to witness you laid bare, in every sense of the word. His hands moved slightly, his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin, grounding you and driving you to the edge all at once.

His tongue pressed against the fabric again, this time with more insistence, and his lips followed with a lingering kiss. The heat of his breath seeped through, and it felt as though he was marking you with each touch, his presence imprinted on your very soul.

“Do you feel it?” he asked softly, his golden eyes locking onto yours as his hands squeezed your thighs again. “The way I want to devour you—piece by piece—until there’s nothing left of this composure we’re pretending to hold on to?”

Jing Yuan's grip on your thigh loosened as he let his hand slip away, only to settle firmly on your shoulder. The weight of his touch grounded you, but the intensity in his golden gaze sent your mind spiralling into chaos. His other hand moved with a deliberate slowness, two fingers brushing against the fabric that separated him from you, as though he were savouring the act of uncovering you.

He pushed the fabric aside, exposing your glistening skin beneath. The air felt cool against the heat of your pussy, and the juxtaposition made you shiver. Your scent—intoxicating, sweet, and unmistakably you—filled the space between you, strong and pungent in a way that made his breath hitch. His eyes could not leave the sight of your cunt, your clit throbbing, clear liquid oozing from between your glistening folds as he glances at your face, lips swollen and eyes teary – a sight that made his cock leak.

His eyes darkened, a glimmer of something primal flickering in their depths as he took you in. You were fluttering, every part of you trembling in anticipation, and it made his lips curl into a faint, knowing smile.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, yet laced with raw hunger.

His hand tightened slightly on thigh, grounding you further, while his gaze remained fixed on you as though you were the most captivating sight he had ever encountered. The vulnerability in the moment only seemed to embolden him, and the way his breath fanned against your exposed skin made your thighs tremble under his hold.

Jing Yuan's tongue pressed against your clit, lapping up the sweetness that spilled from you with a deliberate, unrelenting pace. The warmth of his mouth against such a sensitive part of you was overwhelming, sending jolts of pleasure rippling through your body. His eyes, golden and intense, never strayed from your face, watching every twitch of your expression, every blush that spread across your cheeks, and every soft whimper that escaped your lips.

A low hum of approval resonated from him, vibrating against your core as he worked, his large hands gripping your thighs firmly to hold you in place. Each stroke of his tongue was purposeful, slow at first, then more insistent, as though he were a man on the brink of starvation, and you were the feast he'd been denied for far too long.

Your fingers clawed at the leather couch beneath you, the cool material a stark contrast to the heat building inside you. Your hips bucked slightly against his face, but his strong grip kept you steady, his mouth never faltering.

"General..." you whimpered softly, the word barely audibles through the haze of sensation.

At that, his eyes gleamed with a feral satisfaction, something primal and wild flickering within them. He groaned softly, the sound muffled as he devoured you, his tongue exploring every inch with unyielding hunger. The sight of him—so composed, so regal—reduced to this raw, unrestrained desire sent your mind spinning, leaving you trembling under his touch.

Jing Yuan's tongue dragged deliberately against your slick folds, his pace torturous yet intoxicating. Without a word, two of his thick fingers slid down, pressing against your entrance before sinking into you without warning. The stretch was immediate, a mix of pleasure and intensity that tore a loud whimper from your lips. Your body arched into his touch, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your breath hitched.

"General... General..." The title fell from your lips in a broken chant, each syllable a prayer as your mind spiralled. Nothing else existed beyond the overwhelming sensations he wrought upon your body—his tongue flicking expertly up and down your slick heat, his lips closing around the sensitive bud that made your vision blur.

His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your entire body jolt. He pressed into it mercilessly, dragging a sob from your throat as your thighs quaked against his face. His other hand gripped your thigh tightly, holding you still as he worked with relentless precision.

The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue and fingers filled the air, mingling with your soft cries and whimpers. Your world narrowed to the molten heat pooling low in your belly, each flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.

He sucked on the swollen bundle of nerves, his tongue circling with maddening skill. You sobbed his name again, your thighs trembling, your body barely able to keep up with the intensity of his actions. Through the haze, you felt the curve of his lips against you—a smirk, as though he took pride in unravelling you completely.

Your vision blurred, tears threatening to spill as a tight knot in your stomach coiled and twisted unbearably. Each thrust of Jing Yuan's fingers pressed against that devastating spot inside you, sending shockwaves through your trembling frame. Your eyes rolled back, a broken cry escaping your lips as the tension snapped, pleasure washing over you like a tidal wave.

Your entire body quivered, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as the release tore through you, leaving you gasping and breathless. But Jing Yuan didn't stop. His fingers maintained their relentless rhythm, coaxing you through the aftershocks, prolonging every moment of your bliss.

You felt his warm tongue, soft yet firm, trailing along your folds as he licked up every drop of your release. His eyes, golden and piercing, never left your face. He seemed captivated by the way your lips parted, the flush painting your cheeks, the glazed look in your eyes.

"You're beautiful," he murmured softly, his voice thick with reverence and desire, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin as he placed a soft kiss against your fluttering clit. His gaze was heavy with pride and satisfaction, as though committing the sight of you undone to memory. He slowly moves up your body, Jing Yuan’s lips traced a delicate path up your neck, each soft kiss like a whispered secret against your skin. The air between you thickened with warmth, every subtle movement drawing you deeper into the moment. He paused just below your ear, his breath mingling with yours, before he reached out for the bottle of alcohol and took a slow, deliberate swig of the sweet alcohol. He placed the bottle down and he finally met your gaze, something unspoken passed between you.

With a gentle but firm pull, he lifted you, as if in a trance, and brought your lips to his. The kiss was tender at first, like a soft brush of silk, but then it deepened, becoming something slower, more languid. The sweet taste of the alcohol seeped into your mouth, dribbling out of the corner of your lip as you moaned when his tongue brushed against yours, the alcohol, sweet and intoxicating with the taste of your essences mingled between your tongues, each shared taste adding to the heat building between you. He tasted you and you tasted him, the kiss a slow, sensual exchange, each second stretching out as if the world outside ceased to exist.

You could feel the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that spread through your chest as his hands held you close, pulling you deeper into him. The kiss deepened, became more desperate, yet still slow—each movement deliberate, a beautiful rhythm of lips and tongue, a dance that belonged only to the two of you. Time seemed to stretch, the room fading away as you lost yourself in the sweetness of the moment, the alcohol, and the slow burn of his kiss.

Jing Yuan’s lips lingered against yours for a moment longer, his breath warm on your skin, before he slowly pulled away. His tongue tracing the bit of alcohol that dribbled out of your mouth, gaze intense and molten. The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat, leaving you suspended in the air between his touch and his gaze. Your heart pounded in your chest as you waited, uncertain of what he might do next, but instead of drawing you back into his embrace, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, the gentle gesture so tender it made your breath catch in your throat.

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, and in that moment, there was a strange, knowing calm about him. “Thank you for the... meal,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, as though savouring the taste of the drink, you and the moment.

His words hung in the air, unexpected and enigmatic. The meal? You blinked, a flush creeping up your neck, your heart fluttering in confusion. Was that truly all he wanted from you? Was it just a fleeting moment, a passing indulgence?

Your gaze dropped to his chest, your eyes tracing the contours of his form—strong, unwavering. His shirt clung to him in a way that made you acutely aware of the man standing before you. And then, your gaze caught something—he was...

Your breath caught, and your eyes snapped back up to his, meeting his with a quiet intensity that made your pulse quicken. But he only smiled softly, almost like he understood the storm brewing within you, before gently reaching up to pat your head, a small, affectionate gesture that sent a wave of heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against your hair, making your fox ears twitch involuntarily. The touch was so casual, yet somehow it deepened the flush that spread across your face, your heart racing at the intimacy of the moment. It was a small, almost teasing action, but it made you feel as though you were suddenly laid bare in front of him.

His smile softened, his eyes warm yet impossibly distant, as though he were saying goodbye without words. “I enjoyed your company,” he said, the weight of his words settling between you like an unspoken promise that felt both comforting and impossible to decipher. “I will be anticipating another dance soon, until than darling.” His voice smooth as honey, your face turning crimson at the word ‘darling’.

His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer, filled with a complexity you couldn't understand, before he turned and left the private area. The soft sound of his footsteps faded, but his presence remained, lingering in the air, as if he had never really left at all.

You stood there, the room suddenly feeling too large, too empty. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ The question echoed in your mind, drowning out the quiet hum of the space. He had seemed so... needy, as though there was something more. And yet, now he was gone, leaving you with nothing but his words and the warmth of his touch.

Why didn’t he want more? You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was left unfinished, the desire you felt mirrored in the air between you. Why had he stopped? Why hadn't he sought what you had both seemed to crave? It was as if your body had been aching for something deeper, and yet he had held back.

As the silence grew heavier, your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. The owner stepped inside; her voice sweet like honey but with an edge that sent a chill down your spine.

“You’re done for the night,” she said, her smile thin but knowing. “You can go home now.” Confusion clouded your thoughts. “But... I thought you only let me go after twelve?”

The owner’s smile grew, as though your question amused her. “I won’t be needing you until I call for you,” she replied, her tone light but filled with something more. A finality? You weren’t sure. The words left you unsettled, uncertain of what she truly meant.

She reached into her pocket and handed you something—a silky pouch. The weight of it felt strange in your hand. “Here’s your pay from the General,” she said, her voice dripping with a sort of satisfaction that you couldn't place. “You sure did make him happy.”

Your mind whirled. Made him happy? The words bounced in your skull, unanswered questions stirring within you like a storm. What had just happened? What had you been to him? The idea of him leaving with only that—just that—felt like a question mark lingering in the air. He had seemed so close, so wanting, and yet he left.

The thought of the lingering kiss, the sweet warmth of the alcohol shared between you both, made your chest ache. He had left with a soft smile, but you couldn't shake the sense of something unfinished, something unspoken. Had you misread the moment? As you looked down at the silky pouch, the weight of it felt more symbolic than ever. The pay was there, yes, but the ache, the unanswered longing in your chest—it was something deeper, something that the money couldn't soothe.

The owner’s grin widened as she stepped back, her eyes gleaming with that same knowing look. You were left with the pouch, your heart full of questions, but no answers.

Jing Yuan hadn’t been himself lately, and he knew it. No matter how many duties he fulfilled or how much paperwork he completed or the many sneaky naps he took, his thoughts consistently drifted back to you. He couldn’t erase the memory of your skin beneath his hands—soft and warm, the kind of touch that lingered even after parting. Nor could he forget the taste of you, intoxicating and sweet, or the way your body moved with such elegance and allure during your dances.

It had been nearly a month since Jing Yuan began seeking you out, yet with each encounter, his fascination deepened into an obsession. He couldn’t get enough of you—the way you moved, the sound of your voice, the way your presence filled the room and consumed his thoughts. After every performance, he would reward you in ways that left you trembling, his mouth devoutly working between your thighs, tongue lapping at every drop of your arousal as his fingers thrust deeply into your slick heat. Yet, he never allowed you to touch him, never let you return the favour. His pleasure came solely from your moans, the way your body responded to his touch, and the sight of your unravelling beneath him. He would grind against his own restraint, rutting against his pants, hard and aching, but never crossing the line. He wanted to wait for the perfect moment, the right time to claim you fully—a moment that would be as unforgettable as you were to him.

It wasn’t just your beauty that consumed him, though it had ensnared him first. It was the quiet calmness you exuded, a soft-spoken grace that contrasted so deeply with the fire of your movements. The way your tail swayed behind you, how your ears twitched in subtle reaction to the world around you—it was as if you were always caught between serenity and mischief. The thought of you was a constant hum in his mind, an ache he could not shake.

He found himself wandering the streets of the city more often now – much to Fu xuan dismissal, hoping to find distractions from you. Yet even his usual escapes held no relief. And today was no exception.

As he strolled through Aurum Alley, the faint clinking of porcelain caught his ear, drawing his attention to a small tea shop tucked into the corner. He stepped inside, the familiar scents of herbs and dried flowers wafting over him, soothing but unremarkable—until his eyes fell on you.

You were standing near the back, your head tilted slightly as you admired the display of teacups arranged on a low wooden shelf. The dim lantern light cast a golden glow over you, highlighting the soft fur of your ears and the elegant sweep of your tail swaying absently behind you. You were dressed in a delicate white dress, its

fabric light and airy, brushing against your knees with every movement. The dress was adorned with tiny floral embroidery, dainty and unassuming, much like the way you carried yourself.

Jing Yuan’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected to see you here, not outside the confines of your world of silk and candlelight. Here, you looked softer, more natural, yet no less captivating. It was a sight that made his chest tighten, as if the universe had conspired to remind him that you were always just out of reach.

You seemed unaware of his presence, your attention wholly captured by a teacup you held delicately in your hands. It was a beautiful piece, adorned with intricate floral designs, vines curling around painted blossoms, the base glimmering faintly with gold. You turned it slowly in your fingers, your tail swishing with a faint, almost wistful rhythm.

The sight of you, so enraptured by something so simple, made his heart clench. And when you set the cup back down with a small, defeated sigh, it took all of his willpower not to close the distance between you immediately.

Instead, he lingered, watching as you hesitated, your fingers brushing against the rim of the cup one last time before you turned away. Jing Yuan didn’t need to guess why you’d left it behind—the soft downturn of your lips told him everything.

He stepped forward then, his presence a shadow that fell over you before his voice, low and smooth, broke the silence.

“Admiring something, are we?”

You startled, your ears twitching at the sound. Turning to face him, your eyes widened briefly before you quickly averted your gaze. “Oh, General,” you murmured, your hands clasping nervously in front of you. “I didn’t see you there.”

He allowed himself a small smile, though his golden eyes remained fixed on you. “It’s a charming shop, isn’t it? Something here seems to have caught your attention.”

You hesitated, glancing toward the shelf where the teacup sat. “It’s nothing,” you said softly, your voice tinged with embarrassment. “Just a pretty cup. I was… just admiring it.”

“Just admiring it?” Jing Yuan repeated, stepping closer, the faint scent of his cologne filling the space between you. “And yet, you look as though you’ve left a piece of your heart behind with it.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you shook your head. “It’s beautiful, but it’s not something I can…” You trailed off, gesturing vaguely, unwilling to say the words aloud.

Jing Yuan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—part amusement, part something darker. “A beauty such as that shouldn’t be left behind,” he said, his voice dropping lower, softer, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to you. “Nor should one such as you.”

Before you could respond, he moved, his hand reaching out to lift the teacup from the shelf. With a smooth motion, he turned toward the shopkeeper, the transaction over before you could protest.

“General—”

“Consider it a gift,” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind as he handed the cup to you. His fingers brushed yours as you took it, the brief contact sending a jolt through you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, clutching the cup to your chest. Your tail swished nervously behind you; your ears flattened slightly as you avoided his gaze.

Jing Yuan watched you with a quiet intensity, his smile never faltering. Yet, beneath his calm exterior, his mind raced. Seeing you here, holding something he’d given you, made something primal stir within him. You were no longer just a fleeting obsession, no longer a memory confined to dimly lit nights. You were here, real and tangible, and he wasn’t sure he could ever let you go.

Jing Yuan couldn’t help himself. The moment you stepped outside the tea shop, clutching the intricately designed cup he had bought for you, he was already glancing back at the shelves. He ended up purchasing an assortment of things—fine tea leaves, a brewing set that complemented your cup, and even a small silk pouch embroidered with a motif. It wasn’t about the items themselves; it was the thought of you using them, of you remembering this moment, that drove his actions.

He exited the shop with a bag in hand, catching up to you with ease. The sun cast a warm glow on the cobblestone streets, and your figure seemed to glow in the light. Your white dress fluttered softly with each step, and your tail swayed gently behind you, a detail he couldn’t help but admire.

“You didn’t have to get more,” you said softly, glancing at the bag he carried.

He chuckled, his deep voice warm. “It’s no trouble at all. Tea is best enjoyed with care, wouldn’t you agree? Besides, you deserve nothing but the finest.”

Your cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink, and you glanced away, your ears twitching. “Thank you… General.”

“Jing Yuan,” he corrected smoothly, his golden eyes gleaming. “When it’s just us, there’s no need for formalities.”

You hesitated but nodded. “Thank you, Jing Yuan.”

As you walked together, he took the opportunity to get to know you better. It started with small questions—your favourite teas, if you frequented the shop often—but soon, the conversation deepened. He found out that you were passionate about dance, your eyes lighting up as you spoke about it, despite the soft-spoken nature of your words.

“It’s always been something I loved,” you admitted, your fingers brushing the edge of the teacup you still held. “But… the work I do now, it’s not exactly what I envisioned.”

“Oh?” he prompted, his gaze sharp but gentle, encouraging you to continue.

You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the path ahead. “The dancing I do now… it’s to pay off my father’s debts. It’s… different from the dancing I dreamed of as a child.”

Jing Yuan’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained calm. The thought of you, someone so poised and graceful, burdened by another’s mistakes, ignited a protective streak within him. He didn’t press further, sensing you weren’t ready to elaborate, but the knowledge lingered in his mind like a seed waiting to take root.

When the time came for you to part ways, you stopped at a small intersection, turning to face him. Your hands clutched the teacup tightly, your expression shy but sincere. “Thank you again, Jing Yuan. For everything.”

His smile softened, and for a moment, his golden gaze held yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’ll see you later,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. You blinked, your cheeks heating up as you realised what he meant. You gave him a small, flustered nod before quickly excusing yourself, your tail swishing nervously as you hurried away.

Jing Yuan watched you go, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. He would see you later, of course, but not just as part of a crowd. No, when you danced tonight, it would be for him, and he would make sure you knew it.

The brothel exuded an even more sinful opulence. Red and gold fabrics draped like cascading rivers of silk from the high, arching ceilings. The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of sandalwood incense, mingling with the faint sweetness of lotus blossoms arranged in ornate porcelain vases. The walls were adorned with intricate scrolls of calligraphy, their elegant strokes illuminated by the flickering glow of countless candles. Every corner seemed steeped in temptation, every detail carefully crafted to blur the lines between reality and indulgence.

Jing Yuan sat alone in a private room; a sanctuary veiled by velvet curtains. The plush cushions beneath him did little to ease the tension coiled in his body. A lacquered tray before him held untouched tea and delicate fruit, but his golden gaze never wavered from the stage below. The brothel’s ambiance—a sultry blend of murmurs, soft music, and rustling silks—faded to nothing as you stepped into the spotlight.

Your presence commanded every eye in the room, but his was the only gaze you truly felt. You were a vision of raw, untamed allure. The outfit you wore left little to the imagination, sheer fabrics clinging to your every curve, your skin gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat under the dim, golden light. Crimson painted your lips, a bold invitation, while the smoky shadow around your eyes framed them like a weapon. Your tail swayed with each step, teasing, enticing, an extension of the sensual rhythm that seemed to pulse from your very being.

The music began, slow and sultry, and you moved with a deliberate grace, every step a calculated seduction. Your hips swayed in time with the haunting melody, and the way your hands glided over your body had the audience mesmerized. To him, however, it was something more—a torment, a fire that spread through his veins and pooled low in his stomach.

Jing Yuan’s usually serene expression was gone, replaced by a raw intensity that darkened his golden eyes. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders filling the dimly lit alcove as his focus narrowed solely on you. His fingers tightened on the armrest, his chest rising and falling in steady, heavy breaths. The soft sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, the subtle arch of your back, the sway of your hips—it was more than he could bear, yet he couldn’t look away.

The room disappeared for him; the murmured conversations, the soft laughter, the flickering candles—all of it was drowned out by you. Every slow, sensual turn, every flick of your tail, every teasing brush of your fingers across your skin seemed crafted solely for him.

When your eyes lifted and met his, just for a moment, the tension snapped taut. That fleeting connection sent a visceral thrill through him, a silent challenge in the way you quickly looked away. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. The denial—the way you teased and withheld even your gaze—was maddening.

You spun again, your bold crimson lips parting as though whispering secrets to the air, your hands brushing over the curve of your waist. The sheer fabric clinging to your body teased him mercilessly, every contour revealed in the flickering candlelight. His golden gaze roamed over you hungrily, his breaths deep and deliberate as if trying to anchor himself against the storm of desire you had unleashed.

The sweat glistening on your thighs, the way your hair clung to your neck, the confident arch of your body—it was intoxicating. Jing Yuan could feel the heat rising

within him, his control slipping with every second. You were temptation incarnate, and he was utterly, completely ensnared.

Jing Yuan's hand moved to rest against his thigh, but the tension in his body betrayed the calm demeanour he fought to maintain. His fingers flexed, slowly drifting, palm pressing lightly against the growing ache beneath the rich fabric of his robes. The weight of his breath was deliberate, measured, but his chest rose and fell with an intensity that mirrored the fire coursing through him.

His gaze remained locked on you, unwavering, devouring. The way you moved-every sway of your hips, every arch of your back, every tantalizing flick of your tail-was an exquisite torment.

You were more than a dancer; you were an artist, painting desire across the room with your body as the brush and the music as your canvas. The strain in his muscles was palpable, his golden eyes darkening with an unspoken hunger. Yet even amidst his rising heat, there was admiration- appreciation for the elegance and mastery of your movements. The way your body told a story, the way your presence commanded the room, it was more than alluring; it was transcendent.

But the intensity of his desire could not be denied. The hardness beneath his robes grew, a throbbing reminder of the effect you had on him. His jaw tightened as his fingers pressed harder, a fleeting attempt at control. Every step you took, every glance you spared his way, only served to unravel the restraint he so desperately clung to. Jing Yuan's breath hitched, his usually steady composure unravelling. The beauty of your art left him enraptured, the sensuality of your dance leaving his mind clouded, his body heavy with need. You were a siren, and he was helpless against your call, a prisoner to the exquisite torment you inflicted upon him.

As your performance came to its crescendo, the room seemed to hold its breath. The music faded into the background, muffled by the pulse pounding in Jing Yuan’s ears. His hand twitched against his thigh, his entire body taut with unrestrained tension as you stepped down from the platform. Each movement you made was deliberate, a purposeful seduction that left his chest heaving, his golden eyes drinking in every detail of you.

And finally, you were upstairs in the room with him.

The space between you closed, and Jing Yuan felt his pulse quicken, a rare break in his usual calm demeanour. His fingers clenched briefly before releasing, as if bracing himself for the storm that was you. You stopped just shy of his seat, your eyes meeting his, bold and teasing, yet softened by something unreadable. The flick of your tail and the slight quirk of your lips only stoked the fire inside him further.

He didn’t wait.

Rising from his seat in one fluid motion, Jing Yuan closed the distance between you in a heartbeat. His large hands found your waist, pulling you to him with a fervour that left no room for hesitation. The moment his lips met yours, it was as though the world fell away. The kiss was urgent, demanding, and possessive. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was fire and hunger, consuming and overwhelming.

His lips pressed against yours like a man starved, tasting, exploring, memorizing every inch of you. One hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, while the other splayed firmly across your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping across your lower lip before slipping inside to claim more of you.

The taste of you was intoxicating, a heady mix that made his restraint crumble. Every small sound you made—a whimper, a sigh—drove him further into madness. The way your soft hands gripped his robes, clutching at him like he was your anchor, only fuelled his need to devour you whole.

Jing Yuan’s mind raced; his thoughts consumed by you. The way you moved, the way you felt pressed against him, the way you yielded under his touch—it was all too much and yet not enough. His hold tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin, as if trying to etch the memory of this moment into his soul.

He wanted more.

No, he wanted everything.

The desire coursing through him wasn’t just lust—it was something far deeper, more consuming. He wanted to know every part of you, to uncover the layers of your soul as thoroughly as he wanted to explore your body. The thought of you with anyone else sent a possessive heat surging through him, and the idea of keeping you close, of having you as his, was a temptation too powerful to ignore.

He broke the kiss only when breathing became a necessity, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. His breaths were ragged, his chest heaving, but his hands never left you, as though afraid you might vanish if he let go.

“You’re driving me mad,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. His golden eyes bore into yours, intense and filled with something that bordered on obsession. “Do you know what you do to me? How every moment I spend away from you feels like an eternity?”

You didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, your lips found his again, softer this time but no less heated, as though silently answering his unspoken question.

Jing Yuan’s grip softened, his thumb brushing along your jawline with a tenderness that contrasted the fervent need in his kiss. He pulled back just enough to study your face, his gaze tracing every feature as though committing it to memory.

“You have no idea what you mean to me,” he said, his voice quieter now but still laced with that same raw intensity. “But I’ll show you. One day, I’ll show you.”

The promise lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken, as he held you close, the room around you fading into nothingness. For now, in this moment, you were his entire world.

Jing Yuan's gaze darkened as his hands slipped to the hem of your lingerie top, his breath heavy, his movements deliberate. With a fluid motion, he pushed the delicate fabric up and off, revealing the soft curve of your breasts. His eyes lingered, golden and molten, as though the sight of you alone was enough to undo him completely.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, voice thick with reverence and desire.

Before you could reply, his lips descended, capturing one pert nipple between them, his tongue swirling feverishly. He suckled with an intensity that left no doubt of his hunger, his large hand cupping your other breast, kneading, and teasing. Every soft moan and gasp that escaped your lips only seemed to spur him on, his groans vibrating against your skin as he lavished attention upon you.

His kisses trailed down, wet and open-mouthed, over the curve of your stomach, lingering at your navel before he retraced his path back up. His lips found yours again, searing and demanding, his hands never leaving your body, holding you as if you were a treasure he refused to let go.

Without a word, Jing Yuan sank down into his chair, his strong form commanding even in the act of sitting. His hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly to place you astride his thick thigh.

The moment your clothed pussy settled against him; his sharp inhale betrayed just how much he could feel. The thin fabric separating your body from his was soaked with your arousal, a warm, damp heat that sent a pulse of need through him.

"You’re already so wet for me," he rumbled, his voice a deep, velvety growl. His hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding you to grind against his thigh. "Go on. Show me how much you want this."

The friction was delicious, the firmness of his thigh pressing against your most sensitive spot. Your hands clung to his broad shoulders for balance, your body moving instinctively to his rhythm.

Jing Yuan’s eyes never left you, his intense gaze locked on your face, drinking in every expression of pleasure. His lips quirked into a sinful smirk as he watched you lose yourself, your breath hitching, your movements growing more desperate.

"Good girl," he murmured, his words a heady mix of praise and possession. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you faster, harder, his own breath growing heavier as he watched you unravel. "Let me see everything. Don’t hold back."

You trembled in his lap, your soft, perky nipples pebbled from the cool air and the intensity of his gaze. Jing Yuan’s large hands skimmed down your sides, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His golden eyes flicked lower, settling on the thin scrap of fabric that barely covered your most intimate place.

The sight made his breath hitch—a damp patch spreading across the delicate fabric, clinging to the shape of your pussy lips, leaving absolutely nothing to his imagination. The thin barrier split against the firm muscle of his thigh, framing you in a way that sent his thoughts spiralling.

Jing Yuan's jaw tightened, his head tilting back for a moment as he groaned low and deep. The image of your leaking cunt pulled taut around his thick cock flashed unbidden in his mind, the mere thought causing his grip on your plush hips to tighten.

"Not yet," he muttered under his breath, his voice rough, his restraint hanging by a thread. His arousal throbbed painfully beneath his robes, but he refused to let the tension break—refused to give in until he had you entirely, in the only way he could truly claim you.

His hands flexed against your flesh, fingers sinking into the soft curves as he guided you to move against his thigh again. His golden eyes burned with raw want, but there was something deeper there—something possessive, primal, and utterly consuming.

"You’ll have me, but not like this," he rasped, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm and heavy. "The only way I’ll give you my seed is when I’m inside you. Completely. Do you understand?"

The words sent a shiver through you, your body trembling even more as his intent settled over you like a tangible weight. You nodded, unable to form words, lost in the way his hands and his voice claimed every part of you.

Tears welled in your eyes as Jing Yuan’s strong hands gripped your hips, roughly guiding you against the firm muscle of his thigh. Each drag of your soaked core over the thick fabric sent shockwaves through your body, your clit throbbing with an ache so overwhelming it made your head spin. You clung to his broad shoulders, gasping for air, your cries a mix of pleasure and desperation.

Jing Yuan’s mouth found the delicate curve of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he sucked hard, determined to leave a mark—a vivid bloom that declared you his. The sting only heightened the sensations coursing through you, and your moans spurred him on, his movements growing fiercer, more relentless.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your skin, his deep voice sending a tremor down your spine. His golden eyes, darkened with unrestrained hunger, never left your face, drinking in every reaction, every sound, every shudder of your body.

Your back arched, a broken cry spilling from your lips as the tension in your core snapped. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as your release soaked through the flimsy fabric barely clinging on you. Jing Yuan’s large hand splayed across your lower back, holding you steady, his grip firm yet comforting as he guided you through your climax.

You collapsed against his chest, your body spent and trembling. Your underwear, a soaking mess as Jing Yuan’s arms enveloped you, his large hands moving gently now, one rubbing soothing circles along your back.

“There we go,” he murmured, his voice low and tender, a stark contrast to the possessive fire that had consumed him moments before. “I’ve got you.”

His lips brushed against your temple, the touch grounding you as you nestled into his embrace, your breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Jing Yuan’s hand glided gently along the soft, velvety fur of your tail; his touch light yet deliberate. A small, breathless whine escaped your parted lips, your cheeks warming as you instinctively nuzzled into the solid warmth of his chest. His scent, calming yet intoxicating, filled your senses, easing the tension in your body while making your heart race.

“M-My tail... it’s sensitive, Jing Yuan,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, shy and muffled against him.

He paused, his golden eyes glinting with curiosity as a faint smirk curved his lips. “I see,” he replied simply, his tone smooth, holding an edge of playfulness. Instead of lingering, his hand shifted to rest on your back, his large palm moving in slow, soothing circles. Though his touch remained comforting, the knowing look in his gaze hinted that he had filed away this discovery for some other time.

All Jing Yuan wanted, with every fibre of his being, was to bury himself deep into the irresistible warmth of your slick, aching pussy, to lose himself entirely in the pleasure you could give him. But he could not—not yet. Not when he knew you deserved more than just raw passion. He wanted to show you his devotion; to prove he was a man worthy of claiming you fully.

His chest rose and fell with effort as he reined in the primal urges clawing at his restraint. The soft tremble of your body against his own pulled him back to the present, grounding him in the tender moment.

Jing Yuan’s large hand moved to thread gently through your hair, his fingers combing through the strands with a soothing rhythm. “You did so well,” he murmured, his voice low and comforting. His other hand continued to rub light circles on your back, coaxing you to relax as your breathing slowly evened out.

When he finally pulled back slightly, his golden eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?” he asked, the question tender, yet filled with an underlying intensity that promised this was not a mere casual invitation.

The warmth of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice made your heart flutter. You blinked up at him, dazed and blushing, but managed a shy nod, your voice barely above a whisper as you replied, “I’d like that.”

His smile widened, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Good,” he murmured, already envisioning how he would make the evening one you would never forget.

Author’s Note:

Part 2 ? Dinner turns into a full-on session of raw fucking cause reader got her heat ? :3

reblogs, likes, comments, and follows are highly appreciated <3

also check out my masterlist if u are interested in any of my other works <3

[urdreamydoodles]

Hello!!! I just found your page and yes I already I love your work!!

If it’s no trouble, may I ask for X-men characters with a Pregnant s/o headcanons? Like how they would be when you tell them you’re pregnant, how they are when you’re pregnant, and how they’d be during labor! 😵‍💫😵‍💫

Could I also ask it be with: Logan, Scott, Gambit, Ororo, Colossus, and Kurt??

If not it’s totally okay! Have a great rest of your day 💖💖

X-Men x Pregnant!Reader

How they handle your pregnancy

Each X-Man reacts differently to your pregnancy, from initial surprise and joy to unwavering support during labor, reflecting their unique personalities and love for you.

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Kurt Wagner, Colossus (+ my personal addition : Erik Lehnsherr, Wade Wilson, Wanda Maximoff & Pietro Maximoff)

Thank you for saying that, hearing that my work is liked makes me really happy, thank you ♡ And it's not a trouble at all — love the prompt! — Love, Marie, your friendly marvel fangirl

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

When you tell Logan you’re pregnant, his initial reaction is a mix of shock and silence. For a moment, he’s frozen in place, his gruff exterior cracking just enough to reveal how truly taken aback he is by the news. He’s been through so much, lost so many people, and had so many regrets in his life that the thought of bringing a child into this world overwhelms him. But after a long, quiet moment, his eyes soften, and he gently places a hand on your stomach, the roughness of his calloused palm contrasting with the tenderness in his gesture. His voice, usually gruff and low, is quiet when he says, "I’ll protect both of ya… no matter what."

During your pregnancy, Logan becomes fiercely protective. He’s always been the protective type, but now it’s ramped up to an entirely different level. He doesn’t let you do anything that might risk your health or the baby’s, even if it’s something small like lifting a grocery bag. He makes sure you’re comfortable, constantly checking in with you—though he tries to act like he’s not worried. You often catch him watching you, eyes filled with a mix of awe and uncertainty. He tries not to hover, but you can see how much he cares. The moment you’re uncomfortable, he’s there, ready to do anything to help. His biggest fear, though he never outright says it, is that something will happen to you or the baby, so he keeps an almost obsessive eye on both of your well-being.

When labor begins, Logan is a mess of emotions. He’s usually the calm in any storm, but seeing you in pain makes him feel helpless in a way he’s not used to. He holds your hand, trying to keep you calm, though his own heart races. "I’m here, darlin’. You’re strong. You got this," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your forehead, staying close, trying to mask his own panic. When the baby finally comes, and he hears that first cry, tears fill his eyes. He never thought he could experience something so beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Logan would quietly hold the baby, marveling at the tiny life you both created, knowing he’s going to protect this child with everything he has.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

Telling Remy you’re pregnant is like lighting a firework. He’s always been a charmer, quick with a grin and a flirtatious quip, but when the news sinks in, his eyes light up with uncontainable excitement. "Mon dieu… I gon’ be a papa?" he says in disbelief, his signature grin widening as he pulls you into his arms. His hands immediately find your stomach, even if there’s no sign of the baby yet, and he plants a loving kiss on your lips. Remy is the kind of man who loves with his whole heart, and now, the idea of a family with you makes him feel like the luckiest man alive.

Throughout the pregnancy, Remy is absolutely doting. He spoils you beyond belief, making sure you have everything you need. He constantly brings you little gifts—flowers, chocolates, or even things for the baby—and he can’t help but talk to your belly every chance he gets, whispering sweet nothings in French. "Cher bébé, you gon’ have de best life wit’ us," he coos. He’s also incredibly playful, making jokes to keep your spirits high during the more uncomfortable parts of the pregnancy. If you’re feeling tired or sick, he’s quick to comfort you, but he does it with his usual playful charm. "You look beautiful, ma chérie, even wit’ a lil’ bump," he teases, kissing your cheek. Remy’s energy makes the whole experience feel lighter, more fun, and less daunting.

During labor, Remy’s usual calm and collected demeanor falters. He’s still his charming self, but there’s a frantic edge to his words as he holds your hand. "You okay, chérie? I’m right here wit’ you," he reassures, though you can see the worry in his eyes. He’s not used to seeing you in pain, and it shakes him more than he thought it would. As the labor progresses, he stays by your side, whispering sweet encouragements in French and English, never letting go of your hand. When the baby finally arrives, he’s completely overwhelmed, tears of joy running down his face as he holds your child for the first time. "Our lil’ miracle," he says softly, his heart full to bursting with love for both you and the baby.

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

When you tell Scott you’re pregnant, he’s stunned, standing still for a long moment as he processes the news. Scott, being the logical and responsible leader he is, has always thought about the future and the possibility of a family, but hearing it from you makes it real in a way that both excites and terrifies him. "We’re… we’re going to be parents?" he asks, his voice soft with disbelief before his arms wrap around you tightly. You can see the joy in his face, mixed with the weight of responsibility that’s already setting in. He’s already planning everything in his mind—how he’ll protect you, the future he’ll build for the three of you, ensuring that you and the baby are always safe.

Throughout your pregnancy, Scott is incredibly attentive and thoughtful. He’s the type to read all the parenting books, meticulously prepare for every scenario, and ensure that you’re comfortable and healthy at all times. He schedules every doctor’s appointment, makes sure you’re eating well, and insists that you take things easy. He’s also incredibly emotional during this time, though he tries to hide it. You often catch him looking at you with a softness in his eyes, one hand resting protectively on your stomach. "I love you so much," he says out of the blue one night, his voice filled with quiet awe. Scott takes everything seriously, and your pregnancy is no exception—he’s already planning how to be the best father he can be.

When the day of labor arrives, Scott is calm and composed, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He’s a natural leader, but this is out of his control, and it scares him more than he’ll admit. He holds your hand the entire time, murmuring words of encouragement, but there’s a tightness in his voice that betrays his worry. "You’re doing great, we’re almost there," he says, though you can tell he’s just as nervous as you are. When the baby is born, Scott is overcome with emotion. He’s usually so controlled, but in this moment, tears stream down his face as he holds your newborn in his arms. "We did it," he whispers, looking between you and the baby with a sense of awe and love so profound it leaves him speechless.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

When you tell Ororo you’re pregnant, her reaction is calm yet filled with quiet joy. She has always been a steady presence, and that doesn’t change even in a moment as life-altering as this. You watch as her eyes widen slightly, and she takes a deep breath, letting it out with a smile that’s filled with nothing but love. "A child," she says softly, as if testing the words out on her lips before she steps closer, pulling you into a tender embrace. She kisses your forehead, her fingers gently brushing your stomach. "We will raise them together with the strength of the earth, the wind, and the skies," she whispers, her voice filled with a quiet reverence for this new journey you’re about to embark on together.

During the pregnancy, Ororo is a pillar of strength and grace. She watches over you with care, making sure you feel supported and at peace throughout. Her connection to nature allows her to sense even the smallest changes in your well-being, and she’s quick to help ease any discomfort you feel. She spends hours talking to your growing belly, whispering stories of the world, of the sky, and the beauty of the elements. Her presence is soothing, and she brings you peace in moments where the discomforts of pregnancy are hardest to bear. At night, she holds you close, her hands resting protectively on your stomach, often saying a quiet prayer to the earth for your safety. "You and our child are my heart," she says softly one evening as you drift off to sleep, her love for you as powerful as the storms she commands.

When the time comes for labor, Ororo is a calming force by your side. Even as the pain begins, she stays with you, her hand in yours, reminding you to breathe, to focus on the world around you. "Feel the wind, my love, let it guide you," she murmurs, her voice steady as she helps you through each contraction. You find yourself drawing strength from her presence, her deep connection to the elements grounding you. When the baby finally arrives, she cradles the tiny life in her arms with such tenderness that it brings tears to your eyes. "Welcome to the world, little one," she whispers, her eyes filled with awe and love. Ororo knows this is a moment of great power, not just in the birth of your child, but in the creation of a family bound by love and strength.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

When you tell Kurt you’re pregnant, his first reaction is pure, unfiltered joy. His golden eyes light up, and in an instant, he’s pulling you into a tight embrace, his tail curling around you protectively. "Mein Gott! You are serious, ja?" he asks, his excitement palpable. When you nod, he lets out a delighted laugh, teleporting you both into the air for a brief moment in his excitement before bringing you back down gently. He cups your face in his hands, pressing kisses all over your cheeks and lips, his happiness absolutely infectious. "I am going to be a papa?!" he repeats, as if he can’t quite believe it, but the pure joy on his face shows that he couldn’t be happier. He immediately begins to talk about your future together, about how he’ll be the best father, about how lucky the child will be to have you as their mother.

Throughout your pregnancy, Kurt is an absolute ball of energy and love. He’s always fussing over you, making sure you’re comfortable, making sure you’re happy, and doing everything he can to make you smile. He talks to your belly constantly, telling your baby stories of his own childhood, sharing his love for adventure and his deep faith. "You will be loved, little one. So very loved," he whispers often, his tail lightly wrapping around you as he presses his head to your stomach. Despite his own rough upbringing, Kurt is determined to make sure your child is raised with nothing but love and joy. He’s so excited for every little milestone, constantly asking how you’re feeling, and making sure that you never feel alone or overwhelmed. He even starts knitting baby clothes in his spare time, determined to create something personal for your child.

When labor begins, Kurt is nervous but tries his best to stay calm for your sake. He teleports in and out of the room, fetching things, bringing you water, doing anything he can to help. "You are so strong, meine liebe, you’ve got this," he says, though you can see the nervous energy in him as he paces slightly. When things get intense, he stays by your side, holding your hand tightly, his usual calm demeanor replaced with pure awe at what’s happening. The moment the baby is born, Kurt is overwhelmed with emotion. Tears fill his golden eyes as he looks at the tiny life you’ve created together. "Our little miracle," he whispers in awe, his tail brushing gently against the baby’s tiny hand as he cradles them carefully. His heart is full, knowing that this is the start of a new, beautiful chapter for your family.

Piotr Rasputin (Colossus)

When you tell Piotr you’re pregnant, his first reaction is one of quiet shock. His gentle nature has always been a core part of who he is, but the idea of becoming a father leaves him momentarily speechless. He stares at you for a moment, as if processing the magnitude of what you just said. Then, slowly, a smile breaks across his face, and his massive arms gently pull you into a warm, protective embrace. "We are going to have a child?" he asks, his voice soft and filled with wonder. His metal form, cold to the touch, somehow feels comforting as he holds you close, his hands resting gently on your stomach. "I… I will do everything to protect you and our child," he promises, his deep voice filled with determination and love.

Throughout your pregnancy, Piotr becomes an even more protective and attentive partner. He’s already used to being careful with his strength around you, but now he’s even more cautious, always making sure you’re comfortable and safe. He spends hours drawing and painting, creating art that reflects the love and joy he feels for you and the baby. His gentle nature shines through as he constantly checks in with you, making sure you’re well-rested, eating enough, and not doing anything that could put strain on you or the baby. "You should rest, moya lyubov’," he says softly, offering you a cup of tea or a warm blanket whenever you look the least bit uncomfortable. He talks about the future often, about how he wants to raise the child with the same love and care his family gave him, how he wants to teach them to be strong but gentle, like him.

When labor begins, Piotr is a bundle of nerves beneath his calm exterior. His metal form shifts, and you can see the tension in his usually composed demeanor. He stays by your side, holding your hand gently, though you can tell he’s trying not to show just how worried he is. "I am here, love, you are so strong," he says softly, his voice a low rumble as he reassures you throughout the process. As the labor progresses, he’s there every step of the way, doing whatever he can to help. When the baby is finally born, Piotr is overwhelmed with emotion. He carefully cradles the tiny life in his large, metal arms, his eyes shining with tears as he looks at you with pure love. "Our family," he whispers, his deep voice filled with awe and devotion. "You have given me everything."

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

When you tell Erik you’re pregnant, his initial reaction is one of deep, contemplative silence. You watch as the weight of the news settles over him like a heavy cloak, and for a brief moment, there’s an unreadable look in his sharp eyes. He’s always been a man burdened by the past, his life filled with loss and pain. But then, his expression softens, and he reaches out to touch your face, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. "A child," he murmurs, almost as if he’s afraid to believe it. Slowly, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he pulls you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair. "We will give them the world," he promises, his voice low and filled with the intensity that only Erik can bring. Though you can tell the news has stirred up memories of his past, the joy he feels for this future with you is undeniable.

During the pregnancy, Erik becomes fiercely protective, bordering on overbearing at times. He’s always been a man who values control, and now that you’re carrying his child, that instinct is heightened tenfold. He monitors everything, making sure you’re safe, making sure you’re comfortable, and making sure nothing threatens you or the baby. His magnetic abilities become almost a subconscious part of how he protects you, moving objects out of your way before you even realize they’re there, adjusting the temperature of the room without a second thought. Despite his intensity, there’s a tenderness in the way he speaks to your belly, as though he’s already trying to form a connection with your unborn child. "You will be strong," he says one evening, his hand resting on your stomach. "I will make sure of it."

When labor begins, Erik is calm but incredibly focused. He’s been through many battles in his life, but this is something different—a battle of a more personal kind. He stays by your side, his hand gripping yours tightly, though you can see the tension in his jaw as he tries to remain composed. "You can do this, my love," he says, his voice steady despite the worry in his eyes. As the contractions grow stronger, he channels his abilities to make the environment as soothing as possible, dimming the lights, adjusting the metal fixtures in the room to make everything feel more comfortable for you. When the baby is finally born, Erik is silent for a long moment, staring at the tiny life you’ve both created. Then, without a word, he takes the child in his arms, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability as he gazes down at them. "I never thought I would have this again," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

When you tell Wade you’re pregnant, his reaction is, unsurprisingly, over the top. He stares at you with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open comically for a moment before he suddenly breaks into a huge grin. "Are you serious?!" he shouts, throwing his arms in the air and spinning around in excitement. He grabs you and starts bouncing you up and down, all the while chattering on about how you’re going to have the coolest kid in the world. "Oh man, this is going to be awesome! Our little baby Wadelette, or Wadelino!" His excitement is infectious, and though his humor never stops, you can tell there’s genuine love and excitement behind his wild antics. He talks about everything from baby names to what kind of mini-costume the kid will wear, all while being completely and utterly himself.

During the pregnancy, Wade is a chaotic but devoted partner. He’s constantly hovering, making ridiculous jokes to keep your spirits up, and finding the weirdest ways to pamper you. "You’re eating for two now! Gotta keep that belly happy!" he’d say, handing you a tray of the strangest food combinations you’ve ever seen. Wade has a way of making even the most uncomfortable moments of pregnancy into something funny, but when the serious moments hit, he’s surprisingly thoughtful. He talks to your belly in exaggerated voices, telling the baby stories of his adventures and promising to be the best (and weirdest) dad ever. Though he can’t quite stop being himself, you know that beneath all the humor, Wade is completely committed to you and the baby.

When labor hits, Wade is... well, Wade. He’s running around like a madman, alternately panicking and cracking jokes to try and keep things light. "Okay, okay, I’ve got this! I’ve fought ninjas, I’ve blown up buildings, how hard can this be?!" he says, though the genuine concern in his eyes gives him away. As things progress, he becomes a little more serious, holding your hand and whispering words of encouragement between his nervous ramblings. When the baby is finally born, Wade is struck speechless for once in his life. He stares down at the tiny bundle in awe, his usual mask of humor slipping as he gently takes the baby in his arms. "Holy crap," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath. "We made a tiny person." He looks at you with wide eyes, his usual bravado replaced with pure, unfiltered love.

Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch)

When you tell Wanda you’re pregnant, her initial reaction is one of quiet, overwhelmed emotion. You watch as her eyes fill with tears, her hands trembling as she reaches out to touch your face. "A baby?" she whispers, her voice filled with disbelief. For Wanda, this news is a dream she never thought possible, a hope she had long since buried beneath the weight of her complicated life. She pulls you into a gentle embrace, holding you close as she tries to process the enormity of what this means for the both of you. Her powers flicker around her, responding to her heightened emotions, but she calms herself quickly, pressing her forehead to yours. "I never thought I would have this chance," she says softly. "But now… now we can have a family."

Throughout the pregnancy, Wanda is a bundle of emotions—both excitement and worry. She’s incredibly protective, her powers always at the ready to keep you and the baby safe, but there’s an underlying fear that something could go wrong. Despite her concerns, she embraces the experience fully, surrounding you with warmth and love. She spends hours researching everything about pregnancy, reading books, and using her magic to ensure you and the baby are healthy. She talks to your belly every night, using her magic to create little illusions of what she imagines your child might look like. "You will be so loved," she whispers to your stomach, her hands gently resting over the growing life inside you. Despite the fears that linger in the back of her mind, Wanda finds joy in the journey, grateful for the chance to experience this with you.

When labor begins, Wanda is nervous but focused. She holds your hand, her magic swirling around the room in gentle pulses, trying to ease your pain and keep you calm. "You’re so strong," she says, her voice soft but full of conviction. "I’m here with you." As the contractions intensify, Wanda uses her powers to help as much as she can without interfering too much, guiding you through the pain with a steady hand and reassuring words. When the baby is finally born, Wanda is overwhelmed with emotion. She cradles the newborn in her arms, tears streaming down her face as she gazes at the life you’ve created together. "Our child," she whispers, her voice filled with awe. "I can’t believe it… they’re perfect."

Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver)

When you tell Pietro you’re pregnant, his reaction is fast—literally. He zooms around the room at breakneck speed, his excitement palpable as he tries to process the news. "Wait, wait, wait—seriously? I’m going to be a dad?!" he exclaims, coming to a sudden stop in front of you with wide eyes and a grin that stretches from ear to ear. He’s so thrilled that he can barely stand still, constantly moving from one side of the room to the other, muttering excitedly to himself about baby names, future races, and all the things he’ll teach your child. "They’re gonna be fast, I just know it!" he says, already imagining a little speedster following in his footsteps. His excitement is contagious, and though he can be overwhelming at times, you know that Pietro’s joy is genuine and heartfelt.

During the pregnancy, Pietro is both attentive and hilariously impatient. He’s constantly zipping around, checking on you, fetching things, and making sure you’re comfortable. "You need anything? Water? Snacks? Foot rub?" he asks at lightning speed, already halfway out the door before you can answer. His energy is boundless, and though it can be a bit much at times, you appreciate how much he cares. Pietro is always talking to your belly, encouraging the baby to hurry up and grow faster. "Come on, little one, we’re all waiting for you!" he says with a grin, pressing a kiss to your stomach. Despite his impatience, Pietro is incredibly sweet, and he does everything he can to make sure you feel loved and supported throughout the entire process.

When labor begins, Pietro is a whirlwind of nervous energy. He’s constantly pacing, moving from one side of the room to the other, his speed betraying his anxiety. "You’re doing great, babe, really great!" he says, though his voice is tinged with nervousness. He tries to stay calm for your sake, but you can tell he’s on edge, desperate for everything to go smoothly. When the baby is finally born, Pietro’s world comes to a complete standstill for the first time in his life. The moment they place the baby in his arms, everything around him slows, and for once, he’s not in a rush to go anywhere. He stares down at your newborn child, his usual cocky smirk replaced with a look of pure awe and disbelief. "Wow," he whispers, his voice soft and reverent. "I… we made this." His hands, usually moving a mile a minute, are gentle as he cradles the baby close, eyes wide with wonder as he examines every little detail of their face.

[crescenthistory]

in the silence, there is an us

Pairing: Paul Atreides x Reader

Summary: Throughout their lives, Paul and reader have often found themselves in each other's bed. Childish games after bedtime, late-night studying sessions, nightmares, and a burning need to not be apart.

Part of Paul's point of view can be read here: "you are my favourite silence"

Words: 7.2k

Warnings: not proofread, possibly some inaccuracies about plot details (have not watched dune in ages, i'm just obsessed with paul), best friends to lover, tension, light angst, jessica being a bit rude, reader being an orphan and of a lower social rank, duke leto's death (rip), lots of cuddles and lingering touches, fluff, the whole deal

***

The grand halls of Castle Caladan always had an eerie stillness after sunset. The select servants walked quietly, the sound of waves crashing below barely made its way through the stone walls, and the Duke and Lady Jessica kept to their quarters. For Paul and you, though, this was the perfect time to sneak past the sternness of bedtime. The day never seems long enough for young children whose eyes are still filled with stars.

“Come on!” Paul’s whisper was loud, almost too loud for sneaking around, but you didn’t think long enough to care. The thrill of the game was enough to make both of your hearts race. You were barefoot, your steps making soft thuds against the cool floor as you tiptoed through the hall toward his room.

“If we get caught—” you whispered, but Paul cut you off with a grin.

“We won’t. Besides, who can stop us?”

You rolled your eyes at his cocky confidence. He wasn’t wrong, though. You had never been good at staying still, at obeying the invisible rules set up by adults. With no living relatives to share your name, Paul was more than just a best friend – he was all you had. Him and Duke Leto, whose unwavering sense of duty made him take you in at the Castle when your parents died on a mission he orchestrated. Responsibility above all else, all the qualities he aimed at instilling in his young son. And it couldn’t hurt Paul to have a friend his own age, could it? 

You slipped into his room, both of you giggling like you’d just played the best prank on his sleeping parents. His bed was huge for a 7-year-old, more space than one boy could ever need regardless of his nobility. Tonight, it was your playground, stretching for miles.

Paul scrambled up first, then turned and offered you his hand. “Bet you I can jump higher than you,” he said, a challenge clear in his eyes.

You took his hand, pulling yourself up and laughing as the two of you bounced on the mattress, trying to outdo each other in height and bravery. You weren’t worried about waking anyone. Even if Duke Leto found you – and he often did – his stern reprimands were laced with amusement.

This was not the first time the two children had snuck into each other’s rooms after dark, the activity becoming more habit than occasion. Nights like this were your shared rebellion, a refusal to let the day end just because the sun had gone down, just because Jessica had tucked Paul into bed an hour earlier for bedtime.

Eventually, after you had worn yourselves out, you collapsed side by side on the bed, your breaths heavy from laughter. You stared up at the ceiling, still giggling as the adrenaline began to fade.

“I don’t want it to be bedtime ever again,” Paul said, his voice soft, almost wistful.

You turned your head to look at him, sprawled out on the massive mattress, dark hair in his eyes that reflected the dim moonlight streaming through the window. You understood exactly what he meant.

“Me neither,” you replied with a smile. Your hand found his under the covers.

Neither of you moved as your true bedtime took over, the quiet settling in around you, comfortable and warm. You fell asleep like that, fingers intertwined, with no concept of what it meant to have boundaries. There was just Paul, and you, and the night that was never long enough.

  ***

In the wake of your early teens at the castle, sneaking into each other’s rooms had become less about rebellion and more about comfort. The innocence of bouncing on beds and stifled laughter gave way to whispered conversations in the dark and the shared weight of fears neither of you quite understood yet.

The first time Paul came to your room because of a nightmare, it startled you. You were just about to drift off when you heard the soft creak of your door, followed by the quiet patter of feet. You jerked up from the mess of blankets, blinking into the darkness. Confusion and perhaps a bit of fear grasped you, until you saw his silhouette standing near the edge of your bed.

“Paul?” you whispered, straightening up. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, he didn’t know how. With his tense expression and shadows playing across his face, he looked haunted despite his still small, boy-like frame. You knew him in and out by now, and could clearly read the signs of his nails digging into the skin of his fingers, breathing shallow and uneven. 

“Can I stay?” His voice was rougher than usual, like he was barely holding it together.

“Of course.”

You didn’t ask any questions, it was a silent understanding. Instead, you lifted the blanket, making room for him. He crawled in without hesitation, laying his head on the pillow on your left. His body rigid beside yours for a moment before he relaxed, the tension slowly draining away.

Lying there, you listened to the sound of his breathing steadying, feeling the warmth of his presence next to you, arm against arm. It was quiet, but not silent – the kind of quiet that only existed when you knew someone else was there with you. Someone who understood. Someone who would never judge you for being afraid.

In his newfound safety, Paul drifted off easier than he could in his own bed. Yours was significantly smaller, but somehow softer, and he could actually feel the weight of you beside him on the mattress. He could ground himself in your presence. When he fell asleep, his head fell slightly to the side, his hair brushing against your cheek. 

You, on the other hand, stayed awake a little longer, staring up at the ceiling, your thoughts racing. 

You’d always been each other’s rock, but now, something was different. The comfort you found in his presence was deeper, more profound. It wasn’t just about not wanting to be alone anymore, it was about needing him specifically. It brought a smile to your face to know that he found that same assurance in you.

***

The weights on your shoulders materialised and became clearer as you grew beside each other. At sixteen, the favours Duke Leto had bestowed upon you by allowing you residence and education at Caladan felt like a debt more than a blessing. One you had to repay through excellence, through true devotion to any and all training given to you. While Paul tried to seem more lighthearted about it all, it could be felt in the air all the same. You were no longer just two children sneaking around a castle that seemed to never end. You were a future duke and a noblewoman-in-training, navigating a world that seemed to have its eyes on you at every moment.

To earn your gifted title and position and prove yourself worthy of your place as Paul’s friend, you poured over every textbook your teachers assigned you. The study of Caladan, of politics, traditions and customs occupied your mind to the extent that you neglected the occupant of your heart. 

Yet, at late hours, it was always Paul’s bedroom floor the pair found themselves splayed across. 

Sheets of notes, pens and books layed on top of themselves in a system neither of you could have been able to explain to an outsider. Paul against the wall with his notebook, you stomach-down on the carpet, nose buried between the words in your textbook.

“You’re going to wear yourself out.” Paul’s words were muttered, watching you through tired eyes.

You shook your head. “I’m fine. Just one more chapter.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“I mean it this time.”

Paul didn’t argue, but you could feel his eyes on you as you worked, his presence a quiet comfort beside you. It had become routine, the two of you studying together, you claimed you worked better that way. Paul occasionally asking questions while you tried to focus on your own work but more often than not, you ended up helping him instead of yourself.

Your one-more-chapter became two more as you tried to retain the information, but your eyelids grew heavier, your focus slipping. The same sentence became burned into your retinas without making much more sense.

Ever so slowly, your head was brought closer and closer to the ink. Eventually it was all you could see before your cheek hit the page – you were out as a light.

Paul watched you for a moment, a soft smile playing on his lips. This was not the first time. He closed his own book and moved quietly to your side. He brought a finger up to brush some of your hair out of your face before he rolled you over. Gently, he lifted you, careful not to wake you as he carried you to the bed. His bed.

It had almost become part of the routine, he watches you exhaust yourself and then ensures you get the rest you deserve. He had done this before, but each time, it made his chest tighten more in ways he didn’t fully understand.

As he laid you down delicately, he hesitated by your side for just a moment, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the peaceful expression on your face. He didn’t realise how often he found himself staring at you like this, wondering when the girl who used to be his playmate had become someone he couldn’t stop thinking about. Someone he wanted to protect, to keep close, even as you worked yourself to the bone. He wanted to tell you you didn’t have to, that he knew and that you were enough. Instead, he let his instinct win and lightly caressed the soft flesh of your arm.

After a brief pause, Paul pulled the covers over you and sat on your edge of the bed for a while longer. He was tired himself, but he didn’t want to move. Not just yet.

***

The past few months felt as if they stretched on for years with how much change and development you were faced with, almost forcefully. Despite your efforts, the older you got, the more you felt like a young girl attempting to parade as a grown woman ready for whatever duties Duke Leto sees fit of you, as a “noblewoman” without any true blood given nobility. 

Paul had been dancing around your worries for a while now, cutting off your worried rants with funny quips and dragging you from the library or training room to the beach when he believed you too worrisome. However, his duties were catching up to him as well, even when he tried to balance on the beam with you. He would be a duke one day, and though he had acted like a prince all his life, this was much more real.

His duties were specifically catching up to him in the form of one Lady Jessica. Reminders, comments, requests to his teachers and staff. She wanted him to start becoming the man he needs to be.

One of her lectures was playing out before your eyes in the library, though it escaped you how it even began. The soft, rhythmic drumming of the rain against the high windows felt like the one thing tethering you this world as she spoke, shadows cast across her face. 

Lady Jessica’s voice sliced through the rain, calm but pointed. Leaving the air around you feeling heavy. You sat at a table beside Paul, as she stood above you, a judge passing through your reading session. Her sharp eyes, blue within blue, never seemed to miss anything.

She had always watched you carefully, ever since you were children – though it wasn’t until recently that you noticed how her gaze lingered on you. Emotion indecipherable, yet somehow your stomach seared from it. She was assessing you on criteria it felt you had no control over. 

“You’re both approaching the age where things will change,” Jessica said, her gaze flicking between you and Paul. Her tone was deceptively gentle, like the calm before a storm. “You can no longer afford to be... careless.”

There was a long pause, a silence that felt charged with unspoken meaning. Paul shifted beside you, and though you didn’t look at him, you could feel the tension in the way he carried himself, alert, almost defensive.

“I’m not just speaking about duties to the House or the formalities expected of you as you come of age.” Lady Jessica’s eyes rested on you, sharp and assessing. “I’m also speaking about the way you conduct yourselves in your personal relationships.”

Your heart stuttered at the implication, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. You did not wish to dig into the meaning behind her words.

This was not the first time she’d given such a lecture, but it was the first time it felt so personal. So aimed. It was understood she must be referring to the hours upon hours you spent together, including in the moonlight. The quiet moments where you and Paul sought each other out, clinging to your comfort when the world felt too heavy to bear alone.

It was never intended to be anything inappropriate. You were each other’s safety nets, just like you had always been. But still, you felt a pang of shame coil in your chest at the thought of it being seen that way.

“You have been given responsibilities that go beyond your own desires,” Jessica continued, turning slightly toward Paul. “You are the heir to the House of Atreides, Paul. Every decision you make now, every relationship you allow to develop, can impact that legacy.”

Paul’s jaw clenched, and for the first time, you risked a glance at him. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his posture betrayed his discomfort. His eyes flicked to you, worry clouding them more than annoyance at his mother’s words. He searched your face for something, and did not seem happy with what he saw, but you ripped your gaze away a mere second after.

He was not thinking about his legacy. In that moment, all he thought about was you and how you were feeling.

Your stomach twisted, and the weight of it all – the difference in your status, the expectations that shadowed both your lives – seemed too much. Lady Jessica was not wrong, and Gods did you hate it. You glanced down, willing the words to settle somewhere far away, somewhere that wouldn’t hurt so much.

“You must understand,” Jessica said, her voice softer now, but no less firm, “the time for childish games is over. It’s time for both of you to take your roles more seriously. The future will not wait for you to be ready.”

The words hit you harder than they should have, like a reprimand for something you had not yet done but already felt guilty about. You wanted to say something, anything to show that you understood, that you weren’t some distraction pulling Paul away from his responsibilities, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you nodded stiffly, keeping your eyes trained on the floor.

Jessica gave a tight-lipped smile you did not see, before turning around to take her leave, pleased with the efficiency of your talk. She was gone, her robes whispering against the stone floor as she left you alone with the silence she had created between you two.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The weight of Jessica’s words still hung heavy in the room, thickening the air between you. You could feel Paul’s gaze on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him, not yet.

“She didn’t mean it like that,” Paul finally said, his voice low and careful, like he was testing the waters.

When you did not respond, Paul let out a soft sigh, moving his body towards you. “She’s just worried. That’s all. My mother—”

“Your mother is always worried,” you cut in, more sharply than you intended. You could feel the weight of it all pressing down on you. The constant reminders of how you didn’t quite fit into this world of nobility and politics, how your presence was tolerated but not truly embraced by the one woman you wished to be on your side. “And maybe she has a point. I’ve been distracting you. I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t keep coming to you.”

You did not elaborate, you did not need to.

Paul’s expression tightened, and before you could move away, he reached out, gently gripping your hands between his. His touch was warm, grounding, but you tried not to let yourself sink into it.

“No,” he said, his voice firm now. “You haven’t been distracting me. You’ve... you’ve been keeping me sane. It’s not the same thing.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head again. “But your mother thinks—”

“I don’t care what my mother thinks.”

The words were out of Paul’s mouth before he could stop them, and for a moment, he looked almost startled by his own admission. He blinked, as if trying to make sense of his own boldness, before his grip on your hands tightened just slightly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“I don’t care what she thinks about the time we spend together,” he said, quieter this time, but no less intense. “She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re drowning, like the world’s pressing in from every side, and you’re just. Alone.”

You looked up at him then, your breath catching at the rawness in his voice. Paul never let anyone see him like this—not even you most of the time, not fully. But now, there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Desperation, maybe. Or something deeper, something unspoken.

“Whenever I’m with you, it’s the only time I don’t feel that way,” he continued, his voice low, like he was sharing a secret he’d been keeping for too long. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing that keeps me steady.”

Your chest tightened, torn between the overwhelming urge to believe him and the guilt that had been festering inside you since Jessica’s words. You wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes made it impossible to say any words out loud.

So instead, you swallowed your thoughts, pressing them deep down where they couldn’t be reached.

“We just need to be more careful,” you said softly, pulling your hands away from his grasp. Your skin still tingled where his fingers had been. “Your mother’s right. We can’t keep hiding away in each other’s rooms. We can’t... we can’t keep acting like kids.”

Paul’s face fell, the tension in his shoulders sagging slightly. His now-free hands went up to rub at his face before he sighed. “But we’re not acting like kids.”

“Aren’t we?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “We’re literally sneaking into each other’s beds in the middle of the night, Paul. We’re still pretending like nothing’s changed.”

Paul was quiet for a long moment, his eyes flicking away from you, as if he couldn’t bring himself to argue. Maybe because deep down, he knew you were right.

But then, just as the silence between you started to feel unbearable, he spoke again, his voice quieter, but full of conviction.

“Nothing has changed though. Not between us.”

The words lingered in the air, and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t know how to respond. A part of you wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to the idea that no matter what the world threw at you, no matter what Lady Jessica said, you and Paul would always be the same. The same two people who had spent years leaning on each other, who had always been there to catch each other when the ground fell away.

Yet, you knew what Paul’s wishful thinking sounded like more than anyone else. You knew everything about him. And in this moment, you knew he was wrong. No matter how much you both tried to ignore it, the future was closing in around you.

“I should go,” you said quietly, getting up from your seat before he could say or do anything to stop you. “I need to think.”

Paul didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes was enough to keep you rooted in place for just a moment longer, looking down at him. He still looked so young, his eyes so wide. That familiar ache settled in your chest, the same ache that came whenever you thought about what you were trying so hard not to lose.

“I will see you tomorrow,” you said, and with that you left him to sit with the sound of rain drops against glass.

After Jessica’s most pointed lecture, your unease at night, the one you and Paul seemed cursed to be forever plagued by as children of the castle, had only increased. You woke in cold sweat or you did not wake at all – regardless, you stayed in your own bed, never venturing down that familiar path in the hallway. You hugged your knees for comfort. 

You were a proper young woman. As you ought to be.

Nothing could get you and Paul to stop spending time with each other entirely though, not his mother and certainly not complicated feelings. There was already a lot of that flowing around anyway.

Classes, meals, walks around the hallways, the occasional silent moment watching the waves side by side in a large window. Never late-night visits. Never lingering too much, especially not around Jessica. 

She seemed pleased with your development, so you bit your cheek and played the part.

It had been months since either of you crossed that invisible boundary, but the comfort of those nights lingered in your minds, a shared memory you couldn’t quite let go of. One that you held tight on rough nights.

Ironically enough, it was the nights without thunder or storms that you struggled the most. Gripped by fear and horror, you fought through the worst nightmare you had experienced in many years. Mangled bodies, fire and smoke, Paul’s face distorted by sandstorms that you swear you could feel cut into your fragile skin like class.

The scream was lodged in your throat as you shot up, finally able to pull yourself out of the depths of your consciousness of all that has happened and all you fear will. Drowning in sweat and tears, violently trembling all over, you suddenly found yourself on your feet in the cold hallway.

No coherent thoughts were running through your head, just instinct and an intense need to be saved from your own mind. Even in a waking state, you still felt half infused in the nightmare, seeing the scenes when you blink, as if tattooed on your eyelids.

Almost running down the known path, your hand grazing the wall as you went to stabilise yourself. The rational part of your brain told you it wasn’t appropriate, that you should listen to Jessica, you were both too old to be doing this – but you were not in a rational state of mind right now. Right now you were the same scared little girl you have always been, the one you fear you always will be, and you knew what you needed to do to quiet her screams. 

When you reached his door, you paused, your hand hovering over the handle. What if he didn’t want this anymore? What if he would turn you away?

Before you could second-guess yourself further, the door creaked open, and there he was. Paul stood in the doorway, lit up from behind by a single candle on his nightstand. His eyes were wide as he took the sight of you in, but there was no real surprise etched on his face. However, if you weren’t mistaken, you thought you saw relief in it. Like he had been waiting for you, hoping for you to come.

Paul breathed your name out like a ‘thank you’, stepping aside to let you in before you could even speak. His hair was dishevelled, his shirt wrinkled from where he must have been lying awake, staring at the tall ceiling.

You slipped in past him, already feeling some tension leave your body as soon as the door closed behind you. You weren’t sure what to say. Maybe you didn’t need to say anything at all. Letting your eyes meet his, the look on Paul’s face told you everything you needed to know.

Without a word, you moved toward the bed, and Paul followed, his presence a warm, steadying force behind you. He didn’t ask you any questions, he didn’t need to. You both knew that whatever it was, it was enough to bring you here, to him. 

You hesitated for just a moment, feeling the weight of the years between you. When you were children, there had been no second thoughts, no hesitation. But now, voices were creeping in – but you shoved them aside like his blankets, and climbed into his bed.

When Paul slid into bed beside you, everything felt right again.

The tension in your body melted away as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. You could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, feel the warmth of his skin against yours, and suddenly, the fear that had gripped you moments ago faded into nothing.

You rested your head against his chest, closing your eyes as the last of your tremors subsided. He was your anchor, your constant in a world that was rapidly spinning out of control.

“Are you okay?” Paul finally asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper.

You nodded against him, but your throat felt tight, your words stuck behind the weight of everything unsaid. The nightmare had shaken you more than you wanted to admit, and it wasn’t just about the dark images in your head. It was the fear of losing Paul, of losing the one person who had been by your side for as long as you could remember.

“I’m glad you came,” Paul said quietly. “I wanted to come to you, but—” He trailed off, his hand tightening slightly on your shoulder as if to ground himself.

“I know,” you whispered, finally finding your voice. “I wanted to come sooner.”

There was a pause, and then, after a long moment, Paul’s thumb began tracing slow circles on your arm, his touch gentle but deliberate. It was a gesture of comfort, of familiarity. 

“I’ll always be here,” he murmured, so softly you almost didn’t hear him. “I swear it.”

You opened your eyes and tilted your head up, meeting his gaze in the dim light. His face was serious, his eyes reflecting the weight of the promise he’d just made. For a brief second, you thought he might say more, something you’d been waiting for but weren’t ready to confront. 

Instead, Paul’s expression softened, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, the gesture tender, reassuring. It was something he might have done when you were younger, but now it felt different. It wasn’t just comfort anymore—it was a part of the promise.

Neither of you said anything after that. You simply held each other, letting the quiet settle in. The world outside might have been shifting, changing in ways neither of you could control, but here, in the stillness of the night, there was nothing but you and Paul.

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, only that, for the first time in a long while, you felt safe. And unfortunately, as the next few days would ensure, it was the last time for a long while as well.

***

When Arrakis claimed Duke Leto, it also claimed something inside Paul.

He wasn’t the same after that day. The boy who had been your partner in rebellion, the one who made you laugh even in the darkest of times, had hardened. His grief was silent, buried under layers of duty and survival, but you could see it. It was in the way his hands trembled ever so slightly when he thought no one was looking, the way his eyes had dulled since your arrival on this cursed planet.

In the middle of it all, you felt lost too. You had lost the closest you had to a father figure in Duke Leto, but worse, you were losing Paul—bit by bit, day by day, as he was forced to become someone you struggled to recognise. This was a different kind of nightmare, one you couldn’t wake from.

After growing used to the luxury of Caladan Castle’s beddings, you found yourself huddled with Paul in a small tent in the middle of the desert, the harsh winds of Arrakis howling outside. There was nothing but sand for miles, and for the first time since arriving on this planet, you felt truly untethered from the life you once knew.

Paul sat across from you, his back pressed against the rough fabric of the tent, his face half-shadowed by the faint light from a small glowglobe. His eyes were distant, fixed on something you couldn’t see, something only he could comprehend.

“Paul?” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

He didn’t answer at first, but then, slowly, his gaze shifted to you. There was a fragility there that caught you off guard—a vulnerability that reminded you of the boy you used to sneak around the castle with, the one who used to chase away your fears with a single glance.

Without thinking, you moved closer, kneeling in front of him. His breath hitched as you reached out, gently placing one hand on his arm and the other on his cheek. He looked down at your fingers, as if surprised by the touch, before his eyes met yours again.

You wanted to say something, anything at all, to ease his pain. To take some of the burden off his shoulders, even if that meant taking them upon your own. No words felt worthy enough and died in your throat, while the sentiment remained hot on your tongue.

With Arrakis raging around you, you wanted him to feel some sense of security.

“I’m still here,” you whispered, echoing the words he had said to you when you were the one needing the comfort.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, with a twitch of his lips, something cracked in his expression, something that had been carefully held in place to keep it all in. Paul’s shoulders sagged, the weight of loss and doom pressing down on him all at once.

He didn’t say anything, but when you shifted closer and pulled him into your arms, he didn’t resist. He simply let you hold him, his head resting against your shoulder, his breath shaky and uneven.

You sat like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s presence as the storm outside raged on. The world around you was crumbling, but here, in the faux quiet of the tent, there was nothing but the two of you. You didn’t have words for what you were feeling, but it didn’t matter. Paul understood. He always had.

As if the continued touch broke him, Paul made a sound like a tear-less sob, saving water while still drowning in emotion. His arms tightened around you, holding onto you for dear life.

He murmured something against your neck that you couldn’t hear. You made an inquisitive humming sound as you began to stroke his back, coaxing him through his pain.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. His voice was raw, it sent ripples through your heart. “Please.”

“You won’t,” you promised, your fingers moving up to card through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, Paul. I’ll be right here with you.”

If he wanted to answer, he couldn’t. Instead he let himself have this moment before facing a world that seemed increasingly too big.

***

Life among the Fremen was harsh, unforgiving, but the two of you had learned to survive. It had been weeks since you arrived in the sietch, and every day felt like a battle—against the elements, against the constant threat of danger, against the growing distance between you and the boy you grew up with.

The desert night was deceptively cool, the air carrying a sharpness that contrasted with the oppressive heat of the day. You stood just outside the sietch, gazing up at the unfamiliar stars that stretched endlessly above the dunes. The sky was clear—almost too clear—so different from the comforting overcast of Caladan, the gentle crash of waves a memory long lost to the wind. You inhaled deeply, trying to ground yourself, but the vastness of the desert made you feel small. Disconnected.

There were few quiet moments here, and you took a deep breath as you were surrounded by it.

“I thought I’d find you here.” 

There was a shuffle of footsteps behind you, soft but deliberate. Without turning, you of course knew it was Paul. He came up behind you, standing slightly to your left so you could see him in your sideview. You leaned back, resting your shoulder on his own.

You smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Paul laughed lowly – some things never change. “Neither could I.”

You shook your head, still staring at the stars. “I don’t know if I’ve had a proper night’s sleep since we left Caladan.”

“I miss the rain,” Paul said quietly. “I never thought I would. I used to complain about it when we were kids.”

You smiled faintly. “Don’t lie, you hated being inside when it rained. You’d drag me out into the mud even when it was pouring.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Well, you never said no.”

“I never could.”

There was a pause, one that carried the weight of the past few months – Arrakis, the loss of Duke Leto, the constant struggle for survival. The two of you had grown so used to moving, fighting, planning for the next step, that there had been no time to sit with your grief. No time to just be, in the way you only can with each other.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Paul murmured, glancing at you sideways. “How quickly everything changes. A few months ago, we were on Caladan, complaining about studies, sneaking into each other’s rooms like we always used to... and now–”

“We’re here,” you finished for him, your voice quieter. “In the middle of the desert.”

Paul’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, and you felt the weight of his gaze. You’d been through so much together, seen so much of each other, in ways no one else had. Yet there was still a distance between you now, a hesitation that hadn’t been there when you were younger. 

It was as though you both knew you were standing on the edge of something, but neither of you dared to cross it.

“I was thinking...” Paul started, his voice trailing off. He looked away, frowning slightly as if choosing his words carefully. “Would it be... strange if you stayed with me tonight? Just for comfort, I mean.”

Your heart skipped, somehow caught off guard by the question. There had been so many nights, both as children and as teenagers, where you had found solace in each other’s company. Whether from nightmares, from stress, or simply because being apart felt wrong.

“Not strange, anyone would need a bit of comfort in our situation,” you tried at humour before looking back at him with soft eyes. 

He didn’t say anything, seemingly trapped between his thoughts. Usually when you spend the night together lately it was because of difficult emotions. You open the door for him to talk about his feelings.

“Are you– are you okay?” you asked, searching his face for the answer. 

Paul was always the one holding everything together, always taking on the weight of his responsibilities without complaint. But tonight, standing under the cold desert sky, he seemed tired. Tired in a way that went beyond just sleepless nights.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked out over the dunes, his expression unreadable, though the subtle tightening of his jaw told you he was wrestling with something.

“I’ve been thinking about my father,” he finally said, his voice thick with the grief he rarely let slip. “About everything he wanted for me. For us. How he wanted me to be a ruler who led with compassion, but how can I...?” He trailed off, swallowing hard, and you could see the battle raging behind his eyes.“I don’t know if I can be what he wanted.”

Your heart ached at his words. You had always known Paul felt the weight of his future, but you hadn’t realised how deeply it cut. Stepping closer, you touched his arm lightly, drawing his attention back to you.

“You already are,” you said softly. “Even in the middle of all this, Paul, you haven’t lost that part of yourself. Your father would see that.”

He exhaled shakily, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, it felt like the world fell away. There was a vulnerability there, one he rarely let show. It made something inside you shift, as though the careful lines you had mentally drawn to protect yourself, to keep things unchanged between you, were suddenly blurring.

“I’m just afraid of losing more,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of losing everyone I care about. Losing you.”

The words settled heavily in the space between you, a truth that had always lingered but was now undeniable. You were no longer just childhood friends. You were no longer just companions trying to survive. There was a throne in your heart, and on it, Paul was more than just a duke. 

“You won’t lose me,” you said firmly, turning towards him and stepping even closer. “You couldn’t. I’m here, Paul, I’ve always been here.”

Paul stared at you, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite place. His eyes softened, the hard edges that had been carved into him by grief and duty melting away, if only for a moment. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you now, something that had been building for years but had never quite been said aloud.

“You don’t understand,” Paul whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I can’t lose you. Not just because you’re the last piece of Caladan I have left... but because I—”

He stopped, his throat working as if the words were too hard to say. But you knew what he meant. You’d always known, hadn’t you? 

Paul took a step closer, the last step separating his body from yours. His hand lifted to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers lingered at the base of your neck, and you were sure he could feel the rapid beat of your heart in your pulsepoint. It echoed the weight of what he wasn’t saying. 

“You can say it,” you whispered, your voice trembling, though you weren’t sure if it was from fear or anticipation.

Paul’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked like he was on the verge of stepping back, of retreating into that familiar space where he could hide from the truth. But then his palm made contact with the side of your neck, and he leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours. Breathing in deeply, slowly.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words tumbling out like a secret he had been holding onto for too long. “I have loved you for so long, and I didn’t even realise it. But now, I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

Your heart stuttered at the confession, your breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t a declaration shouted from the rooftops, it wasn’t a grand, romantic gesture. It was quiet, real, the kind of love that had grown slowly over years, woven into every shared moment, every laugh, every late-night conversation.

“And I love you,” you whispered back, the words barely audible in the quiet of the desert night. “You’re my best friend, my person. You must know that.”

Paul let out a soft, almost relieved breath, his hand moving up to cup your cheek as he tilted your face up to meet his. There was a question in his eyes, one he didn’t need to ask. You answered it by leaning in, lips barely brushing against his, before he closed the final gap with the gentlest of kisses. He was tentative, as though testing the waters of something new, something fragile but real.

It was a kiss that felt like a promise.

It lingered, even when he pulled back ever so slowly, resting his forehead back against yours. 

You both stood there in the quiet, the weight of the desert and the night around you, but the tension between you finally dissipating through your touches.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Paul whispered again, his voice steady this time, though the vulnerability was still there, just beneath the surface.

“I will stay with you every night, if that would make you happy.” There was no hesitation in your voice or your heart. Just love.

A smile spread on his face before he pressed it against your lips in another kiss. Searing, caring, passionate. This was the closest you have seen him to his old boyish self, always happy to bask in your presence.

Letting his hand travel down to find yours, he interlaced your fingers and pulled you back into the sietch.

His room was small, barely big enough for the both of you, a stark contrast to your conditions at Caladan. But as you lay down beside each other, it didn’t matter, you were glad for the excuse to keep him even closer. Paul wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly, and for the first time since Arrakis had stolen everything from you, you felt safe. Safe in the knowledge that whatever came next, whatever trials the desert or the universe had in store, you wouldn’t face them alone.

As you lay in his arms, your head resting against his chest, you whispered, “We’ll get through this, Paul. Together.”

Paul’s grip tightened around you, and you could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

“We will,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not ever.”

“And I you. No matter what, my love.”

Warmth spread across Paul’s face at the name. He thought, with sleep beginning to cloud his mind, that though there are many uncomfortable changes – that is one he will happily accept. 

For the first time in weeks, you both fell asleep easily, wrapped in the comfort of each other, and the quiet promise of the love that had finally, after all these years, been released into dry air.

[runariya]

The Auction (JJK) • Chapter 3

pairing: wolf hybrid!Jungkook x cat hybrid!female reader genre: mafia!AU, hybrid!AU, dystopian!AU, S2L, dark romance, slow burn, angst rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: angst, being held hostage, repeated sniffing, obsession and possessiveness, OC snaps, JK is twisted and doesn't understand the concept of personal space, lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 3.2K

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

1 • 2 • masterlist • 4

For six consecutive long days, the routine repeats itself, a charade of all charades, like the ticking of a clock inside a cage, each second tightening around you. You remain confined to that room, trapped beneath its opulent veneer, while Jimin is your only fleeting connection to anything resembling humanity. Once a day, he brings food, and with it, moments of silence that gradually give way to hushed conversations, the kind that seep into your bones and momentarily calm the tremors within you. 

His words, ringing with understanding and a soft insistence that perhaps this new life is safer, better even, echo in your mind like a lullaby you can’t quite believe in. And yet, they cling to you, especially when night falls, and Jungkook returns to claim the bed beside you. 

Every night is the same – he enters, his presence filling the space like night swallowing light, and without a shred of modesty, he strips, showers, and slips into bed next to you. He always presses a kiss to the back of your head, and though you feign sleep, you know he senses your wakefulness, yet does nothing, only lies there, close enough to feel the warmth of him, his breath against your skin. 

Despite Jimin's persistent reassurances, the soothing rhythm of his voice telling you over and over that this is where safety lies, that it’s time to surrender and accept, there’s something within you that won’t quiet. It claws at you relentlessly, this urge to escape the gilded prison Jungkook keeps you in, the urge to break free from the walls that hold you in their cold grip. And as each day passes, you find yourself resisting more, your defiance growing like a dark bloom, unfurling slowly but surely. 

It begins simply enough, with you speaking those words, softly, unsure at first, each morning before Jungkook leaves “I want to go home.” Each time, your voice grows a little stronger, like an incantation you hope will break the spell, but his response never wavers, always delivered with the same calm and maddening certainty that chills you to your core: “You are home.”

But today, however, is different, as you actively choose defiance. When Jungkook returns from whatever dark kingdom he rules outside these walls, you aren’t curled in bed, waiting like some fragile thing for his presence to weigh down upon you. No, you stand in the centre of the room, your spine straight, your eyes unwavering like steel as they meet his. The air between you crackles for the first time, your pulse quickening as his dark eyes lock onto yours. He towers over you, his height and strength an undeniable force, but something within you surges recklessly. Jimin’s words—'you’re different, he won’t harm you'—echo in the recesses of your mind, feeding you a false sense of untouchability. 

Jungkook stops, his gleaming eyes narrowing slightly, taking in the shift in you, the way you stand as though you might fight back. And for a moment, the silence between you is pulsing with all the unspoken things that have yet to come crashing down.

“I want to go home,” you hiss, the snarl of your voice trembling out of your lips, fury seeping into every fibre of your being as your tail bristles, stiff with the kind of raw anger that claws at your very bones, your fangs bared in a snarl that betrays the storm brewing beneath your skin.

Jungkook’s lips curl into a smirk, a sinister amusement flickering in his dark gaze as his own tail wags lazily behind him, as if your defiance, your venom, is nothing more than entertainment to him—a game. “You are home, kitten,” he drawls, each word dripping with an insidious confidence that grates against your ears like nails on glass.

“I’m fucking not! Let me leave, Jungkook!” you scream, your voice rising in a pitch that borders on desperation, though you refuse to let him see just how deep that desperation runs. You plant your feet, refusing to yield, the ground beneath you trembling with the intensity of your defiance.

His laughter rings out, cold and mocking, as if your resistance is something to be cherished, not feared. “You are home,” he repeats, the laughter still lingering on his lips like a twisted song. “Best you accept it.”

“No!” The word tears from your throat, a battle cry, as you snatch the nearest objects—ornate vases, delicate sculptures—and hurl them at him with all the strength your body can muster. They fly through the air with reckless force, but Jungkook’s reflexes are a cruel thing, too swift for your own good. He dodges them with an effortless grace, catching a few in his large hands, his laughter never faltering, only growing darker with every failed strike.

“Fucking asshole!” The words spill from your lips like the objects flying his way as you charge at him, wild and untamed, your small frame launching forward in a futile attempt to claw at him—to tear at his chest, his face, his eyes—any part of him you can reach in your blind rage. But it’s no use. His reflexes are sharper than your anger, and in a single, effortless motion, he captures you in his arms, his strength overwhelming you with ease as he holds you against his chest, his grip nevertheless careful, your limbs thrashing in vain against him.

He grins down at you, that same dangerous glint dancing in his eyes, his tail swaying in satisfaction. “There it is,” he murmurs, his voice low and amused. “Knew there was fight in you somewhere.”

“You’re sick,” you spit in his face, neck bend upwards, your voice laced with disgust, your body shaking with the effort to free yourself from his grasp, though every movement only serves to tighten his hold.

“Sick? Only when you’re not near me.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest into yours. “But I think it’s time you finally got out of this room, don’t you think?”

For a brief moment, hope flickers within you, a fragile thing, but it shatters almost immediately, splintering into jagged shards.

“You’re going to get dolled up,” Jungkook continues, his voice laced with an almost playful malice, “and you’re going to stand by my side, like you belong there. Understand?”

“Where are you taking me?” The question tumbles from your lips before you can stop it, though you already know the answer will not offer you any comfort.

He smiles, that dark and twisted thing that never quite reaches his eyes. “You’re mine. It’s time the world knows it.”

His words are a poison that not only tastes bitter in your throat but settles deep in your gut, twisting your insides with a repulsion so visceral it nearly makes you sick yourself. But you know you must play along—there’s no other choice. You need time, space to think, to plan, to escape, maybe use this opportunity right away. 

As he leads you to the bathroom, his hand never leaving your waist, he hands you a box, its contents revealed to be a dress of the deepest black, the silk of it shimmering as if it holds the very night sky within its folds. The heels, impossibly tall and elegant, glint with the same ethereal quality.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, voice low and commanding as he brushes it against your temple. “Not a second more.”

And with that, he disappears, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the weight of the dress in your hands. It feels like something from another world, its silk as soft and black as your own fur, as if it’s been spun from darkness itself. When you slip it on, it moulds to your body as though it was made for you, each line and curve crafted with an almost haunting precision. You catch your reflection and it’s unnerving—you look powerful, ethereal even, a creature of shadow and elegance, yet it’s not the kind of power you want to feel. You paint your face with the same false obedience, styling your hair just as much, even as the fear of what might happen should you fail to escape gnaws at your bones.

When you step out, Jungkook stands waiting, phone to his ear, but the moment he sees you, he cuts the call without a word, his eyes darkening with something far more dangerous than desire. “My goddess,” he breathes, striding towards you with that same unrelenting confidence, his arm slipping around your waist as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent while your body recoils, revulsion too strong deep within you.

He keeps his grip strong as he leads you down to the underground garage, his hand possessive against your waist, his fingers biting into your flesh as he speaks in low, measured tones. “We’re heading to a meeting,” he explains, “and you’re going to stand by my side, silent and still. It’s not a game, kitten. It’s a trial, a test to see if you’re truly capable of being who I think you are. No running. No words. You keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, do you understand?”

You say nothing, your silence the only answer you’re willing to give as you approach his sports car. But Jungkook is not a man who accepts silence. He turns you towards him, his fingers gripping your jaw with a force that leaves no room, his eyes flashing with anger. “Do you understand, kitten?” he growls, the name dripping from his lips like a curse.

“Yes,” you growl back, the word forced through clenched teeth.

Jungkook’s grip loosens, his fingers trailing gently over the skin he has just bruised, his voice softening into something almost tender. “Good girl. Now be a darling and get in the car.”

He opens the passenger door for you with a sense of chivalry you didn’t expect from him, before rounding the car and sliding in behind the wheel. His dark eyes gleam in the shifting streetlights as he navigates the roads with ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the window ledge, his tattooed arm flexing with every corner he takes.

When you finally arrive, it’s not the seedy underworld you expect but an ordinary nightclub, at least on the surface. A valet opens your door as Jungkook steps out, tossing the keys carelessly into his hands before guiding you inside, his grip never once leaving your waist, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip from his grasp the moment he lets go.

But you don’t enter the club. Instead, you’re led down a narrow staircase to a dimly lit room where a poker table waits, surrounded by other predator hybrids, their eyes gleaming like hungry beings beneath the haze of smoke and the tang of alcohol, one chair conspicuously left empty, waiting for the king and his captive queen.

„Didn’t know you’d bring a to, Jaykay,“ the panther hybrid sneers, his voice dripping with mockery.

“Not a toy, Yoongi,” Jungkook remarks, though the usual venom in his voice is conspicuously absent, replaced instead by an unsettling glimmer of amusement that softens his otherwise brutal demeanour, a macabre joy lurking beneath the surface as if he revels in some private joke only they are privy to. 

The python hybrid leans forward, his eyes gleaming with serpentine curiosity, tongue darting out as he mutters, “She your mate, then?” His voice, slow and sibilant, carries a weight of knowing far more than he lets on. 

“No scent of him on her,” observes the bear hybrid sitting the closest with a low grunt, his tone laden with certainty, as if the absence of that primal mark renders everything clear and undisputed in his mind. 

Jungkook’s laughter spills from his lips, a dark melody of possessiveness, as he slowly unfastens the buttons of his jacket and sinks into his seat, pulling you unceremoniously onto his lap. His fingers dig into your side, a casual but deliberate reminder of his control, his breath warm against your neck as he murmurs, “Not yet, but we’re getting there, aren’t we?” His grip tightens with every word, a thinly veiled threat masked as affection.

You are not permitted the luxury of speech in this twisted theatre, and even if you were, the oppressive weight of their gazes—five pairs of predatory eyes stripping you bare—leaves you frozen. A simple nod is all you manage, the tremor in your chest betraying the steady composure you desperately try to maintain.

“What’s your name?” Yoongi, the jaguar hybrid, asks with a drawl, his eyes too sharp, too intent, the curiosity in them unnerving. 

Silence hangs heavy, your lips pressed together in defiance or obedience, but then Jungkook’s fingers dig into your flesh once more, not a painful gesture but a warning nonetheless. So you force the words past your lips, your voice sickly sweet, dripping with the obedience they all crave.

Satisfied, Jungkook introduces the others with a casual air, as though this grotesque gathering is nothing out of the ordinary. The python hybrid, the one with the slithering tongue, is Hoseok. The bear hybrid with the piercing gaze is Taehyung. Seokjin, an orca hybrid, watches you with an unsettling glint, while Namjoon, the lion hybrid, is the last to meet your eyes, his quiet intensity wrapping around him like a shroud. Their names carry a strange familiarity, as though they belong to men who live in worlds too dangerous for you, their wealth spilling carelessly across the poker table, every hand played with reckless abandon, their conversation laced with humour and hints of illicit dealings that linger just out of reach for your understanding.

You sit still, a mute observer, cataloguing their movements, their mannerisms, but most of all, you watch Jungkook as best as you can—the way he commands the space without effort, without hesitation, a king among beasts. His weaknesses, however, are elusive, hidden beneath layers of calm arrogance. Yet it’s Namjoon who eventually hands you his vulnerability wrapped in a careless taunt, his voice a low rumble as he speaks: “Why don’t you bet her, Jungkook? Spice things up a bit, yeah?”

The growl that reverberates through Jungkook’s chest is primal, a deep warning that vibrates through your very bones. Yet he remains composed, his fury tightly controlled, a stark contrast to the savage violence he once unleashed upon the crocodile hybrid without hesitation. “She’s mine. Not for bet,” he replies, the possessive claim woven through his words unmistakable.

“Let her choose,” Seokjin suggests, his voice like velvet, a smile playing on his lips but never quite reaching his eyes. “Don’t you want a way out, love? Any one of us would be more than willing to take you home, far away from this world you clearly don’t belong in.”

Your instincts scream warnings louder than any temptation his offer might hold. You feel it in the way Jungkook’s grip tightens around you, his muscles stiff, his senses flaring with something darker than mere possessiveness—something protective, as twisted as that may be. There’s no escape here, no safety in the arms of these men who gaze upon you with more hunger than mercy. The truth is bitter in your throat, but unavoidable. 

“I’m Jungkook’s,” you say, the admission falling from your lips with the cold, hard finality of a sentence passed down from on high. It’s not what you desire, nor what you ever would have chosen, but it is the truth—the only truth left to you in this labyrinth of power and control.

Seokjin exhales with theatrical disappointment, his voice an exaggerated sigh of regret, “What a shame,” while the others laugh, the sound hollow and sharp like glass shattering in the air. Beneath you, Jungkook relaxes, his hold softening ever so slightly, his hand tracing idle circles across your abdomen as if to soothe the tension he’s caused, though the unease in his body remains like an invisible tether wrapped tight around you both.

The night concludes with a quiet resignation as Taehyung stands, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he speaks. “Nothing more to win tonight,” he declares, the others rising one by one, exchanging their goodbyes with that careless friendship shared only by those who live just outside the law. 

They each take your hand in turn, brushing their lips across your knuckles in a grotesque parody of civility, their eyes never leaving yours. And with every kiss pressed against your skin, you feel Jungkook’s anger smouldering beneath the surface, simmering hotter with each unwanted touch.

When the room empties, when it’s just the two of you again, the atmosphere shifts drastically. His hand wraps around your arm, and in one quick motion, he spins you around to face him, his eyes dark and dangerous. Before you can react, he pushes you back against the table, lifting you effortlessly, stepping between your legs, his body a barrier to the only escape route, his presence overwhelming. One of your arms braces you against the table, the other futilely pressed against his chest in an attempt to push him away, to create space where none exists.

His hands travel up the length of your thigh, the fabric of your dress inching higher under his touch, his breath warm against your face as he leans closer, his voice low, a growl of dark amusement.

“Good girl,” if he could purr, he would, his lips ghosting against your ear. “Finally accepted that you’re mine, haven’t you?”

“Never,” you bite back, the defiance in your voice brittle as glass, your body trembling with a high-pitched growl that dares him to step back, to respect the boundaries you both know he will never acknowledge.

His grin is devilish, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Never say never, kitten,” he whispers, leaning closer until his lips hover just above yours, the mere breath between you both heavy with tension, a maddening dance of proximity without touch. The scent of him, pure dominance, floods your senses, the base instinct to submit warring with the ironclad resolve to resist, to defy.

When he finally pulls back, it’s not in retreat but in command, his hand gripping yours as he pulls you to your feet, forcing you to stand beside him. “Let’s go home,” he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You speak, not because you expect anything to change, but because the words are a final act of rebellion, the last shred of control you can cling to, even if its just to annoy him. “My home?” 

He doesn’t even glance your way, his voice steady and cold as it always is. “Our home.”

1 • 2 • masterlist • 4

a/n 2: hope you enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 3: taglist is sadly closed

Check out my other work here!

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

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[headlinxr]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 ─── 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠-𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

SYNOPSIS  !  Sung-hoon is a renowned photographer who has managed to capture the essence of his models in a unique way, but his talent becomes his worst enemy. The moment he meets you, a young model whose beauty embodies his perfect vision of aesthetics, something dark ignites within him. What begins as an artistic fascination quickly transforms into a morbid obsession.

GENRE. non idol! au, f!reader, stalker x victim, obsession.

WARNINGS. stalking, Sung-hoon is weird, slight Stockholm syndrome.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

[misshoneyimhome]

I’m OBSESSED with your prompt list & I want to request everything for Jack, but don’t want to spam you 😭 so I’ll do one to start hahaha

Can you do Jack with the prompt “Can you help me with my tie?” / “Can you zip up my dress for me?” — either one or both, whatever you’re feeling :)) <3

Babe, feel free to spam me anytime 😉 Although, I'm still practicing my writing skills when it comes to Jack H 🤍

But of course - though I did do a bit of a combo of the two 🌺 and in the end, it turned out to be nothing but sweet fluff

Hope you enjoy it 🤍

Word count; 2.1K

[bestfriend!Jack x reader] - again, I know 🙈

・✶ ｡ﾟ

As one of Jack Hughes’ closest friends, you were simply there for him through thick and thin. From the early days of his hockey career to then, as he’d become a big name in the NHL, you saw every success and setback, always giving him your unwavering support and encouragement.

Your bond with the Devils' star player was definitely something special, built on trust, mutual respect, and shared experiences. Together, you faced the ups and downs of life in the spotlight, as well as found solace in each other's company amidst the chaos of the hockey world.

And to put it bluntly, it wasn’t uncommon for people to mistake you as a couple. Although you tried not to post anything on social media, rumours often circulated. Even family members assumed there was something more to the story when he brought you over at almost every holiday family gathering. However, you were nothing more than his best girl friend. Which to him was probably the highest status one could ever get.

Despite Jack's busy schedule and the demands of his career, you just always remained a constant presence in his life, providing stability and comfort. Whether it was cheering him on from the stands at games or simply being there to listen after a tough loss, you were always there when he needed you most.

You even saw every girl who tried their luck with him, and all of them failed to stick around. Though you weren’t really sure why that was always the case. To you Jack was a good guy, busy sure, but good overall and anyone would be lucky to be with him. However, you could also understand that often his demanding lifestyle simply became too much for anyone to handle. And after every time he showed up at your place, you were the support he needed through every breakup.

And Jack cherished your friendship immensely. With you, he could be himself without any pretence, knowing that you'd accept him exactly as he was. He could put on a facade and a guard for the rest of the world, but with you, he knew it was of no use. You always saw right through him, for better or for worse.

So, when Jack invited you to join him at the Devils’ team event, it wasn't a surprise to anyone. Spending such time together had become second nature to you both, a cherished ritual that brought comfort and joy. You'd even spent so much time with his teammates that a lot of them had grown to be your close friends as well. They were almost like the protective brothers you'd never had.

And you, of course, accepted his invitation without hesitation. So, as you got ready for the event together, you felt a sense of excitement in the air, anticipating a night filled with laughter, camaraderie, and maybe even something more.

**

Jack stood in front of the mirror, his face displaying frustration as he attempted to knot his tie once again. Though it was something he'd often do before a match, tonight it just didn’t seem to work out for him. The smooth fabric slipped through his fingers, refusing to cooperate despite his repeated attempts. But then, with a soft sigh, he caught a glimpse of your reflection in the doorway, a knowing smile adorning your face.

"Struggling there?" you teased, slowly moving closer to him.

Turning to you, Jack looked relieved. "Actually, yes. Could you help me with my tie?" His voice held a touch of embarrassment, a contrast to his usual confidence on the ice, which made you chuckle softly.

"Of course," you replied, closing the gap between you and reaching for the silk tie. Your fingers skilfully worked the fabric into a perfect knot in no time. And as you adjusted it, your eyes met his in the mirror, and there was an unexpected shift between you, an unspoken understanding hanging in the air.

Then once Jack had sorted his tie, his gaze lingered on you, admiring the elegant lines of your evening dress, and he simply couldn't look away, struck by how stunning you appeared.

"Wow, you look amazing, y/n/n," he murmured, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

A blush crept onto your cheeks at his compliment, a soft smile forming in response. But before you could form a reply, though, you remembered the zipper on your dress.

"Actually, I could use your help too," you confessed, your voice barely audible. Turning slightly, you presented your back to him, feeling a tiny surge of nerves at the intimacy of the request.

And without hesitation, Jack moved closer, his presence sending a wave of anticipation through you. His hands brushed lightly against your skin as he reached for the zipper, the gentle touch surprisingly sparking some kind of awareness between you.

As his fingers softly traced your back, you felt an unfamiliar desire stirring within you, drawing you both a little closer together. And unintentionally, you leaned in a little closer to him, prompting him to gently rest his palms on your waist, as for a brief moment, time stood still, and you admired each other in the mirror.

It was a moment of soft intimacy hanging in the air, and you couldn’t deny that thoughts were starting to form in your mind. Thoughts that had been there before, yet you always just shook them off, as you didn’t believe they’d mean anything - Was there truly nothing more between you and Jack, or had you been fooling yourselves this whole time?

However, with the evening's urgency weighing on both of you, the passing seconds reminded you of the time slipping away. And with a small sigh, Jack reluctantly pulled away, his hands lingering for a moment longer before he finally zipped up your dress.

"We should probably head out," he said, a hint of regret in his voice.

And you nodded in agreement, carefully stepping away from him. Yet, despite the pressing schedule, the electric tension between you remained, silently hinting at what perhaps could be.

**

As the night progressed, Jack found himself unable to shake the growing feelings in his heart. And if anything, they only seemed to deepen with each passing moment, fuelled by seeing you effortlessly mingling with the other guests at the event.

"She's looking good, huh?" Luke's voice suddenly snapped Jack out of his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.

"Yeah, she really does..." he replied softly, his gaze still fixed on you from across the room, drawn in by the warmth of your smile.

And Luke couldn’t suppress his amusement and grinned knowingly, nudging Jack with a playful elbow. "So, are you going to make a move or what?"

"What do you mean?" Jack pretended innocence, though his eyes revealed the truth of his emotions.

And Luke had to roll his eyes, not buying Jack's act. "Come on, man, you're practically drooling over her right now."

"I'm not drooling... I'm just admiring how great my best friend looks..." Jack tried to defend himself, but he knew it was futile.

"Sure, sure, but we both know that you're totally checking her out!" Luke laughed, finding the situation more than amusing.

For months, if not years, Luke had had a bet with Quinn about when you and Jack would finally admit your feelings for each other. And not just as best friends. It was obvious to everyone how both of you always tried to act calm and nonchalant, however, there were often hints of something lingering in the back of your minds. Yet, none of you took the step to admit it.

And amidst the brotherly banter, Nico suddenly interrupted with a grin at the sight of their exchange. "What's going on? Who's checking out who?"

"Oh, just Jack ogling y/n," Luke teased, earning a chuckle from Nico.

"I'm not... ogling her!" Jack protested, though the teasing only fuelled his growing attraction.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were. I mean, she looks really hot tonight," Nico chimed in with a mischievous grin. "I mean, if you don't make a move on her, someone else might."

And those words seemed to hit Jack like a splash of cold water, stirring a hint of jealousy in his gut at the thought of someone else showing interest in you. Especially a teammate of his. It was as if it was the push he needed to finally gather the courage to act on his true feelings.

So, as the event neared its end, Jack started to feel a little nervous about speaking his mind, which wasn’t usual for him. But as he prepared to bid farewell, determination surged within him. He simply couldn't let the night pass without expressing his feelings, without taking a chance on what could be.

Standing by the exit of the venue, Jack took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say. He then reached out, gently taking your hand in his, sending a jolt of electricity through you with his touch.

"Y/n, there's something I need to tell you," he began, his voice trembling slightly with nerves. "Tonight... tonight was different for me.”

“Jack, what do you mean?” you flashed him a crooked smile, slightly unsure what he was trying to say.

“I mean, I think… I think I realised that I have feelings for you, more than just friendship."

His words hung in the air, the weight of them palpable. And as you looked at him, your heart was beating faster than you’d ever experienced. You had to swallow hard as you processed his confession. But then he continued.

"I know this might come as a surprise, and I completely understand if you don't feel the same way," he added with a crooked smile, his gaze searching yours for any hint of a response. "But I couldn't let tonight end without at least trying to tell you how I fe-"

Interrupting him with a surge of confidence, you reached up and tenderly held his face in your hands, pulling him into a gentle kiss. And in that moment, as your lips were connected, Jack felt a rush of emotion engulf him, a sense of completeness and contentment unlike anything he had ever known.

There was a comfortable warmth spreading through him as his mind processed your actions, and though almost completely frozen, he still managed to respond with his hands finding your hips.

And as you slowly parted from the kiss, his heart couldn’t stop racing with a mix of excitement and relief. He looked into your eyes, trying his best to read your thoughts.

"Y/n, I... I," he started, uncertainty evident in his voice.

But you simply smiled softly, your fingers tracing his cheek. "Jack, I've been feeling the same way," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just didn't know how to say it."

Relief flooded through Jack, his tension easing as he released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Really?" he asked, disbelief tinting his voice.

You nodded, a shy smile gracing your lips. "Yes, really."

And suddenly, it was like a giant wave of happiness washed over Jack, filling him with a warmth he hadn't felt in ages. Without another word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go.

"Shit, then I’m really happy I told you," he murmured into your hair, his voice brimming with gratitude.

"Me too," you replied with a light chuckle, planting a kiss on his chest. "I've wanted to tell you for so long, but I just didn’t want to risk… you know, our friendship in case you didn’t feel the same."

“Yeah… I guess I’ve just sort of realised… sorry it took so long,” he added with a sweet chuckle.

“Oh, you know, better late than never.”

And wrapped in each other's embrace, Jack knew this was where you belonged. Looking into your eyes, he vowed to do whatever it took to make you happy, to build a future together filled with love and laughter.

Meanwhile, a few feet away, Luke and Nico observed the sweet interaction between the two of you. And with a heartfelt chuckle, Luke turned to Nico with a smug expression.

“Guess I can call Quinn and tell him I won the bet then.”

“What was the bet on?” Nico inquired with a chuckle.

“Oh, just that he said they wouldn’t admit anything before one of them was in a serious relationship,” Luke explained. “But I didn’t think they’d ever get that far.”

“And clearly, you were right,” the captain let out a deep laugh.

[bblovetarot]

{✧} What makes you beautiful?

ʚ ═══･୨ꕤ୧･═══ ɞ Pick a Pile ʚ ═══･୨ꕤ୧･═══ ɞ 

. ༄paid readings . ༄

。°⚠︎°。follow your intuition when choosing a pile. if you're drawn to more than one pile, that's okay! you may have messages in more than one.

。°⚠︎°。tarot readings are not 100% accurate, and do not dictate your future. please keep in mind that you have free will. these readings are also general and aren't specific to one person, so please take what resonates and leave what doesn't! 

Pile 1

Pile 1, you exude a captivating allure, often dressing up and turning heads wherever you go. There's a fiery attitude within you that refuses to let people play with you or diminish your presence. Despite this, there seems to be a hint of self-confidence issues, perhaps rooted in past experiences of hurtful words or actions from others. It's crucial to recognize that your beauty, both inside and out, is not determined by the opinions or projections of others. While some may have tried to bring you down in the past, their negativity reflects their own insecurities, not your worth. You are genuinely beautiful, and it's essential to shed the illusion of self-doubt. The journey to self-confidence takes time, but you deserve to see the beauty that others recognize in you. This pile seems to attract secret admirers who are genuinely obsessed with you. Your energy is alluring, drawing people in, though it also means you might encounter energy vampires. Your sensitivity and emotional nature contribute to the beauty of how you love and care for others. While you may be aware that you give to those who don't deserve it, it's crucial to find a balance that preserves your energy for those who truly appreciate you. You have a wild imagination and love daydreaming about your fantasies. This imaginative side of you, however, might have led to heartbreak or situations that made you want to suppress your loving and romantic nature. Embracing this free-spirited and fun-loving aspect of yourself is essential. Your passion, creativity, and the joy you find in the smallest things in life make you truly beautiful. Don't be ashamed of the part of you that loves adventure and new experiences—it's what sets your soul on fire. Embrace your inner child, run off to daydream, and don't dim the unique light that makes you who you are, Pile 1.

Pile 2

Pile 2, when it comes to love, you're deeply committed and possess an open heart that radiates healing energy to those fortunate enough to receive your love and light. Your strong moral convictions shape your beliefs about love, possibly rooted in ideas of soulmates or twin flames. While others might find it challenging to fully comprehend your spiritual perspective on love, they are intrigued by your unwavering commitment to your beliefs. Your beauty lies in your steadfast dedication to your principles, whether they stem from religion or spirituality. Your outlook on love is a beacon that makes people ponder their own choices, and your expression of these beliefs extends into your daily life, from the way you dress to the content you share. You exude a sense of knowing what you want in life and wear your heart on your sleeve, yet you maintain strong boundaries. Your fiery nature is apparent, making it clear to others that crossing those boundaries comes with consequences. Although you may grapple with indecision at times, possibly struggling to decipher your intuition and occasionally acting impulsively, it's evident that you're working on harnessing self-control and making more considered decisions. Your passion for fun and adventure lights up the worlds of those around you. You are generous, always ready to offer help and advice to others. However, this giving nature can be a double-edged sword, leaving you at risk of overextending yourself. The universe is urging you to take time for yourself, allowing others to nurture you as you do for them. Recognize your own worth and beauty, Pile 2. It may be challenging for you to receive rather than give, but understanding your value is crucial. Taking care of yourself is not a sign of weakness but a necessity for maintaining your well-being. Allow others to be in your corner and nurture you so that you can shine even brighter. You deserve the same care and attention that you so willingly give to others.

Pile 3

Pile 3, your beauty lies in your incredible resilience and determination, especially in the face of mental health struggles. Despite dealing with challenges, you refuse to let negativity and apathy take control of your life. Your strength is evident in your ability to quickly lift yourself out of low moments and not let your inner critic hinder your progress. You've encountered manipulative energies that sought to hold you back and hinder your opportunities, but you've maintained control and resisted stagnation. This resilience is a superpower, showcasing your ability to combat negative forces that try to confine you. Your refusal to succumb to self-sabotaging behaviors and your dedication to staying in control are truly admirable. It appears you've gone through a challenging healing journey, confronting toxic behaviors and striving to overcome them. While you may have experienced tough times recently, you're learning to be in full control of your life. It's essential to recognize that healing isn't a linear path, especially when dealing with mental health issues. You radiate beauty through your dedication and grounding in your own life, even amid hardships and internal battles. Despite projecting strength externally, you may feel chaotic inside, yet the universe wants you to acknowledge that you truly have things under control. Seeking help when needed is crucial, but your ability to navigate self-sabotaging habits and resist manipulation reveals your strength. You are creative at heart, with an inner child that is patient and curious. The universe encourages you to express yourself through art or any creative activity you enjoy. Whether you write, draw, sing, dance, or engage in any form of creative expression, doing what you love will reveal the beauty of your own mind. Embrace your resilience and perseverance, recognizing that it's not the need for motivation but your enduring spirit that propels you forward in life. You embody true strength, beauty, and a remarkable ability to overcome challenges.

[sophiamarieispinkbunny-chan]

More in depth analysis about the Spy x Family Manga Cover Chairs and Bonus Artworks (Or me just overthinking Endo’s decisions in everything and as always long post, please bear with me)

So I wanted to talk about something that I noticed about the various designer chairs that is featured on all manga covers.

Endo did say that he thought about how each chair matches the personality of the character, regarding it’s style, design or the color.

But I like to talk about something different about the chairs-it’s size or the seating capacity and how it reflects the characters relationship with others or their views about relationships. Also, I’m going to share something significant about the comedic bonus arts that also feature the chairs.

This focus mainly about Loid, Yor and Anya‘s Chair (including Fiona’s Chair) and the bonus illustrations that came with it.

Volume 1-Loid’s Chair: Le Corbusier LC2

There are two versions of this chair in the manga/anime, the love seat and the one seater. Loid is seated in the one seater chair in this cover, it means no one can sit there with him that reflects how reluctant he was in letting other people in his life. He wasn’t open for relationships (You can notice that those who are like him, intelligence assets; Franky, Fiona, Handler all sit in one seating capacity chair).

The bonus artwork was Anya sitting on the chair copying his pose. She’s the most fitting person to be in this seat because she can see through Loid’s mind, she basically knows who he really is and she likes him for that. Anya was fond of spies and she was excited about being part of his mission.

Volume 2-Anya’s Chair: Marshmallow Sofa

Anya’s chair has a large seating capacity and she was sitting at the middle, waiting for the empty spots on her both sides to be occupied. This depicts Anya’s anticipation for forming relationship with other people, about her wanting parents, a family, to be there for her.

The bonus artwork was drunk Yor lying face flat on Anya’s chair. This artwork, for me, reflects Yor’s unwavering affection for Anya and Anya’s appreciation of Yor. Even drunk, she’s determined to protect her, as if she was her real daughter as seen during the castle chapter. She is fond of Anya.

Volume 3-Yor’s Chair: La Chaise (Featuring Fiona’s Heart Cone Chair)

This is the chair I wanted to talk about and I have to use Fiona’s Chair for this analysis for Endo said that Fiona is designed to be Yor’s contrast and we can clearly see it in their chairs.

The seating capacity of Yor and Fiona’s chair greatly differ. Yor’s chair was big, Endo pointed how it didn’t even fit the cover, and even though Fiona’s chair is big too, she’s the only person who could sit in it. Other people can fit Yor’s chair but not with Fiona. I analyze this as Yor being open to genuine relationships and selfless while Fiona being closed off and selfish.

We know Yor’s motivation for being an assassin was for Yuri, for the sake of other people, and what is Fiona’s motivation? Clearly it was mainly for Twilight to marry her, love her and it was evidently show with all that stuff hiding behind her chair. I’m sure she experienced a lot of traumatic stuff that led to her being a spy but I don’t see other praise worthy and selfless motivations from her that was aside Twilight’s affection. Don’t get me wrong, she’s an interesting character and she isn't a bad person but I’m not really a fan of her personality just like I don’t like Yuri’s obsession with her sister.

In Yor however, she has nothing under or behind her chair. Just that blood that wasn’t even behind or below her chair. She wasn’t faking anything about her personality. It’s true that she accepted her marriage to preserve her assassin job but she genuinely wanted to marry Loid because he was the one who acknowledged her selflessness and that was enough for her to completely entrust her life to him. She welcomed Loid and Anya to her life because her longing for a companion to share her life with is as big as the size of her chair.

The bonus art in Volume 3 was Loid sitting on her chair. Despite the comedic set up of these illustrations, I think the people who tend to sit on the chair on the bonus arts were the ones who gets the person on the cover the most.

That is why Anya is in Loid’s (Because she can read his mind) Why Yor is in Anya's (Because Yor lost her parents at a young age too and she knows how to care for Anya because she did that to Yuri) and why Loid is in Yor’s chair (Because Loid understood her self sacrifice because he too, is the same as her) Also why Anya and Bond are in the bonus of Volume 4 because the two of them get each other, being both experimented on.

I also have some analysis about Volume 5-12 and the bonus artworks as well, but I might post them in another time since I haven't seen the translated bonus artworks in Becky and Emile and Ewen's Volumes.

But let me know if this analysis makes sense to you.

[galactic-magick]

Nights Like This: Viktor x Reader

Summary: You and Viktor get ready for bed together.

Warnings: none

Author's Note: Obsessed with Viktor and Arcane in general rn so I wrote this tooth-rotting fluff fic. Enjoy <3

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Viktor looks so serene, sitting there like that. Invested in his book, the dim light of the lamps in the living room reflecting on his skin like gold. He’s so beautiful, and you never tire of seeing his face no matter how long you’ve been together. You’ve memorized every mark, every scar, every crease. He’s your everything.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been in the doorway staring at him until he glances up and smiles his cheeky grin he reserves only for you.

“Care to join me?”

You nod, a huge smile stretching across your face as you rush over and snuggle into his side. You kiss his jaw and rest your head on his shoulder.

“How was your shower, darling?” Viktor asks, wrapping one arm around you and transferring his book to the other.

“Good. You going to be up much longer?”

“No,” he closes his book and sets it on the side table. “Just waiting for you, love.”

You give him one last squeeze and kiss before standing up, offering him your hand. He takes it, leaning on you for support as you both walk to the bedroom. Viktor would never let anyone else be his crutch, but he appreciates the closeness.

You rummage through the bathroom drawer while Viktor gets undressed, grabbing a bottle, towels, and soap. You then join him on the bed and help him take his back and leg braces off. Despite all the buckles and locks, the process is quite quick from the practice. Even though Viktor constantly told you that you don’t have to do this every night, you insisted on it so much that he doesn’t try to stop you anymore. You do this because you love him, not out of a feeling of obligation.

Opening the bottle of pain potion, you pour some into your palms and begin massaging it onto his back, handing him the bottle afterwards so he can use it on his leg. It’s a far from perfect fix, but it usually soothes the aching enough to help him fall asleep. He sighs in relief once you’ve spread it around and massaged every inch of his skin, leaning back onto you, his head colliding with your shoulder. You wrap your limbs around him and pull him in until there’s no space between you, kissing his temple.

“You’re too good to me, love,” he says softly.

“I’m good as you deserve, darling,” you assure him, moving up a hand to tangle your fingers through his soft hair. He hums at your touch, sinking further into your embrace.

“Hang on,” you say, gently pushing him away. You grab his braces and wipe them down with the soap and wet towels, then hang them up to dry overnight. You also turn off the lights in the room before returning to the bedside.

Viktor looks up at you in adoration, still failing to understand how someone could do so much for him without a second thought. Your love for him is constantly pouring out of you like an overflowing fountain, and he knows he’s powerless to stop it, not that he’d ever try. It’s taken him a long time to accept this type of love as his reality, the kind that’s unconditional and unwavering, but he finally has. He’s allowed his heart to be calm with you, be trusting.

You will always be the vision of perfection in Viktor’s eyes, the person no other living being could live up to in tranquility, character, and allure. He could never tire of listening to you or looking at you. You make him feel like the person so many others in his life told him he could never be.

You stand between his legs as he sits on the edge of the bed, returning your fingers to his hair. His hands desperately cling to your hips, pulling you closer until his face is nuzzling your stomach. He looks up at you, melting under your soft gaze.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too,” you smile warmly, caressing his face a bit before sitting next to him.

You pull off the covers and wiggle under them, gently pulling on his arm for him to join you. He follows suit, instantly cuddling you close. He presses kisses to your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, and finally locks your lips. When he can’t find the words to describe just how much you mean to him, he puts everything into his soft, affectionate touches. You understand every phrase, every sentence he says with each stroke of his hands on you, lulling you into peace and relaxation.

“Viktor…” your eyes are barely open, but you don’t want to stop looking at his handsome face. You brush a hand across his cheek.

“Shh, darling, you’ve more than earned your sleep,” he guides your head to his chest, feeling your breath on his bare skin.

Viktor is never the first to fall asleep, but he’s never minded that. He watches as your eyes shut and you mindlessly snuggle him in your slumber. He will never take nights like this for granted, nor you or your love.

He kisses the top of your head one last time before succumbing to his own fatigue.

“Goodnight, my love.”

[miueo]

𐙚 my little idol ♥︎．。．:*･° chap i ✿

ᰔᩚ      ︶ྀི    new legacy .

summary : you're currently in a new girl group underneath jyp entertainment ! your group is performing well on charts, you have a stable fanbase, and many bops to listen to! you try your best to avoid dating scandals for the sake of your reputation and status but it's all ruined by a very popular group of boys.

pairings : ot8!skz ♡ femidol!reader !

warnings : no smut in this chapter ; heavy on smut, sexualization & objectification, perversion, obsession, taboo / dark concepts (for some members, not all !) , mental physical / health issues (depression, anxiety, etc.), coercion, unsolicited pictures, more to be announced.

notes : hiii !!!! i am currently in guangdong… ive been traveling so much lately, sorry for the lack of content. THIS IS JUST AN INTRO CHAPTER!

taglist : @p0eticjust1c3 @yunjinswifee @sky00ung @pinkdranks @bloominhos @mi-mi-mu @nasiaisan @kitkat1sstuff @hyunjinhoexxx @theinsanebish

selected song for fic :

in the bustling heart of seoul’s entertainment scene, amidst the glittering promise of fame and the relentless pursuit of dreams, there exists a young talent whose voice echoes with the power to stir souls. her name is song y/n, a gifted vocalist whose journey to becoming a k-pop sensation began with a passion for music that bloomed in her hometown.

from an early age, y/n’s voice enchanted audiences, drawing praise for its depth and emotional resonance. encouraged by her family’s unwavering support, she embarked on a path that led her to jyp entertainment, where her talent would be nurtured and polished to perfection. in the rigorous world of k-pop training, y/n’s dedication and natural ability set her apart, particularly her ability to convey emotion through every lyric and melody.

selected for her exceptional vocal skills, y/n found herself among the chosen few to join 4ura, a newly formed girl group at jyp entertainment. with three other members, each bringing their own strengths to the table, 4ura aimed to carve out a place in the competitive landscape of k-pop. for y/n, being part of 4ura wasn’t just about achieving stardom; it was about fulfilling a lifelong dream and sharing her music with the world.

as rehearsals filled her days and anticipation fueled her nights, song y/n stood on the brink of a future she had once only dared to imagine. with determination in her heart and the power of her voice as her guide, she was poised to make her mark as not just an idol, but as an artist whose presence on stage would resonate far beyond the lights of seoul.

❁

at the forefront stands y/n song, the group’s main vocalist hailing from the vibrant streets of new york city. blessed with a voice that effortlessly transcends genres, y/n’s journey to stardom is a testament to years of dedication and an unyielding commitment to her craft.

beside her is olivia wong, the group’s main dancer, whose electrifying moves reflect her upbringing in the bustling metropolis of hong kong. with a dance style that blends precision and grace, olivia brings a dynamic energy to 4ura’s performances, captivating audiences with every fluid motion.

adding to the group’s allure is minjeong kim, renowned as 4ura’s visual, drawing inspiration from the natural beauty of jeju island. with a magnetic presence that commands attention, minjeong’s ethereal charm and captivating gaze make her an undeniable visual powerhouse within the group.

completing this quartet of talent is autumn yang, the group’s main rapper with roots tracing back to the sun-drenched shores of california. autumn’s sharp lyricism and charismatic delivery bring a fresh perspective to 4ura’s music, adding depth and diversity to their sound.

❁

beyond their individual talents, 4ura thrives within the supportive community of jyp entertainment, fostering close relationships with labelmates nmixx, stray kids, itzy, and twice. from collaborative performances that electrify audiences to backstage camaraderie that strengthens their bonds, 4ura and their fellow jyp artists form a tight-knit family united by a shared passion for music and a drive to push boundaries.

as they prepare to debut on stages both local and global, 4ura stands poised to make an indelible mark in the world of k-pop. with their unique blend of talent, charisma, and ambition, they are ready to carve out a place among the stars, promising a future where their music will resonate far and wide, leaving an unforgettable imprint on the hearts of fans everywhere.

everything is so perfect right now. what could possibly ruin this beautiful moment?

[wandasreallover]

Obsession|mean! Wanda x reader

College au!

Warnings: swearing, wandas a meanie, reader has a boyfriend

The air in the dorm room hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and the tension that had simmered between us since the first day of freshman year. Wanda Maximoff, with her messy brown hair, perpetually smudged eyeliner, and a smirk permanently etched on her lips, was sprawled across my bed, flipping through a textbook with complete disregard for the fact that I was trying to study.

'You really think you'll pass Professor Barnes' class with that level of effort?' she drawled, her voice dripping with mock concern.

I slammed my notes shut, the frustration building within me like a pressure cooker. 'Just because you can breeze through everything doesn't mean everyone else can,' I snapped.

She laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound that echoed in the small space. 'Don't be so dramatic, darling. It's not like you're actually trying to learn anything.'

'Well, maybe if you weren't constantly trying to sabotage my every attempt, I would,' I retorted, my voice tight with barely-contained anger.

She shrugged, her green eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. 'Just trying to keep things interesting, love. You're so predictable, it's frankly boring.'

This was our routine, a constant back-and-forth that had become the soundtrack to our shared dorm room. She loved to torment me, to push my buttons, to make my already stressful college life a living hell. I, in turn, hated her with a fierce, burning passion that I refused to acknowledge.

Later that night, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my reflection a pale ghost against the dimly lit room. I was exhausted, my face lined with worry, my eyes perpetually bloodshot. Every interaction with Wanda chipped away at my sanity, leaving me feeling drained and defeated.

As if sensing my unease, she entered the room, her movements a graceful panther prowling through the shadows. She stopped in front of me, her dark eyes boring into mine, her gaze sharp and unnerving.

'Going out with your little boyfriend again?' she asked, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. It was no secret to anyone that wanda maximoff hayed your boyfriend but quite frankly i didn't care, i find it amusing how worked up she gets over me seeing him.

Despite this my heart skipped a beat, a wave of heat rushing through me. I had desperately been trying to keep any real confrontation surrounding him from her to a minimum as this was my small, fragile sanctuary amidst the chaos she brought into my life. Trying so desperately to avoid any comments which admittedly make me slightly insecure, slowly chipping away my self esteem.

'It's none of your business,' I said, my voice brittle.

She leaned closer, her breath warm against my skin. 'Don't lie, darling. I saw you. You were holding hands, all lovey-dovey.'

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. I thought i had been so careful, so desperate to protect this part of my life as far from her as possible, and yet, she had seen through my attempts at privacy.

'So what? Are you going to try to ruin this, too?' I challenged, my voice trembling.

She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. 'Ruin it? Why would I do that? I'm just interested, darling. Tell me about him.' despite her condescendingly sweet tone i saw through her, her facing plastered with a poorly surpressed smirk.

Unwilling to entertain her, her words hung in the air, a twisted invitation laced with an unsettling intensity. I felt a shiver run down my spine, a strange mix of fear and fascination coursing through me.

'I thought you didn't care,' I whispered, my voice barely audible, unprepared for the onslaught of any insults she may throw my way. However that doesn't come. A sudden silence descended upon the room, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator. Wanda stepped closer, her gaze unwavering.

'I don't,' she whispered back, her voice a low, mesmerizing murmur. 'But I do.'

Her words, spoken with an unusual vulnerability, sent a jolt through me. I looked into her eyes, the red depths swirling with emotions I couldn't decipher. Wanda is a mystery to me, despite all the time we are forced to spend together, never has she allowed herself to appear as vulnerable as she does now.

'What do you mean?' I asked, my voice a mere breath.

She took a step closer, the air growing thick with anticipation. 'I mean,' she said, her voice suddenly cold and barely a whisper, 'that I'm totally and utterly obsessed with you.'

The words hit me like a physical blow, leaving me stunned and speechless. I had been so focused on her antagonistic behavior, so consumed by the daily battles we waged, that I had completely missed the undercurrent of something else, something darker, something more intense. And now, it was spilling over, threatening to drown me in its depths.

'I see you,' Wanda continued, her voice a low hum against my skin, 'every time you walk by, every time you smile, every time you laugh. You're the only thing that matters, and I can't stop thinking about you.'

She leaned in, her lips brushing against my ear. 'I watch you,' she whispered, her voice laced with a strange, almost erotic, intensity. 'I watch you with him, and it makes me sick.'

I drew back, my heart pounding against my ribs. Her confession, the intensity of her obsession, the raw emotions swirling in her green eyes, it all felt so overwhelming, so terrifying.

'What do you want from me?' I managed to ask, my voice now trembling.

She smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent a shiver down my spine. 'I want you,' she said, her voice a seductive whisper. 'I want you all to myself, and I'm going to have you.'

She leaned in again, her lips hovering just above mine. 'You're going to choose me,' she promised, her voice a dangerous murmur. 'And when you do, I will make you forget you ever knew anyone else.'

The air crackled with unspoken threats and suppressed desires, leaving me paralyzed with fear and a strange, unsettling fascination. I had no idea what was happening, what Wanda was capable of, what she intended to do with the power of her obsession. All I knew was that something had changed, the game had shifted, and the stakes had been raised to a level I could never have imagined.

A/n- i genuinely don't know how feel about this.

[infamous-light]

You Belong to Me Ch. 3

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3.9K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior

You wished you were anywhere else but here.

After breakfast, Lady Dimitrescu requested that you be fitted for a new uniform. The idea of standing still while being scrutinized and poked around with a measuring tape was more than a little uncomfortable. Especially with Lady Dimitrescu watching. The thought of her critical eyes studying every inch of you added an extra layer of anxiety, making the entire process feel even more invasive and nerve-wracking.

You were pulled out of your thoughts as the heavy oak doors to Lady Dimitrescu’s bedchamber opened and a young maid entered, her head bowed in deference. She carried a small, leather-bound notebook and a tape measure in one hand. Her steps were brisk but quiet as she approached you. However, her eyes avoided direct contact with yours as she came to a halt a few paces away. Lady Dimitrescu’s gaze flickered momentarily to the maid, and with a subtle nod, she granted her permission to proceed.

“If you could please stand in the middle, I’ll begin.” The maid instructed softly.

You gave her a small nod as you positioned yourself in the center of the bedroom.

Her touch was light as she began to take your measurements. She moved with practiced ease, circling around you as the tape measure slid around your waist, chest, and shoulders. Each precise measurement was recorded in her notebook and the sound of her pencil scratching against the paper was almost hypnotic to your ears. As she continued her work, you became acutely aware of Lady Dimitrescu’s eyes on you.

Unable to resist, you glanced over at her.

She was a vision of elegance, lounging in an armchair by the fireplace while cradling a crimson wine glass in her right hand. She idly swirled the wine, the dark liquid catching the light and reflecting the fire’s glow. A hint of a smile played on her full lips as she observed you, her gaze unwavering and inscrutable.

The maid finished her task a moment later and stepped back from you, her eyes flickering to the Lady for the final approval.

“I have all the measurements, my Lady.” She said, her voice quiet and respectful.

Lady Dimitrescu took a slow sip from her wine, her eyes never leaving yours. She took a moment to savor the wine, holding it in her mouth before swallowing. She set the glass down on the small table beside her, the crystal making a delicate clink as it touched the surface.

“Very good, Irina. That will be all for now.”

Irina curtsied and hurriedly exited the bedroom, leaving you alone with the Lady. Lady Dimitrescu rose from her seat with a grace that belied her towering stature and made her way over to you. Her gaze swept over you, assessing.

“I must say, my dear, I can’t wait to see you in garments that is more befitting of your new station within this household.”

Her fingers brushed lightly against the sleeve of your current uniform, tracing the rough stitching and faded colors.

“Silk, velvet, and brocade,” she continued, her eyes gleaming with pride. “I will not have you clothed in anything less.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” You said awkwardly, a faint flush rising to your cheeks as you tried to suppress the unease that you felt.

It wasn't just her request to have you dressed in finer clothes that made you feel strange, but the fact that you would stand out among the rest of the staff. You were accustomed to blending into the background. The idea of drawing attention to yourself, especially in such a lavish manner, felt foreign and unsettling.

Why was she really doing this?

Lady Dimitrescu's lips, painted a deep red, curled into a satisfied smile at your gratitude.

“Now that we’ve had your measurements taken,” she carried on. “Come with me to my study. There is much to be done.”

***

Upon reaching her study, she pushed open the door and gestured for you to enter.

You paused by the threshold as the memories of what happened to the young woman flashed in your mind. The sight of her cold, lifeless body, the bloodstains that took hours to scrub clean – it all came rushing back, causing you to falter. Lady Dimitrescu noticed your hesitation and raised an eyebrow, her lips still curled in that ever-present smile.

“Is something the matter, dear?” She asked, her voice smooth yet tinged with a hint of mockery.

You shook your head, trying to steady your breathing as you stepped further into the room to avoid her knowing gaze. She stepped in after you and closed the door behind you with an ominous thud, sealing you in.

“Come, sit.” She commanded as she walked to her large, intricately carved desk.

She settled into a high-backed chair and crossed her legs with a feline grace. She took a moment to watch you as you walked over to the chair in front of the desk and sat down.

“You seem troubled,” Lady Dimitrescu observed, her tone deceptively gentle. “Surely you aren't still thinking about that incident with the maid?”

Though her words sounded caring, there was an underlying tone that dripped with cruel amusement. You swallowed hard, the memory of the young woman’s vacant eyes and the sticky warmth of blood coating the mop resurfaced with vivid clarity.

“I-I'm fine, my Lady.” You managed to stammer, desperately trying to maintain your composure.

“Good,” she purred, leaning forward slightly. “Because I have a task for you. There are several documents that need to be looked over and signed. I need you to retrieve all the files dated in May and June of this year and hand them over to me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Start there.” She motioned her head toward a tall bookcase that took up the corner of the study.

You sat up from the chair and made your way over to the bookcase. The shelves were filled with neatly stacked files, each one labeled and organized by year and month. It didn’t take long for you to find all the June files which were aligned in their designated place. However, a few from May were perched just out of your reach. You stretched onto your tiptoes, your fingers grazing the edges of the files, but it was no use, the top shelf might as well have been a mile away.

Suddenly, you felt her presence appear behind you. Before you could turn, her large hand descended, resting on the nape of your neck. Her fingers, encased in supple leather, curled around your throat, almost possessive-like. Each fingertip pressed into your flesh with deliberate intensity, sending a wave of discomfort through you.

“Allow me.” Lady Dimitrescu murmured.

She reached up effortlessly with her other hand and grabbed the remaining files with ease. Her eyes met yours again. There was a glint of mirth in them as she observed your reaction.

“Don’t be afraid to ask me for help, darling,” she whispered, her voice a sultry caress. “In this castle, you are mine to care for. Do you understand?”

You nodded, trying to hide the shiver that skittered down your spine at the way she said the word “mine.”

“Yes, my Lady. I understand.”

You thought that would be the end of it, but Lady Dimitrescu continued to stare down at you. For a fleeting moment, you considered averting your eyes, but you forced yourself to meet her gaze head-on, swallowing down the fear that threatened to overtake you. As you did, her fingers flexed around your throat, the pressure intensifying momentarily before easing, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.

Lady Dimitrescu’s smile stretched, a primal gleam flickering in her eyes, and then, as quickly as it had appeared, the predatory spark receded.

“Let’s get started then.”

***

The atmosphere in Lady Dimitrescu's study had grown stifling over the past two hours as you both poured over paperwork. She finally broke the silence with a weary sigh, her fingers reaching up to massage her temples.

“I think we've been at this long enough,” the exhaustion in her voice was noticeable. “Let’s take a break and have some lunch. It’s about that time anyway.”

Her words were a welcome relief but despite your own desire for a respite, the thought of joining Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters for lunch made you feel uneasy.

“That sounds good, my Lady.” You replied, your tone carefully neutral.

Before you could even stand up, her phone rang, shattering the momentary peace like a bolt of lightning. The shrill ring seemed to cast a chill over the room, and you watched with bated breath as Lady Dimitrescu's expression shifted. Her usually serene features contorted into a mask of cold fury.

“Go ahead and have lunch without me. I must take this call.” She said, her tone brooking no argument as she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

With a nod of understanding, you rose from your chair. As you walked across her study, you glanced back briefly to catch a glimpse of her furrowed brow and tense posture. Her distress was palpable, etched into the lines of her face, and it tugged at your curiosity. You couldn't help but wonder why she was so visibly upset.

Who was calling her?

As you exited her study, a wave of relief washed over you. Finally, a moment to yourself. The tension that had been building in your shoulders slowly began to dissipate, but it wasn't long before a swarm of questions flittered around in your mind.

What should you do next? Should you find Catalina? Were her daughters even expecting you to join them for lunch?

The decision weighed heavily on your mind, but your concern for Catalina overruled your hesitation. You decided to find your friend first.

You moved with a sense of purpose as you navigated through the many hallways, your footsteps echoing against the carpeted floors. As you rounded a corner, you came across a maid dusting a drawer with her back to you. The soft swish of her duster stopped as she heard your approach. She turned to face you and her eyes widened in recognition.

You weren’t particularly familiar with her, but you had seen her a few times throughout the castle. You racked your brain for her name – Sofia, yes, that was it. Her youthful face was framed by a neatly tied bun, and her uniform was pristine.

“Good afternoon, Sofia.” You greeted her with a warm smile.

Instead of her smiling back at you, Sofia looked nervous, her eyes darting around the hallway as if expecting something terrible to happen.

“Please, don’t.” Sofia said in a low, trembling voice.

You frowned, confused by her reaction. “What’s wrong?”

She stared at you for a long moment, her gaze filled with a mixture of fear and urgency. Sofia glanced in both directions again, making sure no one else was within earshot.

“We can’t be seen talking to you. If the Lady or her daughters see us with you…” She trailed off, but the unspoken consequences hung heavy in the air.

Your eyes widened in alarm as her words sank in.

“What?” You interjected; your voice tinged with disbelief. “What’s going on?”

Sofia’s face paled and she bit her lip. Her gaze dropped to the ground, avoiding your questioning eyes. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves.

“Please, Sofia,” you implored, your voice a desperate whisper, “Can you at least tell me where I can find Catalina?”

Sofia's gaze snapped back up to meet yours, a flicker of hesitation evident in her eyes before she finally relented.

“She’s in the east wing.”

Her hurried glance around the hallway made it clear that she was eager to be done with this conversation. It stung more than you expected.

“Thank you.” You said softly, struggling to keep your voice steady.

You watched as Sofia turned away from you quickly, almost too quickly, as if being near you was a danger she couldn’t afford. With a heavy heart, you resumed your solitary trek down the hallway. Each step felt like a journey into deeper isolation. It was made worse as each passing maid averted their gaze once they noticed it was you.

As you pressed on, the silence grew, wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud. Soon, you reached the east wing. The hallways here were much quieter, the atmosphere almost serene compared to the tension-filled main hallways. Catalina stood near a large window, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering in.

“Catalina!” You called out her name.

She turned around from cleaning the windowsill and a spark of fear crossed her face. The cloth she held slipped from her fingers, falling silently to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Catalina asked worriedly. She glanced around nervously, as if expecting someone else to appear.

“I wanted to check in on you.” You said, your voice carrying a note of concern.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, her expression becoming increasingly forlorn with each passing moment.

“You can’t,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What? Why?” Your voice wobbled with hurt as you looked at Catalina, hoping for some kind of explanation. “I don’t understand what’s going on! Everyone has been avoiding me!”

There was a long, tense pause as Catalina met your gaze, her expression a mix of pity and uncertainty. She seemed to be weighing her words carefully, reluctant to share whatever she knew.

She sighed and spoke softly. “The Lady’s daughters told us early this morning that we weren’t allowed to interact with you. That you were off limits. That you were…” She struggled to finish her sentence, glancing away as if the words themselves were painful to say.

“Catalina, what did they say?” You urged, your heart pounding in your chest.

“That you were the Lady’s pet.” She finally admitted.

You froze, the words hitting you like a physical blow.

Pet.

They all knew. Every single one of them. The realization washed over you, bringing a rush of emotions that you could barely contain. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you shook your head in denial. This couldn’t be happening.

“I need to get out of here.” The words escaped your lips in a trembling whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Catalina's eyes widened, catching the desperation in your gaze.

“You know that’s too dangerous,” she urged, her tone laced with fear. “Someone already tried to escape yesterday but she didn’t make it.”

For a moment, an unbearable silence hung between you two.

“I know,” you said plainly, your voice almost calm. “I saw what happened to her.”

Catalina's expression shifted from fear to horror.

“Miss Cassandra made me clean up what she did to her.”

Catalina gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh goodness,” she breathed, her eyes welling up with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Catalina stepped closer, her hand reaching out as if to comfort you, but she stopped herself short. You could see the genuine sorrow in her eyes, but it did little to ease the suffocating dread that swallowed you whole.

“Please,” you pleaded. “I need to find a way out of here. I can’t keep doing this!”

You searched Catalina's eyes, seeking solace. Her gaze softened but there was a weight of uncertainty in her expression as she sighed.

“I think I know someone who may help.” She murmured, her tone cautious.

“I’ll take all the help I can get.” You said eagerly, grasping onto any sliver of hope.

“I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll try,” she replied. “For now, don’t seek me out. I’ll find a way to contact you.”

Relief flooded through you, soothing your frayed nerves. “Thank you, Catalina.” You breathed.

Catalina nodded before she glanced around warily. “You should get going now. I feel like we’re being watched.”

You nodded in silent agreement, your senses on high alert. It was about time you made your way to the dining room.

Every step was taken with caution, as if each movement might betray your presence to whatever unseen eyes might be tracking you. It was unnerving. The very air seemed to hold its breath, as if even the slightest sound could shatter the fragile veil of silence surrounding you.

Lost in your own thoughts, you barely registered the world around you until it was too late. With a sudden jolt, you collided with something solid. As you stumbled backward, adrenaline flooding your veins, you found yourself face-to-face with Bela. Her expression was dark and foreboding as she glared down at you.

“What were you doing here?” Her voice was low and dangerous as she spoke.

The seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity as your mind raced to come up with an explanation that might pacify her, that might be believable. Bela's eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing through you as if she could read your mind.

“Don’t you dare try to lie to me, little one.” Bela warned, her golden eyes burning brightly beneath the hood of her dress.

She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the floor, and grabbed your arms. A sharp twinge of pain shot through you as her fingers tightened around your biceps. In that instant, you felt a surge of fear, not just for yourself but for the staff who might inadvertently get caught in the crossfire of Bela’s anger if she knew you spoke to them. There was the risk that she would harm them anyway, but you could almost hear the unspoken plea in your own mind, urging you not to lie but to tell her the truth.

With a deep breath, you made your decision.

“I-I was talking to some of the staff, but I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to.” You confessed, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a rush.

Bela's expression remained impassive as she listened to your explanation, her features giving away nothing of her thoughts. Despite her apparent detachment, her sharp eyes caught the tear tracks on your face, and she frowned.

“You were meant to be at lunch with us,” she stated cooly, each word measured and precise. “I will inform Mother of this transgression.”

An impending sense of dread welled up within you. The thought of facing Lady Dimitrescu's punishment made your stomach churn.

“Let’s go. I will accompany you back to the dining room.”

With a firm grip on your left arm, Bela began to pull you along, her steps purposeful and determined.

***

The doors to the dining room loomed ahead, large and imposing. Bela wasted no time and pushed them open, dragging you along in after her. Cassandra, seated at the table, looked up from her meal, her eyes brightening with mischief as she caught sight of you.

“Aw, did you make her cry already, Bela?” Cassandra teased, her tone dripping with faux sympathy.

Bela responded with an exasperated eyeroll.

“She was in an area where she shouldn’t be.” She explained, her voice tinged with a hint of annoyance.

Cassandra gasped theatrically, her smirk growing more pronounced. “How naughty,” she purred, her tone turning suggestive. “She should be punished.”

“Hm, such a bad girl.” Daniela added with a wicked glint in her eyes.

Her smile only broadened as a furious blush spread across your cheeks at hearing those two words.

“Mother won’t be attending lunch, unfortunately,” Bela interrupted, changing the subject. “It’ll be just us this time.”

“Ah, I see.” Cassandra said, her tone devoid of emotion, though a flicker of understanding danced in her eyes. It was as if she knew the reason why her mother wasn’t present yet chose not to dwell on it.

Bela released her grip on your arm, the coolness of her touch lingering on your skin. She turned her attention toward Daniela, her expression softening slightly.

“Daniela, move over a seat. She’ll be sitting next to me.”

Daniela happily complied, her enthusiasm evident as she scooted over with a little bounce in her step. Taking your seat, you noticed Daniela grinning at you, her eyes sparkling with excitement. The proximity made you feel claustrophobic as you were sandwiched between her and Bela, their shoulders close to brushing up against yours. Cassandra, sitting across the table, raised an eyebrow unamusingly at Bela.

“She won’t be sitting next to you.” Bela stated matter-of-factly, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice that suggested she enjoyed ruffling Cassandra’s feathers.

Cassandra scoffed but the corner of her lips quirked up slightly. “Rude.”

You finally turned your attention to your lunch instead. In front of you was a salad bowl, a colorful mishmash of mixed greens, cherry tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, and roasted red peppers, all topped with a tangy balsamic vinaigrette. Even though it looked appetizing, you found yourself staring at it sightlessly. You tried to muster the courage to lift your fork, to pierce through the layers of greens and vegetables and take a bite, but something held you back.

“You’re so quiet.” Cassandra said, her voice breaking the silence. She gazed at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Daniela giggled, her laughter light and infectious. “You can speak around us, you know.” She added, her tone warm and encouraging, trying to coax you out of your shell.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the weight of their attention on you. “Um – well, I don’t really know what to say.”

Cassandra leaned back in her chair, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Well, you could start by telling us a little about yourself. Like, where are you from?”

“Yes, we'd love to get to know you better!” Daniela chirped, her voice as sweet as honey.

You felt a pang of discomfort as all eyes turned to you, their gazes probing. Talking about yourself was never easy, especially to the Lady’s daughters. But as much as you wanted to retreat, you knew that you couldn’t avoid their questions forever.

“I'm from a small village not far from here. It’s near Lady Beneviento’s territory.” You explained, hoping to satisfy their curiosity with the simple answer.

Cassandra hummed, a low, contemplative sound. “We’re familiar with it.”

“It must be quite quaint living near her land,” Daniela remarked. “Have you had any encounters with her?”

You paused, a slight furrow forming between your brows. Daniela’s tone struck you as oddly eager for such a harmless question. You couldn’t shake the feeling that her interest went far beyond mere curiosity.

“No.” You said, your voice steady despite the tension creeping into your chest.

Bela, who had been silent up until now, suddenly spoke. “Do you have any family there?”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of their collective gaze bearing down on you even more. Something wasn’t right here. The thought to lie struck you but you knew Bela would see through your deception.

“Yes… my parents.” You answered hesitantly, watching Bela’s reaction closely.

“I see.” Bela said, her tone flat and devoid of emotion.

She turned her attention back to her own plate, as if the conversation had never taken place.

You glanced back at your meal, trying to shake off the horrible feeling that settled low in your gut. Their interest in you seemed benign on the surface, but you couldn’t ignore the fact that there was something more sinister underfoot.

As you picked at your salad, the vibrant colors now seemed a little less bright, overshadowed by the turmoil that churned in your mind.

[sadnymi]

The Tortured Poets Department: {Slytherin boys version} A Headcanon.

[Mattheo Riddle-Theodore Nott-Lorenzo Berkshire-Blaise Zabini-Draco Malfoy

The Department: These five delinquents may not be penning sonnets, but they cause enough drama to fill a Shakespearean tragedy. They're the rebels, and champions of chaos at Hogwarts.

The Name:  name, bestowed upon them by Professor Abraxas Rookwood, a man as obsessed with forbidden muggle literature as he was with the Dark Arts, was a cruel irony. Rookwood, with his melancholic readings of Byron and Shelley, saw their broodiness reflected in these young Slytherins, They became the Tortured Poets, their "poetry" scrawled not with ink, but with blood and fear.

The Rules (Unbreakable):

Loyalty is Our Blood Oath: Mess with one of them, you mess with all of them. This unwavering loyalty is their foundation.Betrayal is a fate worse than expulsion. A single transgression could result in a "disappearance," a fate worse than Azkaban.

Secrets are sacred currency: What's shared in the dimly lit corners of the Department stays there. Unless it involves a particularly juicy Ministry scandal, then all bets are off (courtesy of Blaise Zabini's insatiable gossip appetite).

Darkness is a double-edged sword: They embraced their darkness, honing it into a weapon against those who deserved it - revel in darkness too long, and it devours you whole.

Art over Arson: Destruction wasn't the goal. The Department aimed to leave their mark with a touch of twisted artistry.A perfectly sculpted ice sculpture of a screaming victim, a whispered poem etched on a sleeping rival's forehead, a haunting melody tinged with despair echoing through the halls.

No Scars: The mark of a Tortured Poet was discretion. Leaving physical evidence was a rookie mistake. The true artist left only a shattered spirit.

No Outsiders: The Department is a closed casket. New members are hand-picked, tested, and broken before being deemed worthy.

Never Love, Only Possess: Love is a weakness, a vulnerability they cannot afford. Possession, domination – these are the true expressions of power. ( a rule they all broke )

The Members:

- Mattheo "The Mastermind" Riddle:

The brains behind the operation. Heir to a dark legacy, Mattheo possessed a chilling charisma that masked a calculating mind. He wielded curses with grace, his voice a silken threat, capable of weaving hypnotic lies or unleashing venomous truths. Mattheo is cunning and calculating, always two steps ahead with a plan so outlandish it just might work. He's the one who assigns roles and ensures their targets get a taste of their own medicine (or worse).He embodies the darkness, a shadow that chills even the bravest hearts.

Theodore "The Artist" Nott:

With a talent for manipulating shadows, Theo could create phantoms that danced on the walls, whispering secrets and igniting paranoia. brewed potions that twisted emotions and conjured illusions that blurred the lines between reality and nightmare. His signature move: A shroud of darkness that swallowed the victim, leaving them alone with their inner demons. He was also The department's strategist. His mind, as sharp as a serpent's fang, weaved intricate webs of psychological manipulation.He took a perverse pleasure in dissecting his victims, unraveling their secrets with a chilling detachment.

Lorenzo "The Charmer" Berkshire:

The Charmer. Lorenzo's weapon of choice is not a wand, but his silver tongue. He can disarm with a smile and deceive with a single word. Information is his currency, secrets his trophies. He is the Department's siren, luring the unsuspecting into a web of lies. tongue that could weave illusions as real as dreams. His victims, lulled into a false sense of security, often found themselves entangled in compromising situations or facing fabricated scandals.

Blaise "The Blackmailer" Zabini:

Blaise has a knack for finding dirt on everyone and isn't afraid to use it to his advantage .He's the one who gathers intel and makes sure no one double-crosses the Tortured Poets. He was the Shadow Dancer. Elusive and acrobatic, Blaise was the Department's phantom. He could infiltrate even the most secure locations, leaving behind unsettling calling cards – a misplaced object, a cryptic message scrawled on a dusty window pane.

Draco "The Distraction" Malfoy:

Draco was the prodigy, a master of forbidden spells before he even reached adulthood. His talent fueled a quiet arrogance, but his loyalty to the group was undeniable. He was their muscle, the unleashed storm of magic when subtlety failed.He saw emotions as a map, effortlessly navigating the labyrinthine corridors of fear and hope.

◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢

The Tortured Poets Department existed in the shadows of Hogwarts, a clandestine group teetering on the edge of sanity. They were not poets, but dark artists, sculpting fear and pain into a twisted form of power, a chilling testament to the allure and danger that lurks in the human heart.

◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢

[ohimsummer]

✎ . . .❝ DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT.❞

based off this tiktok audio LOL

— minors dni, suggestive, mentions of sexual acts and fem genitalia but there’s no actual smut in this?, fem anatomy, no mistakes in this or I slash your tires

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what, my dear?”

Suguru pretends not to notice your apprehensive examination of him, suspicion written all over your face as you try to find cracks within his hushed demeanor: a twitch at the corner of his lips from holding back a smirk, uneven breathes from containing his laughter, or anything that would suggest that Geto is not as innocent as he’s acting. For the next few minutes, you two participate in a silent staring contest as you wait for even the slightest hint that he knows more than he lets on.

And of course he’s not stupid, Suguru knows what his eyes do to you. If you outright saying it wasn’t enough, he can tell by the way you’re hellbent on always studying them. When you’re on your third, fourth orgasm of the night, capturing his unwavering gaze and silently pleading with him to give your poor pussy a break. When you’re cuddling, and you always softly caress his cheeks, tilting his head towards you to look so, so deep into his eyes, warm and familiar like the softest rays of sun as they grace the horizon. You’re obsessed with that stare of Suguru’s, entirely unreadable unless it’s his devoted gaze or the way he just contemplates you sometimes.

It’s so obvious when he does. You always notice when the golden hues of his eyes darken with something sinister, nefarious. It always catches you off guard; you’ll be in the middle of something mundane like cleaning or laundry or running a bath and you look up and it’s the stare, that stare. A stare where —you’re sure that if you looked hard enough— you’d see Suguru’s devilish intentions reflected back at you. Sinful thoughts of what he wants to do to you right then and there, ways he’d stuff your cunt full on damn near every surface of the house until you were gushing with his cum and couldn’t feel your legs, let alone stand up at all.

Geto observes your careful approach; his head slants right ever so slightly, a languid ogle lingering on exposed hips beneath your shorts and the low cut of your tank top that leaves little to the imagination. His mind is running rampant with increasingly sickening thoughts of you: how he can and will bend you over everywhere in this house like his little doll and push your knees up to your ears until you cry and whine that it’s ‘too much’ even though the way you clench and suck him in speaks otherwise, until you’re just a sweaty, sloppy mess of limbs and Suguru has to carry you to bed in his arms because heaven knows after he’s through, you couldn’t carry yourself.

Suguru doesn’t say anything as you come to stand between his spread knees. He knows his intentions, you know his intentions, if not for the lustful look in his eyes, then from the ever-hardening bulge beneath his sweats.

You cross your arms, frowning down at him and trying not to stare at it. “You’re still giving me those eyes, Sugu.”

He finally chuckles, leaning forward to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you closer to him. “I can give you more than that…if you’d like, baby.”

You feel your resolve wavering at those God-forsaken eyes of his, it and his captivating smile chipping away at you. His hold tightens just a bit, almost like he’s afraid you’ll slip out and run away. But it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Your fate was sealed the moment you noticed him staring at you like that.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Heart’s Desire: Heart

Heart's Desire: You are Amata, the dream that embodies adoration and one of Morpheus’s most treasured creations. As one of the few entities that Desire actually seems to like, it is your job to complete official business between the Dreaming and the Threshold. Too bad a scheming Endless has decided to play a little game and give you, their precious rare friend, a nudge in the right direction.

Warnings: Desire Drugging Amata.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x Named Dream!Reader, Amata: Latin for beloved, Sex pollen because Desire is a *bitch*.

Word Count: ~4.4k

Masterlist | Desire

It is one of your greatest pleasures to watch dreamers revel in your work. As a dream that embodies adoration, you are often surrounded by happiness and love. Your gentle and kind nature often leads those within the Dreaming to come to you for comfort when things go awry, or they need sound advice from someone incapable of holding a grudge.

You are overjoyed upon the return of Lord Morpheus, having been one of the few of his creations to remain within the crumbling realm, ever faithful. Lord Morpheus has always been a distant figure, even to you, despite you being one of his favorite and most treasured creations. So, you linger in the background as he and his new raven, Matthew, collect his missing tools. Lucienne reassures you that he is just unsettled by his time away from the Dreaming, and you nod in understanding, though deep down you can't help but feel a pang of hurt at his distance.

As the days pass, you find yourself wandering through the corridors of the palace in various states of repair, your footsteps silent against the shifting marble. Upon turning down a hall of antiquities from the time of the Gods, you find Matthew perched in front of a large, ornate mirror that seems to shimmer with an otherworldly light. It is, after all, Narcissus' Mirror.

His glossy feathers reflect tiny hints of ethereal colors as he cocks his head in curiosity. You approach the raven cautiously, your heart fluttering with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. It has been so long since you had the company of others, Lucienne, Mervyn, and the brothers notwithstanding.

"Hello, Matthew," you greet softly, coming to a stop near him and folding your hands against your chiton. The raven jumps at your words, wings flapping as he settles himself, and then turns to you.

“Oh! Hi! You’re Amata… right?” Matthew asks, his head cocking side to side. He can see why Morpheus is so enamored with you. Your skin is much like Gault’s, but shifting and swirling in a kaleidoscope of shimmering colors. Space. You had space in your skin! The boss has told him all about you, rather obsessively, but Matthew knows better than to comment.

You are Amata, the dream that embodies adoration, and certainly one of Morpheus’ favorites. Spun and sewn from millions of nebulas and constellations, your skin is a constant shifting of colors from the deepest of purples and blues, all the way to a sunny and heart-warming yellow and pink. He even saw an intense red bloom briefly on your shoulder the other day, twinkling and shimmering for about half an hour before morphing into a different nebulae. At this point, Matthew is convinced you are space, and the nebulas on your skin were painted by Morpheus. They probably were at this point.

“Oh, yes, that is correct,” you nod in acknowledgment, a warm smile gracing your ever-changing features as you look at the raven perched before you.

“Morpheus talks a lot about you,” Matthew continues, his glossy black feathers ruffling with excitement as he speaks. "He mentioned how you were there for him during some difficult times, offering comfort and guidance when he needed it most.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. Or perhaps lovesick would be more accurate. "Has he now?"

“Oh yeah, the boss really likes to talk about you. He mentioned how much he values your presence here in the Dreaming, how your gentle nature and unwavering kindness had been a source of solace for him, especially during his recent troubles," Matthew chirps animatedly, hopping a bit closer to you. “Exact words by the way, I don’t think my vocabulary is up to his.”

You can't help but feel a rush of warmth at Matthew's words, a mixture of joy and sadness swirling within you. Morpheus’ rare moments of vulnerability and openness with you had created a deep bond between you, one that you cherished more than words could express. But he would never act upon such feelings, and that drags upon your heart like a weight that cannot be lifted. You clear your thoughts of your own personal woes and address Matthew once more.

“I see that you are interested in the mirror?”

“Oh yeah, it’s really cool, I can see my human self in it! Or at least what I used to look like, I’m a bird now. Obviously.”

"Yes, Narcissus' Mirror tends to show inner desires," you reply, your small smile almost pained. "They say it has the power to show one's true self, or perhaps a reflection of what once was and at times, what could be."

“That’s why I’m seeing my old self?” Matthew exclaims, his eyes wide with wonder. "So, what would you see if you looked into the mirror, Amata? Just yourself?”

Oh no, the mirror would show you something you had spent far too many hours pining over. Slowly, you step closer to the glistening surface, your reflection wavering and shifting in the ethereal light.

As you gaze into the mirror, the colors of your nebulae spin and dance in an intricate display. Images flicker across the mirror's surface—a glimpse of a different time, a different place. And then, for a brief moment, you see it.

A figure emerges from the swirling colors, one that bears a striking resemblance to yourself but seems more... complete. Radiant and whole in a way you have never felt before. It is as if all your scattered pieces have come together to form a dazzling mosaic of beauty and adoration.

What breaks your little heart, if you even had one, every time, is that beside you stands Morpheus, his eyes soft and filled with a tenderness you have only ever dreamed of. In that reflection, he reaches out a hand towards you, a ghostly touch that sends shivers down your spine. You can almost feel the coolness of his fingers against yours, a sensation so achingly real it almost brings tears to your eyes.

But as quickly as the image appears, it vanishes, leaving you standing before the mirror with a heart heavy with longing. You turn to Matthew, forcing a smile to mask the ache in your chest.

"It shows what we desire most," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. "Sometimes, it can be both a gift and a curse to see such things."

“Woah!” Matthew gasps. “That’s like a real-life version of the Mirror of Erised!”

“The mirror of what?” you question the raven, your head tilting in confusion. Matthew hops excitedly, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"You know, in Harry Potter? The Mirror of Erised shows you your heart's deepest desire, and it's all twisted and messed up because sometimes what we want isn't good for us. It's like this mirror is doing the same thing. That's so cool!"

You still have no idea what he speaks of, but he appears to be so enthused about the topic that you decide to play along. Who could possibly hinder such happiness?

"Perhaps you're right, Matthew," you muse, running a finger along the edge of the mirror. "Though I don't know if my desire is twisted or messed up. It's just... complicated."

Matthew cocks his head, studying you with a quiet intensity. This is his first time seeing you so un-Amata-like. "Complicated how?"

"It's nothing, Matthew," you say, trying to brush off the intensity of your emotions. "Just a silly dream, that's all. It's been that way for thousands of years. I think it is apart of my creation.”

The raven doesn't look convinced, but he lets the subject drop. You bid him a pleasant dream and stride away, intending to return to your duties. Despite your efforts to leave your feelings behind, they cling to you like a stubborn shadow. You roam the palace halls, your thoughts circling back to the image in the mirror and the tender look in Morpheus' eyes. It is a cruel reminder of what could never be, and yet, you can't tear your mind away from it.

As the evening comes and the stars twinkle brightly in the Dreaming's sky, you find yourself in the garden of eternal blooms. The flowers glow softly, their colors shifting and changing much like your own skin. A gift long given by your lord. You sit on a bench, gazing up at the stars, lost in thought.

"Amata," a familiar voice calls, pulling you from your reverie. You turn to see Lucienne approaching, her expression gentle and understanding.

"Lucienne," you greet, your smile genuine despite the heaviness in your heart. "What brings you here?"

"I came to check on you," she says, sitting beside you. "You've seemed... distant lately. Despite Lord Morpheus' return. Is it, perhaps—"

"I have had centuries to adjust to the matter of my heart, Lucienne," you softly speak, cutting her off. "And I don’t even have one." The librarian clasps her hands behind her back and approaches the end of the bench you are perched on.

"That does not mean you are not capable of feeling, Amata,” Lucienne finishes gently, her eyes soft and understanding. “Your very essence is woven from the threads of adoration and love. Heart or no heart, you embody those emotions more profoundly than most.”

You look down, the shifting colors of your skin reflecting the turmoil within. “I know. But it is hard, Lucienne. It is hard to love so deeply and know it will never be reciprocated because of duty.”

You sit there in silence, lost in thought as the stars continue to twinkle above. Lucienne waits patiently, allowing you the space to process your feelings. After a moment, she speaks softly, her voice a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves of the eternal blooms.

"Lord Morpheus has returned to us changed. His feelings and actions are no longer set in stone," Lucienne continues. "He is grappling with his own burdens, just as you are with yours. Give him time. Give yourself time."

"What if my feelings are just a product of my nature as Amata? A dream woven from the threads of adoration and love?"

Lucienne shakes her head gently. "No," she says firmly. "Your feelings are real, Amata. They are a part of who you are, just as much as your shifting colors and your gift of adoration." She reaches out and places a comforting hand on your arm. "Love is not something that can be easily defined or contained within rules and expectations," she continues softly. "It is a force that transcends all boundaries, a powerful emotion that can shape us in ways we never thought possible."

You look down at your hands, clenched tightly in your lap. You have always been strict with yourself, never allowing yourself to feel too deeply for the sake of duty. Your loyalty is woven in the marrow of your being. But Lucienne's words resonate with you, stirring something deep within your heart. Morpheus has changed.

With those words, she walks away, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The garden around you seems to hum with quiet understanding, the blooms glowing softly in the moonlight. You take a deep breath, drawing strength from the beauty and tranquility of the Dreaming.

Yes, Morpheus has changed, but it is not within your right as his creation to assume his thoughts have wavered. He is still out of reach.

Morpheus summons you to the throne room for official business of the Dreaming. No doubt he is sending you on an errand. Since his return, he has only called upon your presence when in need of your ability and avoided you altogether the rest of the time.

"Amata," he begins, his voice resonating through the vast chamber. You stand before him, dressed regally with the serenity and power of a queen. "I have a task for you. It is one that requires both your unique abilities and your... particular rapport with my sibling, Desire."

You nod, knowing you are the most friendly with Desire. It is an unusual relationship, to say the least; however, adoration often intersects with desire, so it makes sense that you would be most familiar with Morpheus' estranged sibling. "Of course, my lord. What do you need of me?"

Morpheus rises from his throne, a stack of official papers materializing in his hand. "These documents must be delivered to the Threshold. They pertain to matters of great importance to the realms, particularly regarding Desire's recent indiscretions. Your presence will ensure their safe passage."

He glides down the curving stairs, and your eyes soak in every lithe and precise move. It is impossible for you not to adore the way he carries himself. Curse your embodiment. You accept the papers, their weight seeming heavier than mere parchment. Your gaze raises back to the starlit ones of your lord, and you give him a head bow. "I understand, my lord. I will see it done."

He steps closer, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "Desire holds you in high regard, Amata. This task is not only one of duty, but of trust. Do not let your heart waver; their recent actions have been untoward and inciteful."

You meet his gaze, your eyes flickering as understanding blooms in your mind. Is Morpheus implying that his imprisonment had been influenced by Desire? It certainly sounds like an action his younger sibling would endeavor in, but one so extreme? No matter what Desire had been involved in, you would keep your head on your shoulders.

"I will not, my lord." You reassure him, "I will fulfill this task with the utmost care."

Morpheus nods, a faint smile touching his lips. "Very well. Proceed with caution."

With a wave of his hand, the world around you shifts, the throne room dissolving into a blur of colors and sensations. When the world stabilizes, you find yourself standing at the entrance to the Threshold, the realm of Desire.

The Threshold is a place of intoxicating beauty and temptation, its landscapes ever-changing to suit the whims of its ruler. The air is thick with the scent of exotic flowers and the hum of desire, a palpable force that seems to tug at your very soul. It is almost a second home to your nature.

You take a deep breath, clearing the suave nature of the realm to lower your guard, from your mind and approach the entrance. The door to the Threshold opens before you, revealing Desire lounging on a lavish chaise, their golden eyes gleaming with amusement. You blink at the cat suit, tail and ears flicking. Their latest form certainly suits them. Catlike indeed.

"Ah, my dear Amata," Desire purrs, rising gracefully to greet you. "What brings you to my domain?" As you step forward into the space and the door closes behind you, Desire slinks up to you and curls their fingers around your jaw to caress your beauty.

You bow slightly, holding out the papers to them, well used to their seductive nature and, if anything, immune to their charm. Desire could not compete with adoration. It is the reason why you are always tasked with business at the Threshold. "I come bearing important documents from Lord Morpheus. He entrusted me with their delivery."

There is a flicker of curiosity in their eyes, and you can sense them reading your thoughts through your actions. They take the documents from your hand, their fingers lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

"Interesting," they murmur, flipping through the pages with an air of intrigue. "Matters of great importance indeed." Desire's gaze lifts to meet yours, their eyes filled with a mischievous glint. The papers evaporate in their hands. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here, Amata. You've been ever so busy tending to the Dreaming."

You shrug slightly, trying to maintain a neutral expression. "With Lord Morpheus returned, I have many tasks to resume," you reply simply. Desire chuckles softly, their voice sending shivers down your spine.

"Ah yes, Morpheus," they purr, running a finger along the edge of your jawline where a galaxy swirls along the curve. Desire would never admit it, but Dream had outdone himself on your creation. "He has always been one for duty and responsibility, has he not?" Their gaze drifts down to your lips, and you can feel the heat of their desire radiating off them in waves.

"He takes the matters of the Dreaming with the greatest of importance," you agree, feeling a surge of pride for the realm you both serve so diligently.

Desire's smile widens, a glint of mischief in their eyes. "Indeed, he does. And yet, I cannot help but wonder about the balance between duty and desire. Tell me, Amata, have you never wished for more?"

You roll your eyes, refusing to be swayed by Desire's insinuations. This is not the first time you and Desire have had this conversation. "My wishes are irrelevant, Desire. My duty to Lord Morpheus and the Dreaming comes first."

Desire seems to appreciate your resolve, a hint of admiration flickering in their eyes before they finally release you from their grasp. "Very well," they say finally, their lips transforming into a wicked smile. "I shall see that these documents reach their destination safely. But I would hate that you came all this way just for business with little old me."

Desire's eyes twinkle with mischief as they reach behind a cushion, revealing a small, ornate bottle. The glass catches the light, casting rainbows across the opulent room. "Before you take your leave," Desire says, holding the bottle out to you, "I have a little something for you. A token of my... affection."

You eye the bottle warily, your hand hesitating as you reach out to take it. The scent that wafts from the open bottle is intoxicating, an intoxicating mix of jasmine and orange with an undercurrent of something wild and untamed. It stirs something deep within you, a longing that you've kept buried for centuries.

"It's a special blend," Desire purrs, watching your reaction with interest. "A perfume unlike any other. Just a dab behind your ears, and it will make the stars themselves seem bland in comparison. I think it will complement your gorgeous complexion, my little dream."

You admire the delicate bottle, gazing at the shimmering fluid suspended in glass. It is almost as if Desire has harnessed the glimmering beauty of stars and swirled it into the perfume to add a touch of your creator. They would never be so thoughtful, however. Your gaze lifts back to Desire, and you give them a thankful but hesitant smile.

"I am honored to receive such a gift from you, Desire," you tell the Endless as your brow furrows. They can see the 'but' lingering in your tone and prompt you.

"But…?" Desire purrs, an eyebrow raised while one of their hands finds its way to your chin, making sure that you are looking in their eyes.

"I have never worn perfume before," you admit shyly. "Am I even worthy of wearing such a cherished creation of Desire?"

The glimmer in Desire's golden eyes almost matches the perfume as their lips curl and they chuckle.

"Oh, my dearest Amata," Desire strokes your galactic skin once more. "Do not let that hold you back. Allow me the honor of applying your first application of perfume," Desire whispers, their voice like velvet.

You swallow, feeling a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. "I... I don't know what to expect," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "Am— am I the one meant to smell it? Or, or is it meant for others?"

Desire's smile widens, a blend of amusement and genuine affection. "That is the beauty of it, my dear. It can be both. Trust me." With that, they uncap the bottle in your hands, the glass stopper releasing a fragrance that is both intoxicating and comforting. They wave the glass wand beneath your nose, ensuring that the scent reaches your senses, before drawing it up your neck. Then with careful precision, Desire tilts your head side to side to dab the perfume behind your ears.

As the scent envelops you, it feels as though the stars themselves have been captured within the bottle, their essence now a part of your very being. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to be lost in the experience. The intoxicating fragrance seems to seep into your pores, filling you with a sense of warmth and longing. It is a feeling you have never experienced before, and it leaves you feeling both vulnerable and alive.

Desire steps back, admiring their handiwork. You open your eyes and gaze at the bottle in your hand. The perfume seems to glow with an inner light, its beauty almost mesmerizing.

"There," Desire says, their voice soft and satisfied. "Now, you will carry the essence of our encounter with you wherever you go. It will serve as a reminder of the connection we share, and the feelings that exist between us." They return the stopper to the perfume bottle and close your fingers around it.

"Go now, Amata," they say, their voice a purred command. "We wouldn't want to keep Dream waiting, now would we?" They return to their lounge upon the red chaise, tail flicking lazily about while you stare down at the little bottle in your hand.

As you step through the entrance back to the Dreaming, the scent of Desire's perfume fills your senses. The fragrance is subtle yet powerful, carrying with it a yearning that resonates deep within your being. You can't help but wonder if this is a normal reaction to the perfume. Surely it is; Desire would never seek to harm you. What would have changed in thousands o fyears you had known them?

You continue your normal route to the palace, slowly feeling your inner being get warmer and warmer. Lifting a hand, you run your fingertips along your jaw and nearly shiver as electrical pleasure echoes across your flesh. Ignore your being, Amata, you always feel a little odd upon your return.

But the sensations only grow worse. You find yourself acutely aware of your surroundings, each sound and sensation amplified by the perfume's effect on your senses. The soft rustle of fabric as you walk, the echo of your footsteps on the marble floor, the dim glow of the dreamlights casting shadows that dance and flicker around you—all of it combines to create a heightened state of awareness. Then an uncomfortable cramp blooms in your abdomen, and the fabric of your dress feels as if it were knives against your flesh.

You attempt to return to your duties in the library, but your discomfort and nausea only intensify, making it impossible for you to focus on the tasks at hand. No matter how you shift, your dress still feels painful against your skin, and the cramping within your abdomen worsens.

As the discomfort in your abdomen intensifies, you double over, clutching your stomach as a wave of nausea washes over you. The scent of the perfume that once filled you with longing now becomes suffocating, making your head spin. The library around you spins and swirls, the endless tomes blurring together in a kaleidoscope of color and text.

"Amata?" Lucienne's voice cuts through the haze, her concerned expression etched into your blurry vision as she rushes to your side. "My goodness, you look ever so poorly!"

Her brow furrows as she studies your face, her hand gently resting on your forehead. Your normally cool skin feels like it is burning from the inside out. You make a noise at her touch and twitch. The scent of the perfume that once filled you with longing now clings to you like an angry shroud, making your head spin.

"Amata, my dear," she murmurs, her voice gentle and soothing. "What is it that ails you?" Her touch sends a wave of relief coursing through your body, easing the cramp in your abdomen. Yet it is still not enough. You need more.

You shake your head weakly; you have no idea. Lucienne's expression softens as she guides you to a nearby chair, seating you gently before kneeling at your feet. "Take deep breaths," she instructs softly. "Perhaps it would be best if you return to your quarters to rest."

"I have work to do," you protest in a barely comprehensible voice.

"Nonsense, you must rest," the librarian scolds you. "Return to your quarters and do not come back until you are better rested."

You comply with great reluctance, for not once in your existence have you ever needed to take a break from your duties. So you head to your quarters, periodically taking pauses to grimace through bludgeoning pain in your abdomen. Stumbling into your room, you glance at your neat bed and decide that you absolutely were not going to climb in bed feeling like a sweaty mess. So your eyes shift to the door to your bath.

You push through the pain, determined to take a bath and regain some semblance of normalcy. As you step into the bathing chamber, you are greeted by the soothing scent of your favorite mixture of herbs and flowers. The warm water beckons you, and you undress quickly, eager to lose the fabric that feels so painful and submerge yourself in its comforting embrace.

Lowering yourself into the softly bubbling water, you whimper as the bubbles pop against your skin. This is supposed to make you feel better! But the pain persists, gnawing at you despite the warmth of the water. You close your eyes, trying to focus on the soothing aroma and the gentle sound of the water, but the discomfort is relentless. Each breath feels like a struggle, and you wonder if this will ever end.

Your eyes sting with unshed tears as you climb out of the bath, wrapping yourself in a thick, plush robe. The fabric feels soft against your sensitive skin, but it does little to alleviate the pain that still grips your abdomen.

You make your way to your bed, the soft sheets beckoning you like a sanctuary. With a weary sigh, you slip beneath the covers, curling up into a tight ball as you try to find a comfortable position. But no matter how you shift, the pain persists, throbbing relentlessly with each beat of your heart. You close your eyes and focus on your breathing, hoping that rest will bring you some relief.

Date Published: 5/30/24

Last Edit: 5/30/24

Masterlist | Desire