#and how its in stark contrast with the way he refuses to give up for even a second refuses to doubt his surefire belief in kageyama the way

[theheightofdishonor]

when I mean quit traumatising me with thoughts about a volleyball manga, I meant it. What am I supposed to do with the knowledge that Hinata knew his weakness from the start and seeking individual growth (greed being a positive thing) doesn’t make him any less of a team player? Or that their extreme love for volleyball is what isolated them until they found each other? (or how entirely besotted Kageyama was with Hinata right from the start lmao) But really, reading your posts give me a greater appreciation for the manga and I didn’t even know that was possible! Thank you for your analysis, although I will be suing for psychic damage every time I see your posts in my feed because I end up thinking about them too much. I really like that you love Haikyuu so much, that love is contagious and you make me like it more.

Dunno, personally I find it fun to inflict my brain rot on others. The joy of suffering together or whatnot.

As for what to do with it, you can always just spin all that around your head for eternity and spit it out in various ways the way I've been doing for like 2-4 years now. Or use it to extrapolate even more insane heartbreaking headcanons and aus. They're both fun!

(Re: kageyama being besotted for hinata, that reminds me I have a post somewhere about kageyamas canon three step journey of falling in love with hinata but idk where it is. If I have time to find it I'll repost it for you because it's a good post (they make me want to chew on glass))

Im glad that I make you love hq more because honestly, there's few things better than being able to share your love of something with someone else and when you can bond with other people over that shared interest. It's sooo delightful. And like personally, interacting and having conversations and talking at people makes me like it and think about it more. It's also the way that i flesh out my thoughts. Whenever I post something especially long on here, it usually because I talked about it recently to or at someone.

Feel free to sue me for psychic damage, I find the idea utterly delightful but also you're really to blame because your asks make my day and make me want to write more about hq and kagehina

[novaursa]

Hello! So grateful you have opened up your requests 🥰

Could I get one of cregan showing his wife, targ!reader, the wall for the first time?

The Wall

- Summary: Cregan takes you to see the Wall, and Silverwing comes with you.

- Pairing: (wife) targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is bonded with Silverwing.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

You feel the northern chill in your bones the moment you step foot beyond Winterfell. The air grows heavier, colder, as if the very breath of the Old Gods wraps around you, sinking its icy tendrils into your flesh. It is a different kind of cold—more relentless, more biting than you have ever known in the southern lands of your birth. But then again, you expected nothing less when you agreed to accompany Cregan Stark to the Wall.

Your husband rides at your side, his fur cloak draped over broad shoulders, a sight that fills you with warmth. His face is set with the solemnity that marks his heritage, but there’s a softness there for you—a softening of his eyes whenever they meet yours, a gentle squeeze of his hand on your arm when the wind howls too sharply. His presence beside you feels like a shelter, a warmth against the harshness of the North.

“I’ve waited long to show you this,” Cregan murmurs, his voice low but carrying over the wind. There’s a rare lightness to his words, a pride that makes you smile, despite the cold biting at your cheeks.

“You speak of it as if it’s something magical,” you reply, teasing him gently, though you feel a hint of excitement bubbling beneath your words. The Wall is something that has lingered in stories and songs, a place you’ve only heard about. Yet now, you are about to see it with your own eyes.

“Some might say it is.” He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending warmth down your spine. “It’s a sight unlike any other. Even your dragons have their limits when it comes to the Wall.”

Your heart gives a little tug at his words, reminding you of Silverwing, the great she-dragon bonded to you since your youth. You’ve heard the stories too—of how Silverwing, despite her strength and size, refused to cross the Wall during the reign of Queen Alysanne. The tales had puzzled you, and a part of you wondered whether the creature you shared a bond with would behave the same when you reached the ancient barrier.

As the hours stretch on and you grow closer to your destination, the Wall finally emerges on the horizon—a towering monument of ice and stone, glowing eerily under the weak northern sun. The sheer size of it takes your breath away. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, as though it will shield you from the awe that grips your chest.

“There it is,” Cregan says softly, his hand brushing against yours. His voice holds a note of reverence, as if the Wall itself is something holy. “The edge of the world.”

You stare up at it, the enormity of it humbling you in a way nothing ever has. The Wall stretches impossibly high, a barrier that seems to separate not only land but realms themselves—the living and the dead, the known and the unknown.

But what captures your attention more is the sound of wings cutting through the cold air. You turn your gaze upward just in time to see the massive shadow of Silverwing circling above. Her pale, silvery scales shimmer in the dull light, a contrast against the grim, grey sky. Yet, even as she soars closer to the Wall, you see the familiar hesitation in her flight. She slows, wings beating in slower arcs, her great head turning toward the ice as if sensing some invisible barrier.

“She remembers,” you whisper, half to yourself, half to Cregan.

“Aye,” he agrees, watching with you. “The Wall holds a power older than all of us.”

You urge Silverwing with a thought, your connection with her as strong as ever. She flaps her wings harder, drawing closer to the Wall’s towering height, but just as before—just as the tales told—she stops short. Her massive body hovers in the air for a few moments, and despite your urging, she will not go any farther. The invisible force seems to push back, a resistance neither of you can break.

A quiet frustration stirs within you. “She won’t cross it,” you murmur, though you already knew this might happen. You watch her large, majestic form retreat just enough to hover out of reach.

Cregan, who has been observing quietly, steps closer to you. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into his warmth. “Perhaps she knows something we don’t,” he says softly, his breath warm against your ear. “The dragons have their wisdom, even if we don’t understand it.”

You nod, leaning into him. His presence calms you, as it always does, and you relax into his embrace. But then, something shifts.

A low, rumbling growl echoes through the air, and you turn your attention back to Silverwing. The dragon’s wings beat harder, her growl growing into a roar that vibrates through your chest. She lowers her body, as if preparing to charge, and you feel her agitation through your bond—a new determination, a will that wasn’t there before.

“What is she—” Cregan begins, but you hold up a hand, silencing him.

Silverwing surges forward, her massive wings flaring as she approaches the Wall once more. This time, there is no hesitation. The invisible force that once stopped her seems to buckle under her will, and you watch in astonishment as Silverwing pushes through the barrier. The cold air whips around you, stinging your face, as her great form crosses over the Wall, her wings carrying her higher into the northern sky.

“She did it,” you breathe, hardly able to believe what you’re seeing. You can feel her triumph, her exhilaration, as she soars over the frozen wasteland beyond. It is as if the Wall’s ancient magic has finally yielded to her strength—or perhaps to something deeper, something connected to you.

Cregan’s hand tightens on your waist, and when you look up at him, you see the awe in his eyes. “You’re the first Targaryen to make it past the Wall,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Silverwing wouldn’t have done that for anyone else.”

Your heart swells at his words, at the pride you feel through your bond with Silverwing and the warmth of Cregan’s affection. You turn in his arms, your fingers brushing against his cold cheek before you kiss him. His lips are warm, soft, a contrast to the sharp cold around you.

“Perhaps she knew it was time,” you whisper against his lips.

“Or perhaps she follows her rider,” Cregan replies, his voice low and tender as he pulls you closer.

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in his embrace, as the Wall looms behind you. Silverwing’s triumphant roars echo in the distance, and for the first time, you feel as though the North has truly welcomed you.

[queenofwands89]

The Storm Within (Part Two)  Tyler Owens x fem!reader

Part 1

Summary: Following the events of the first part, a severely injured Y/N lies in a coma while a heartbroken Tyler waits by her side, wondering if she will ever wake up.

Warnings: Hospital, Reader is in a coma, Fluff, Sad Tyler, Slightly angsty.                                              

Notes: I didn't expect so many people to read the first part, let alone want a second, so thank you—it means a lot. I rushed to write this to avoid making you wait any longer, lol. I'm currently accepting writing prompts for Jake Seresin, Tyler Owens, and Glen Powell.

Enjoy byeeee!

Two weeks have slipped by in a blur of sterile hospital corridors and the endless hum of medical machines. Each passing day is a battle against time, unrelenting in its indifference, and Tyler's world has shrunk to the confines of your hospital room.

Tyler sits by your side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but refusing to close. He's lost count of the hours he's spent watching the rise and fall of your chest, willing you to wake up. The constant beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator are his only companions.

The rest of the storm-chasing team visits regularly, each holding onto hope in their own way. Boone leaves a fresh bouquet of wildflowers on the bedside table every other day, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the clinical white of the room. Dani brings her laptop, working quietly in the corner, refusing to leave until Tyler is forced to rest. Dexter makes sure Tyler eats, even if it means feeding him himself. And Lilly, with her unwavering optimism, often slips into the chair opposite Tyler, regaling him with stories and laughs to keep the darkness at bay.

One evening, as the crimson hues of the setting sun penetrate the blinds, Tyler is gently persuaded by Lilly to step outside the room, if only for a few minutes. The fresh air at the hospital's small garden is a reprieve he didn’t know he needed. He takes deep breaths, trying to shake off the weight that's settled on his shoulders.

As he walks back towards your room, he overhears a hushed conversation between two nurses. "It's been two weeks, and she's still fighting. It's remarkable," he hears one of them say. A glimmer of hope ignites in his chest. You're a fighter; you always have been.

Pushing open the door to your room, Tyler's heart skips a beat. One of the doctors, Dr. Emerson, is standing by your bed, reviewing the latest results. Tyler rushes in, anxiety and hope warring on his face.

"Any changes, Doc?" Tyler asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Dr. Emerson turns to him, a small, comforting smile on her face. "Her vitals are steadily improving. The brain activity shows promising signs. She's still in a coma, but these are good indicators. It’s just a matter of time."

With those reassuring words, Dr. Emerson gives Tyler a gentle nod before turning to leave the room, the other doctor following closely behind. The soft click of the closing door lingers in the air, marking the transition from clinical observation to personal vigil.

Tyler takes his seat beside you, gently holding your hand. "Hey, beautiful," he begins, his voice soft but steady. "I know you can hear me. I thought I'd share some stories, like old times."

He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Remember the first storm we chased together? God, we were terrified but so exhilarated," he chuckles. "The sky was this angry shade of gray, and the wind was howling like it was possessed. We had no idea what we were doing, but we felt invincible."

Tyler's eyes glisten with unshed tears as he continues. "You kept yelling at me to keep the camera steady while you took notes. I think I was too busy being amazed by how fearless you were. The tornado touched down so close, and we got caught in the downdraft. But you... you never lost your cool. You guided us out of there like it was just another day at the office."

He squeezes your hand gently, hoping for any sign of acknowledgment. "Then there was that time in Kansas. Do you remember? We were staying at that run-down motel, and the power went out during the middle of the night. We ended up sitting in the car, wrapped in blankets, watching the lightning storm. You said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off you."

The corners of Tyler's lips lift into a sad smile as he recounts more memories. "You were always the brave one, Y/N. Like that time we drove into the eye of the storm. Literally. Everyone told us it was too dangerous, but you convinced us, and we did it. And I'll never forget the look on your face when we made it out in one piece."

A silence hangs in the air for a moment, the only sounds coming from the steady beeps and hums of the medical equipment.

"I'm not gonna lie, Y/N. These past two weeks have been the hardest of my life. Seeing you like this... it's killing me. But I know you're fighting. You always do," Tyler says, voice cracking with emotion.

Tyler leans closer, his head resting on the side of your bed. He speaks softly, almost to himself. "You know, Dani was telling me about how you kept her sane during her first storm chase. She said she wouldn't have made it if it weren't for you. And Boone, he's a mess without you bossing him around. Dexter too. None of us are the same without you."

He looks at your serene face, a fresh wave of determination washing over him. "But we all believe in you. We know you're coming back to us. And when you do, we'll be ready with stories and laughs and everything that's been missing."

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over the room, Tyler continues to talk. He recounts every little detail of your adventures together, from the funniest moments to the most heart-stopping ones, painting a vivid picture with his words.

The world is a foggy blur as consciousness slowly begins to seep back into your mind. The silence in the room is broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the medical machines. Your eyelids feel heavy as you struggle to open them, a sense of disorientation clouding your thoughts.

As your eyes finally flutter open, the dim light of the room gradually sharpens into focus. The first thing you see is Tyler, slumped in the chair beside your hospital bed. His hand grips yours tightly, as if even in sleep, he cannot let go. His face is etched with lines of stress and fatigue, evidence of the nights he has spent by your side.

For a few moments, you simply watch him. Even in his exhausted state, there’s an undeniable tenderness in the way he holds your hand. You notice the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble that has grown from days of neglecting himself. Deep down, an overwhelming sense of gratitude and love wells up within you. You realize now more than ever just how much he means to you.

Gradually, you muster the strength to give his hand a weak squeeze, something to pull him from the depths of his weariness. His eyes flutter open slowly, confusion briefly crossing his features before they lock onto yours. Instantly, his face transforms—a mix of shock, awe, and profound relief.

"Y/N..." he breathes, his voice shaky and filled with emotion. Tears pool in his eyes, and you can see him fighting to hold them back, but it’s a losing battle. As the realization washes over him, that you’re finally awake, his tears begin to fall freely. "You’re... you’re awake. Thank God, you’re awake."

A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, but you manage a small smile. "Tyler," you rasp, the single word carrying all the emotions you can't yet express.

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing fervent kisses to your knuckles. "I love you, Y/N. I love you so much," he chokes out, his voice breaking with raw emotion. "I thought... I thought I’d lost you. I’m so sorry, Y/N. For everything. For the things I said. I was scared and I handled it all wrong."

You can feel the wetness of his tears on your hand, and it breaks your heart to see him in such pain. Gathering what strength you can, you shake your head slightly. "No, Tyler. We both did things we regret. I pushed you away when I should have let you in. But we can’t change the past. We can only move forward."

He nods, his teary eyes never leaving yours. "We’ll fix this. Together," he vows, his voice filled with a newfound determination.

Your smile grows a bit stronger, as you grip his hand with a bit more strength. "Together," you echo, the word binding the two of you in a promise of unity and hope.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Tyler repeats fervently, his tears now mingling with a relieved laugh.

You can't help but let out a light giggle, the sound so sweet to Tyler’s ears. "I love you, I love you, I love you," you reply, your heart feeling lighter for the first time in a long while.

Tyler chuckles softly, his expression softening as he looks at you. "I think the doctors are going to start charging me rent for how long I've been here."

You laugh weakly, the sound like music to his ears. "Well, as long as you don't start claiming squatter's rights. We might have to evict you."

His laughter mingles with yours, the room now filled with a warmth and happiness that seemed impossible just moments ago. "Deal. I'll leave when you do," he declares, his voice brimming with love and commitment.

The path to recovery will undoubtedly be long and arduous, but for now, the hardest part is over. The heavy cloud of uncertainty has lifted, replaced by a glimmering beacon of hope. The room, once cold and sterile, now feels warm, filled with the palpable power of your mutual love and commitment.

As the rhythmic beeping of the machines continues to fill the background, you and Tyler share a moment of silent understanding, knowing that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them hand in hand. "I love you," he whispers once more, the promise of these words a soothing balm to your soul.

"I love you," you whisper back, sealing the bond that will carry you through the days to come.

[sanjisleggy]

the siren and the sun (portgas d. ace x reader) [pt4]

a/n: it be hard to write two characters’ thoughts and feelings concurrently but i tried my best :3c

contents: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, both reader and Ace are big insecure

wc. 2.1k

wanna be on my taglist?

part 3 || part 5

i. 

tears streamed down your face uncontrollably as you watched your parents haul the last of their supplies onto their small pirate ship. as the remaining few wooden crates and barrels on land dwindled, you found yourself reaching out your arms every time they walked by in order to pick up more supplies, only to brush past you again on the way to their ship.

when your mother stepped off the ship for the final time to pick up the last crate, you grabbed onto her coat and begged, “please, take me with you, mama!” your words were barely coherent from all the choking and sobbing but it was obvious to anyone watching what you were trying to say.

she crouched in front of you and patted your head, the warmth of her hand soothing your aching heart ever so slightly. you instinctively reached out your arms to wrap around her neck, the same way you always did whenever she was about to carry you home. instead of picking you up, though, your mother pried your hands away.

“you’re a good girl, aren’t you, (Y/N)?” she cooed gently, a stark contrast to how firmly she gripped your two wrists in order to keep them a distance from her body.

you nodded, fresh hot tears still pouring down your cheeks.

“well, good girls aren’t selfish.” your mother smiled though it didn’t reach her eyes. “don’t you want mama and papa to be happy? hmm?”

you nodded again. you did want them to be happy but why couldn’t they be happy with you? you opened your mouth to ask but something deep in your heart stopped the words from coming out.

“good girl,” she said as she patted your head one last time. “mama and papa will be so happy once we’re out on the sea as long as you keep being good. if you’re really good, we might even come back to take you with us.”

“promise?” you whispered, holding out your pinky finger. your mother smiled and hooked it with her own.

“promise.”

for weeks you stayed right where they left you on the docks, your eyes glued to where the sky met the sea–the exact spot their ship disappeared from view.

ii.

Ace begs you to talk to him as he relentlessly trails behind you, leaving the bar and all thoughts of it behind him. his heart ramming against his ribcage as his thoughts on why you’re suddenly so cold run wild.

“say something, (Y/N)!” his voice cracks ever so slightly. “i just don’t understand–” he tries once more to grab ahold of your arm but you shrug him away the moment you feel his fingertips brush against your skin. “did i do something wrong? did i say something?”

the more he asks, the more you refuse to turn around to look at him. your heart aches from how distraught he sounds and the hurt does nothing but make fresh, hot tears well up in your eyes. you don’t understand why he’s so determined to follow you all this way and yet you can’t bring yourself to ask him why.

arriving at your private cabin aboard the Moby Dick, you try your best to enter whilst keeping Ace outside but he’s faster and stronger and manages to squeeze his way in. he shuts your door behind him and leans against it with his arms crossed. 

“are you gonna keep me prisoner, or?” you ask, trying your best to sound as unbothered as possible in hopes that you can conceal the tears on your face. alas, the cloudless night sky allows for the moon to cast its light through your window, illuminating your room enough for both of you to see each other clearly. 

Ace stands there silently with his big wet brown eyes staring straight into yours. what’s normally a sight you welcome with open arms is now your greatest source of misery as it dawns on you that he probably will just keep staring at you until you give in.

for a few minutes, your room is completely silent except for the occasional splashing of waves. looking at him, you think about how the girls at the bar are probably still waiting for him and yet here you are, keeping him away from having fun. he should be celebrating with the others and meeting new people, instead he’s here with you.

how selfish. 

Ace catches the way your shoulders tense up and how your eyebrows furrow even deeper than before. he can tell you’re thinking of something and he can’t help but wonder why you’re keeping it from him. you’ve never kept secrets from each other before, even as kids.

do you hate me? 

he swallows thickly as his own eyes prickle with tears.

did you finally realise i’m just not worth your time? that i’m just the bastard son of the world’s worst criminal with nothing to offer you? it took you long enough, huh?

“did i do something wrong? please, you have to tell me so i know how to fix it,” Ace pleads, against his better judgement. “ i can’t… you can’t hate me, too. please, (Y/N).” the words spill out faster than he can even think to stop them.

never in his life as Ace begged so openly to be loved–and he never thought he’d want to ever do so, either–but he can’t bear the thought of you despising him like the rest of the world does. it might actually kill him. 

“why do you care so much about what i think?” you snap back, tone coming across much harsher than you’d like. “why did you even come after me? you should be back in the bar! don’t you know there are people waiting for you? just go already!” you close the distance between you and him and grab his shoulders in an attempt to pry him away from the door so that he can finally get out and let you sulk alone in peace.

as expected, though, he doesn’t budge.

“do you not… want me anymore?” Ace asks in a voice so small you nearly miss it. the tears that have been holding on so diligently finally break free and streak down his freckled face as his expression contorts into the saddest one you’ve ever seen on his face.

now i’ve made you cry. i’m such a terrible person, aren’t i?

your heart twists painfully in your chest as you choke back your own tears. you so badly want to answer him truthfully, to let him know he’s all you’ve ever wanted but you can’t bring yourself to hold him back. what can you possibly offer that he can’t find from someone else who can offer him even more?

“i…” you have to force the words out, your throat far too constricted from all your crying. “i’ll always want you, Ace,” you finally admit selfishly, unable to stop once you’ve started. “i treasure every moment we spend together.” you give him a wobbly, sad smile. “but i think i’m getting too used to it and i don’t know how i’ll cope when you eventually find someone better.”

Ace stares at you silently as what feels like hours pass by.

it takes a while for the realisation that he hadn’t done anything to drive you away to dawn on him; that you actually want him as much as he wants you. never before has he related so strongly to words said by another and yet here you stand in front of him, having just said exactly how he feels about you. he feels his pounding heart race even faster than before, beating so quickly it almost hurts–except he welcomes it with open arms this time.

unbeknownst to him, you mistake his silence. 

this is it, isn’t it? i’ve said it out loud so you realise it, too, now.

but before you can try to convince him to leave your room again, Ace drops to his knees right in front of you, his eyes staring right into yours the entire time. he reaches out to take your hands in his, cupping your smaller hands in between his warm palms as he brings them to his lips. his hands begin to sweat and shake, and his kiss lingers longer than it should have, but he needs to buy a bit more time to prepare what he so desperately has to say to you.

“i know should’ve asked you this the moment we reunited but i didn’t so i’m asking you now.” Ace takes a deep breath. “marr- date me. i-i mean, be my girlfriend, please? be mine.” he pulls your hands apart to gently bring them to his face so that your palms cup his cheeks. his skin feels extra warm but you can’t tell if it’s from his Devil Fruit or from how hard he’s blushing right now.

the heaviness in your chest disappears in the blink of an eye as you recall a memory from your childhood you thought you’d long forgotten.

“we can date first. then i’ll ask you to marry me. deal?”

“deal… but what if…”

“if?” Ace tilted his head a little.

“what if you find someone else you want to marry?” you played with the hem of your pajamas, making sure not to make eye contact.

“don’t be stupid. i…” Ace coughed, unintentionally bringing your attention back to his face. his cheeks and ears were nearly as red as the shirt he wore. “... i’ll always want you.”

you begin to sob again, even harder this time, and Ace nearly has a conniption until he notices the wide smile spreading across your face. he feels his own lips tug into a grin as he swallows nervously. still cupping his face in between your hands, you run your thumbs across his cheeks, wiping away the dried salty tears from before.

is it really okay for me to be selfish?

you can’t help but wonder for a split second; however, your worries are washed away when you see how lovingly Ace gazes up at you as he remains kneeling on the floor of your room. if you didn’t know any better, you might think he’s looking at the most valuable treasure the sea has to offer.

“okay,” you say with a nod, your smile growing impossibly wider when his eyes practically shine in response, “i’d love to be yours.”

with a swiftness only a man like him can possess, Ace gets off the floor and scoops you into his arms, eliciting a surprised yelp from your lips. you wrap your own arms around his neck instinctively, not wanting to fall–as if he’d ever let that happen–but as soon as you’re lifted off the ground, you find yourself being tossed onto your bed with Ace following shortly after.

you giggle as he crawls over you, trapping your head between his toned forearms as he props himself up by his elbows. the sweet sound stirs something in his poor, overworked heart and it compels him to lean closer. the tip of his nose brushes lightly against yours but Ace doesn’t move any further, waiting for you to close the gap.

rewrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer until your lips slot against his, and a warmth you’ve never felt before blooms from your mouth and spreads throughout your entire body. your first kiss is clumsy and a little bit awkward but he tastes and smells so sweet you never want this moment to end. evidently feeling the same way, Ace licks at your lips greedily, coaxing your mouth open as he deepens the kiss, and moaning softly when your tongue clashes with his. 

more. more. more.

Ace wants everything you’re willing to offer him and in return he will give you all of him and then some. you could ask him for the sun itself and he’ll find a way to give it to you or die trying.

when you eventually part ways for air, he’s quick to make himself comfortable on top of you. his chest rests against yours as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, brushing his bruised lips against the scar on your collarbone. his hands wander the expanse of your arms and torso before making their way under your shirt and staying there; his warm palms resting against your bare skin. in return, you hug him close to you and bury your face in his messy, wavy hair. you smile and press a kiss to the crown of his head when you realise he smells like your shampoo.

no more words are exchanged throughout the night as you lay in peaceful silence entangled with one another. before you know it, you’re lulled to sleep by the sound of Ace’s soft snoring.

gen taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost @hyper-fic-ation @dressycobra7 @38lyra38 @chaseyui @paraparakiss @krooschl @teewon @olliesoxenfree @misstraffy @riftmage27

series taglist: @captainportgasdace @mitskisaveme @graveyardsweethearts @vaniiiavengeance @stuckinmymind22

[iniquitousyearning]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Fifteen-Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Theos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: this chapter is literally just angst. complete freakin angst. two broken hearts that refuse to acknowledge it. pretty poetical. i know i said no love but now im not so sure.

****FIND THE REST OF THE CHAPTERS HERE.

"You're coming with me, Emily," you asserted, arms crossed over your chest, your eyes narrowing at her as she was lazily sprawled out on her bed, clearly uninterested in your predicament. "There's no way in hell I'm going alone...you can bring Michael."

Emily let out a dramatic groan, her hands instinctively flying to rub her tired eyes. "But...there's a Gryffindor party that night too...we'd much rather go to-"

"Emily!" you interrupted, advancing across the room toward her bed. You leaned against the footboard, your expression pleading. "Please, please...after everything that happened with Berkshire, I'd prefer not to go back into their bloody common room by myself...plus I don't even drink! Like I don't even know-"

"Okay, okay!" Emily hastily sat up, cutting you off as she sensed your rising panic. "Gods, you're giving me a headache...I'll talk to Michael about it..."

A sigh of relief escaped you, but the tension still clung to your shoulders like a heavy cloak. You spun around, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you as you threaded your fingers through your hair in frustration, each strand a tangible reminder of your racing thoughts.

Your mind buzzed with a whirlwind of worries. What should you wear to fit in yet not draw too much attention? How would you deflect offers of drinks without seeming rude or standoffish? And most pressing of all, how did you even find yourself entangled in this mess? The truth was, your inability to refuse others had led you down this labyrinthine path, a maze of social obligations you couldn't escape.

Emily's voice broke through the heavy silence, as delicate as the softest feathers--cautiously adjusting her tone now that she'd sensed just how stressed out you were.

"Hey, you'll be fine," she reassured, her words a gentle caress in the midst of your turmoil. "You're with Tom, he'll make sure no one bothers you, I'm positive of it."

Emily's comforting words washed over you, but beneath the surface, your thoughts spiraled into a tumultuous whirlpool. The past two weeks had been a stark contrast to the passionate chaos you'd experienced with Mattheo. Since ending things with him, your tutoring sessions had turned quiet, punctuated only by the distant echo of pages turning and the bland murmur of academic based conversations.

Although Mattheo continued to give you his full undivided attention in your sessions, the silence hung heavy between you, a reminder of the void left by your fractured connection.

And in the midst of this emotional vacuum, you found unexpected solace in Tom's company. The regular meetings continued, but they had expanded beyond the boundaries of academics. Flirting had entirely woven its way into your conversations, each playful word adding a charged tension to the air. Now, his invitation to the party on Saturday night dangled before you like a tempting, yet daunting, prospect.

However, regardless of his advances, your feelings for Tom were far from romantic. It wasn't love that stirred your heart when you thought of him, but rather a sense of obligation. The Guild, with its intricate web of social dynamics, demanded a delicate balance. To maintain your position, you felt compelled to go along with Tom's desires, to keep up the facade of mutual interest. It was a game you didn't want to play, but the stakes were too high to ignore.

As Emily's reassurances attempted to quell your anxieties, the knot of obligation tightened in your chest. The looming party represented not only a night of uncertainty but also a reluctant sacrifice to uphold your standing in the Guild. The weight of your choices pressed down on you, a reminder that sometimes, obligations could feel as suffocating as the absence of passion.

"Yeah," you responded, your voice a grumble underlined with frustration. "Talk to Michael and let  me know what he says... I'm heading up to the Tower, I just need some time alone."

Emily's expression softened, sympathy flickering in her eyes. "I'll handle it," she assured you. "Take your time up there, lots of stars to count, wouldn't want to miss one because you're rushing..."

You rolled your eyes at her snark, chewing on your lip to stifle your grin. "Yeah, yeah." You said. "Thanks, Em."

With a bleak smile, you grabbed your bag and pushed out of your dorm room, mind racing as you made your way up to the tower, the castle covered in its usual blanket of darkness, given it was already past eleven pm.

You thought back to that first week of tutoring sessions after you and Mattheo had called things off, how every moment spent in his presence felt excruciating. Sitting in such close proximity to him--being forced to look into his deep, intoxicating eyes, trace the scars that adorned his skin, and fixate on those perfect lips while knowing you'd never get to be anything other than platonic was a torment for your already aching heart.

For those initial days, your mind was a battleground of conflicting emotions. Thoughts of what it had felt like to have his hands exploring your body, pulling you close against his firm frame, haunted your every waking moment. His newfound silence only served to further infuriate you, although the reasons for your frustration remained elusive--you had wanted this separation, knew you needed it more than anything, yet part of you resented how effortlessly he seemed to cast everything aside, as though it had all been a meaningless fling to him, despite the amounts of passion you'd experienced.

The internal turmoil left you in a relentless tug-of-war between contentment and bitter disappointment. With every missed touch, resentment began to coil in the pit of your stomach. Despite yearning for the way he made you feel, your chest was a maelstrom of conflicted emotions. Gratitude warred with irritation; you were thankful that your life lacked complications that could jeopardize your post-graduate career, yet infuriated that Mattheo hadn't even tried to fight for you.

It stung, the way he seemingly dismissed you as though you were just another girl, another notch on his belt, disregarding the depth of what you shared.

Or, you guessed at this point, what you thought you had shared.

As you settled into the quiet solitude of the Astronomy Tower, the vast expanse of the night sky above became your sanctuary, the stars twinkling like distant diamonds against the vast canvas of space. It was your haven, a place where you could lose yourself in the mysteries of the universe. Surrounded by your celestial charts and notebooks, you immersed yourself in your research, the quill in your hand gliding over the parchment as you recorded your observations.

In the midst of your cosmic exploration, a sudden intrusion shattered the tranquility of the Astronomy Tower. Mattheo, his presence unexpected, settled down beside you. The mere sight of him sent your pulse racing, a rapid drumbeat in your ears. You shot your head around, scanning the surroundings as though you'd forgotten where you were, your mind racing with questions. Why the fuck was he here? The unexpected encounter left you beyond shocked, your eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.

"Matt-" your voice faltered, the surprise of his presence momentarily stealing your words.

"Couldn't sleep," he muttered, his voice carrying a weight of restlessness, as if the night sky outside held answers he desperately sought. "Don't allow me to interrupt."

He cut you off before you could regain your composure, not even bothering to spare a glance in your direction. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, his silence echoing louder than any words he could have spoken. The unspoken tension between you hung in the air, heavy and palpable, a reminder of the unresolved emotions that lingered beneath the surface.

"Um, okay." You cleared your throat, attempting to steady your voice, and resolutely returned your focus to the celestial tapestry above.

The stars glittered, seemingly oblivious to the complicated tornado of emotions unfolding below. As you continued your silent analysis of the night sky, you became aware of Mattheo lighting up a cigarette. His movements were deliberate, every flicker of the lighter, every draw from the cigarette, seemed to carry a weighted significance. Despite your attempt to ignore him, you could feel his eyes on you, his gaze like a tangible presence that bore into your skin, even without direct contact. The night stretched on, the only sounds the soft crackling of burning tobacco and the occasional rustle of paper as you made notes, each moment steeped in a tense stillness, waiting for something to break the fragile equilibrium.

And then, Mattheo's voice sliced through the quiet of the night, his question hanging in the air like a challenge. "What are you even doing?"

His question caught you off guard, a shock registering in your eyes as you assumed he was merely asking to mock you. Nevertheless, you gathered your composure, your passion for your research overcoming your initial surprise.

"I'm studying how stars and planetary alignments affect magic," you explained, your words measured yet enthusiastic. "The positions of celestial bodies influence magical energies, shaping the potency of our spells. Understanding these cosmic patterns is like deciphering the universe's manual for mastering magic."

Mattheo's eyes narrowed, a hint of skepticism coloring his voice. "Stars affecting magic?" he said, his tone dismissive yet laced with a sliver of intrigue. "Seems a bit far-fetched, Raven."

His words hung in the air, laced with icy indifference, yet there was an undeniable glimmer of curiosity, a flicker of interest that betrayed his cold exterior. You met Mattheo's skepticism with a determined gaze.

"It may sound far-fetched, but it's already been proven that magic is intertwined with the cosmos," you replied, your voice steady. "The alignment of stars and planets creates unique energy patterns. Understanding these patterns can give us an edge in harnessing magic. It's not about belief, it's about tapping into the natural forces of the universe..." you let your words linger for a moment, finally dropping your quill and releasing a long sigh. "Why are you always so dismissive of everything? Don't you have dreams Mattheo, don't you have passions?"

Mattheo took a slow drag off his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly before he released a plume of smoke that danced in the air, curling and twisting like ethereal tendrils. His eyes, usually guarded, met yours, holding a glimmer of something unreadable.

"Everyone dreams, Raven," he said, flatly. "But life isn't a fucking fairytale, sometimes dreams are crushed before they're born."

Your silent reaction spoke volumes as you studied his face, the way his chocolate curls framed his brooding eyes, holding countless secrets within their depths. Mattheo's words slowly dug into your shoulders, heavy with the weight of harsh truths. You released a long sigh, the reality of his words settling in, before you cautiously spoke.

"If everything was dipped in gold, it'd never grow..." you whispered, your voice soft yet resolute, as you turned your eyes back to the stars. "And not everything sweet is sugarcoated, Mattheo...sometimes life stings, and you have to fight for what you want, but that doesn't mean you toss away the wand, does it?"

For a moment, Mattheo's silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the soft exhale of smoke curling from his lips. The tendrils of fog obscured the canvas of stars, casting a mysterious veil over the night sky. When you turned to meet his gaze, you discovered his eyes already fixed on you, their depths shimmering with an enigmatic intensity.

"Even stars burn out, Raven," he said, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seemed to echo the somber truth of the universe. "Sometimes, there's nothing you can do but watch."

Something panged in your chest, a jolt of pain spreading through you as Mattheo's words settled into the night air. For another brief, fleeting moment, your eyes met, and there was a flicker of understanding between you. You glimpsed his lips, and he glimpsed yours, a silent exchange of unspoken sentiments.

Swiftly, you looked away, turning your attention to the moon, its silvery glow casting an ethereal light upon your face, silently gathering yourself as you fought off the heat that was swarming your cheeks.

"You know what I appreciate more than the stars?" Mattheo's voice cut through the night, a hint of intrigue in his tone as he finally shifted his gaze off of you. "The moon."

You raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "And why is that?"

"It's the one constant," Mattheo replied, his gaze fixed on the night sky. "Stars might fade, flicker, but the moon persists...it's just...there." His voice was calm, almost distant, as if he was lost in thought. "No drama, no shows...just silent influence--one that can pull an entire fucking ocean from shore to shore...that's a power that can't be diminished. Subtle, yet absolute."

You nodded slowly, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the night. The world around you seemed to fade away as you felt your pulse increase, an unspoken tension hanging between you.

"Silent influence," you murmured, your voice thoughtful. "A power that commands without demanding, a force that shapes without shouting…I think it’s a potent reminder of strength in simplicity."

"Beauty, too," he whispered, his voice almost a caress. "A reminder of the beauty in simplicity."

The words danced around you, laden with prescribed meaning, and you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to this conversation, something unspoken yet deeply felt. A vast silence filled the space around you, thick with a growing tension as Mattheo's eyes, intense and unreadable, locked onto yours, their depths echoing a multitude of emotions. You felt his fingers graze against yours as they were planted on the ground next to your thigh, a subtle yet electrifying touch.

At the feeling of his flesh grazing yours, even in as something as simple as this, your breath hitched, and a rush of heat surged through your body, making every nerve ending tingle with anticipation. After two whole fucking weeks, just as you’d finally stopped moping, just as you finally felt as though you could breathe without thinking about him, it was as if the universe itself had conspired to bring you two together in this charged moment, leaving you both suspended in a space where words were unnecessary, and the raw connection between your souls spoke volumes--his hand, touching yours, this is how galaxies collide, you thought.

"It's been two weeks since you've even bothered to bloody look at me, Mattheo..." you whispered, your voice trembling like fragile autumn leaves in the wind, scared to acknowledge the reality of your situation, but knowing you needed to. "It all meant nothing to you, yeah?"

Mattheo's gaze remained unwavering, his expression stoic and seemingly emotionless as he absorbed your words. His silence spoke louder than any response he could offer, leaving you with a hollow ache in your chest. The pain of his indifference cut deep, a stark contrast to the fiery passion that once consumed both of you.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with a restrained yet undetectable emotion. "Even if I said it didn't, would it really fucking matter, Raven?"

At his words, your heart rung, realizing that no matter how desperately you clung to the fragments of what you once shared, the reality was undeniable--the passion that once ignited between you two had flickered out, leaving only smouldering embers in its wake, and there was no reason for you to be upset over it--given that this was exactly what you fucking wanted.

Yet, with a heavy heart, you turned away, your gaze fixed on the distant horizon, searching for solace in the vast expanse of the night sky. You found yourself unprepared for the intricate complexities of your current reality--finding it amusing how your parents had dutifully cautioned you about the monsters lurking under your bed and the cruelty of schoolyard bullies, but never bothered to forewarn you about the captivating chaos that a disheveled boy with pretty eyes; ones that seemed to hold the fucking galaxies in their midst, and a demeanour infused with smoke and silver-tongued eloquence, would bring into your life.

"It would matter to me, yes." Your voice quivered as you confessed, the vulnerability in your words palpable in the night air--you kept your eyes fixed out in front of you, not daring to look at him. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, Mattheo..."

Mattheo scoffed, pulling out another cigarette, his movements deliberate yet filled with a sense of bitterness.

"You seem perfectly happy distracting yourself with my brother," he retorted, the words laced with a harsh edge.

Frustration welled up within you, your hands rising to your face as you rubbed the tension from your eyes, trying to find the right words amidst the chaos of emotions.

"Gods, you're unbelievable...that's exactly what ruined us, Mattheo," you said, your voice firm and weary. "Your constant issues with your brother, your need to control every damn thing... I just can't decipher your fucking intentions. Whatever 'us' meant, it drowned in the chaos you brought into it."

Mattheo's expression remained unreadable, a storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke calmly before he finally spoke, his words weighed down by an unspoken burden.

"Maybe some things are just meant to drown, Raven." He said, bluntly. "You and I both know that."

You met Mattheo's gaze squarely, your eyes filled with hesitation and the weight of unspoken truths--his flat dismissal of your words bothered you, sparking irritation through your veins, but you couldn't drop his prior insinuation regarding his brother--it was time you cleared that up once and for all.

"For the record," you began, your voice faltering slightly, "I don't feel anything for your brother. I never fucking did. It was never, ever about him." The confession hung heavy in the air, your heart pounding as felt as though you’d revealed a vulnerable piece of your soul. "It was always about you," you added, your voice barely above an audible whisper. "I..."

"Stop," he said, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and desperation. His body tensed, as if bracing for an impact. "Whatever you were about to say, don't say it."

Mattheo's voice came out as a sharp command, cutting through the tension like a knife through the darkness. His words lingered in the chilled night atmosphere, a heavy barrier between you, guarding his emotions like a fortress wall. Your throat tightened, constricting like a vice around your words. Each beat of your heart felt like a war drum, its thunderous rhythm drowning out any other sound.

"Why?" You hardly croaked.

"Because," Mattheo replied, his jaw clenching with the intensity of his suppressed emotions. "There are two fucking things in life you can't take back, Raven--bullets and words.“ he paused for a moment, inhaling a sharp breath. “Always make sure you hit what you aim at, and that you mean what you fucking say.”

Mattheo's words hit you like a tidal wave, crashing against the fragile walls of your resolve. The words rolled around you, creating a unstable bridge that stretched across the chasm between your bodies, threatening to collapse under the weight of suppressed emotions--and after a moment that felt like an eternity, you exhaled, accepting his now-hardened demeanour and deciding to just drop it, you switched the subject.

"I...I was just going to say...Tom invited me to the party in your common room on Saturday," you whispered, voice trembling as much as your fingers were. "I plan on going."

Mattheo's body tensed, his jaw tightening even further, as if to mask the rising anger within him. He avoided your gaze, his fists clenching involuntarily, struggling to contain the emotions surging beneath his calm exterior.

"And do you think that's a good idea?" His words sliced through the air, sharp and pointed, echoing the turmoil within him. "Have you ever attended a party here, even once?"

You shook your head, your voice barely audible as you admitted, "No, but I can't say no to him, Mattheo...I can't jeopardize my position in the guild. I've worked so hard for it, my entire educational career..." the desperation in your tone was palpable, the weight of your responsibilities bearing down on your shoulders. "It's rather maddening how quickly I transitioned from one Riddle capable of shattering my fucking future to another...it's like I can't catch a break."

The space between you and Mattheo sat heavy with unspoken words, an abyss of silence that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The soft glow of the dim light accentuated the shadows dancing across his face, emphasizing the muffled frustration etched into his features. Each puff of his cigarette punctuated the quiet, adding to the palpable tension in the air.

"I wasn’t planning on going to that," he finally replied, his voice carrying an unusual firmness, as if he was trying to convince himself too. "I quit all that shit."

Your voice caught in your throat, shock freezing your words as you tried to process his revelation.

"You-" you began, but he cut you off, his tone flat, devoid of its usual edge.

"Drinking, drugs," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a glint of determination before he gestured towards the cigarette between his fingers. "These are next."

You struggled to find your voice, your mind racing to comprehend the magnitude of his decision. The man who had drowned himself in alcohol more times in one week than you could count on two bloody hands had fucking quit it all. It was almost impossible to believe.

"Wow," you breathed, your words laced with a mix of disbelief and exasperation. Part of you still rolled with disappointment over his absence at the upcoming event, but a flicker of hope dared to spark within you. "That's great, Mattheo...that's a huge step for you..."

Mattheo's silence hung in the air, his eyes searching your face as if seeking answers in the depths of your gaze. Time seemed to stretch, the weight of the world seemingly sitting heavy between you. With deliberate slowness, he blinked, extinguishing his cigarette on the ground beside him, never breaking eye contact.

"You're too good, Raven," he whispered, his voice surprisingly steady, resonating with a mixture of admiration and regret. "Such an angel...you should know, I was never unaware that you fucking saved me."

His words hung there, pregnant with meaning, as if he was acknowledging a debt he could never fully repay. The vulnerability in his eyes was a stark contrast to the usual stoic facade, revealing the depth of his emotions in that fleeting moment. Mattheo's gaze continued to bore into yours, his eyes intense as if he had stumbled upon something precious he couldn't bear to lose.

In a move so gentle it felt like a caress, his hand lifted to your face, his thumb tracing a feather-light path over your cheek. His voice, soft and tender, carried a weight of sincerity that resonated deep within you.

"Everything will work out..everything you've worked so fucking hard for will eventually pay off," he whispered. "I would have never deserved you."

Your stomach twisted, and your heart seemed to pound against your sternum with a deafening resonance, drowning out the world around you. You couldn’t feel your fingers or the cold or the fucking emptiness of your heart because all you could feel was him. All you could focus on was the overwhelming fucking urge to climb into his lap and kiss him until you couldn’t breathe, kiss him until the only thing embedded within the tastebuds on your tongue was his fucking taste. He is everywhere, he is everything--in every pulse of your desires and the depths of your soul, and then he whispered,

“I will be there, for you, on Saturday,” his voice was a low, husky murmur, filling you with warmth. “Just incase.”

And as he withdrew his hand from your face, the loss of his touch was like a phantom ache, a reminder of the connection you desperately fucking craved. His eyes, deep and intense, lingered on your lips for a fleeting moment, a silent testament to the desires that simmered beneath the surface. As he pulled himself up to his feet, he broke his eyes from yours, and with deliberate steps, he retreated, the distance between you growing--but just when you thought he would disappear into the night, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And to answer your question--yes, I have dreams…” his voice, laden with a mix of vulnerability and yearning, hung in the air like a fragile promise. “But they’re only good when you’re in them.”

——————-

Find sixteen->

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Playing for Keeps | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter 1

Next Chapter →

Starting your seventh year at Hogwarts should be exciting, but transferring from Beauxbatons turns out to be more challenging than you anticipated—especially with Sebastian Sallow, the sharp-tongued school heartthrob, going out of his way to make things difficult. But unlike most, you refuse to back down. When he crosses a line, you push back just as hard, earning his respect and capturing his attention in ways he struggles to admit.

But when a bet with Sebastian’s rival, Leander Prewett, comes to light, Sebastian must choose between protecting his pride or fighting to rebuild trust with the one person who’s ever truly challenged him.

Words: ~6,800

Tags: Modern AU, Reader Insert, Seventh Year, Female MC, No Y/N, Slytherin MC, Enemies to Lovers, Trope-y, Slow Burn, Humor, Fluff, Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Coming of Age, Plus-Sized Protagonist, Body Image, High School Drama

The rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks filled the small compartment as you gazed out the window, watching the rolling Scottish hills blur past. You couldn’t help but feel like you were drifting through a dream—one both familiar and completely foreign. The Hogwarts Express, with its polished wood interiors and the faint scent of sweets from the trolley somewhere down the corridor, was a stark contrast to the sleek, airy carriages of the Beauxbatons carriages you’d grown used to.

“Still daydreaming, Chouette?” Imelda Reyes smirked, kicking your shin lightly under the small table between you.

You snapped out of your thoughts, turning your attention back to her. “Not daydreaming,” you said, though the heat rising to your cheeks probably said otherwise. “Just thinking.”

“About how different you look in those robes, maybe?” she teased, gesturing to your Hogwarts attire. Unlike hers, crisp and proudly adorned with green and silver, yours lacked a house tie and emblem, leaving you looking oddly plain. “Don’t worry; they’ll sort you soon enough. Though if you don’t end up in Slytherin with me, I might disown you.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. Imelda hadn’t changed. Her sharp tongue was as much her armor as it was her way of showing affection. “They didn’t have houses at Beauxbatons,” you reminded her, smoothing the fabric of your robe self-consciously. “Sorting is new.”

Imelda shrugged. “He's just a nosy hat. You’ll be fine. Though I’ll admit, it’s going to be strange not knowing where you’ll sit in the Great Hall until after the feast. No matter what happens, at least we've got this first night together!”

You hummed in response, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. The idea of being paraded in front of an entire school while a magical hat decided your fate wasn’t exactly comforting. Then again, neither was uprooting your life for the second time in less than a decade.

Not that the move back to Scotland had been a choice.

Your grandmother’s health had been declining for months, and with your grandfather gone, your mother had insisted on returning home to care for her. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand—family came first, always—but it didn’t make the transition any easier.

You had grown up in Scotland but moved to France at ten years old to attend Beauxbatons. Back then, the language, the culture, the people—they had all been a steep adjustment, but in truth, they had molded you into who you were. Beauxbatons had become home, the place where you found your footing. Now, at eighteen, just as you were preparing to finish your final year, you were being uprooted again, starting over in a country that was both familiar and foreign.

Imelda studied you for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned back in her seat. “You're so quiet, this isn’t like you,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “Normally, you’re the type to run headfirst into things… what gives?”

You hesitated, glancing down at your hands. “I don’t know,” you mumbled, though that wasn’t entirely true. “It’s just… a lot. New school, new people, everything being different. What if I don’t fit in?”

Imelda snorted, rolling her eyes as if the thought were utterly absurd. “Oh, please. You’ll be fine. Half the idiots at Hogwarts will be tripping over themselves to talk to you once they hear that half-French, half-Scottish accent of yours. And the other half will be too busy being jealous.”

You tried to laugh, but the sound came out more nervous than anything. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“It is,” she insisted, her grin turning smug. “And besides, you’ve got me.”

You gave her a faint smile. “Thanks, Mel.”

She waved a hand, brushing off the sentiment with a casual flick of her wrist. “Don’t get sappy on me now, Chouette. You’re going to be fine.”

But as her words settled in the air between you, your thoughts drifted. Imelda’s confidence in you was comforting, sure—but it also felt so far from the truth you were carrying inside. Because while she saw someone bold and daring, right now you felt the opposite.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels began to slow, and you felt a slight jolt as the Hogwarts Express started its final approach to the station. Outside the window, the landscape shifted, the rolling hills giving way to a darkened platform illuminated by soft, golden lanterns. Students began gathering their things, voices rising in excitement as they peered out into the cool evening air.

Imelda leaned over, her sharp eyes scanning the platform with a familiar confidence. “Here we go,” she said, nudging you with her elbow.

The train hissed to a stop, steam billowing into the night as the chatter inside the compartments swelled. You clutched the strap of your bag tightly, your pulse quickening as Imelda stood, gesturing for you to follow her. The aisle was a chaos of students jostling to disembark, and you found yourself swept up in the tide as Imelda led the way with ease.

When you stepped off the train, the chill of the Scottish air hit you instantly, sharp and bracing against your skin. The platform was alive with movement, students reuniting with friends after the summer, calling out to one another over the clamor of luggage being hauled off the train. Lanterns cast a warm glow over the cobblestones, and in the distance, you could see the faint silhouettes of carriages waiting to carry students up to the castle.

“First years, over here! First years, this way!” a booming voice called, and your head turned to see a figure waving a lantern high above the crowd. A group of wide-eyed first years shuffled nervously in his direction, their excitement palpable.

“Come on,” Imelda said, grabbing your arm to pull you along. “Our carriages are this way. Stick close, or you’ll end up in the lake with the first years.”

You followed Imelda closely, gripping the strap of your bag as your eyes darted around, taking everything in. The sound of hooves echoed faintly in the distance, and when you glanced up the path, you caught sight of the carriages waiting to bring students to the castle. They were drawn by strange, skeletal creatures with leathery wings—Thestrals, you realized with a start.

“Are those—?” you began, but before you could finish, a shout interrupted you.

“Imelda!”

Two boys waved from further up the platform, their voices cutting through the bustle around you. Your eyes were drawn to them immediately. The first was a red-haired boy with an easy, infectious grin that seemed to light up his face. Beside him stood a taller, blonde-haired boy, his striking features framed by an air of quiet composure. Their robes gave away their houses—red and gold for the cheerful one, green and silver for the reserved one. Gryffindor and Slytherin, you realized.

“Of course,” Imelda chuckled good-naturedly before raising her hand in a wave. “Come on,” she said to you.

You trailed behind her as she strode confidently toward the pair, your gaze flicking between them. The redheaded boy beamed as you approached.

“Reyes! Great to see you!” he called out, his grin wide and his green eyes alight with curiosity as they landed on you. “And who’s this?” He extended a freckled hand toward you, his energy practically buzzing with warmth. “Garreth Weasley, at your service.”

You hesitated for half a second before taking his hand. “Erm, hi,” you said, your voice a little unsure as you introduced yourself.

Imelda crossed her arms and smirked. “This is Hogwarts newest Seventh Year. You can call her Chouette,” she announced with a pointed look in your direction.

You felt your face heat instantly. “Imelda!”

Garreth perked up at this, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “Chouette? That’s French, isn’t it?”

“For ‘owl,’ yes,” you confirmed, your tone edged with mild bitterness.

Garreth chuckled, clearly amused, but it was the taller boy, the one with pale blonde hair and an unreadable expression, who spoke next. “Well,” he said smoothly, his voice low and measured. “I'm Ominis Gaunt. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chouette.”

The way he pronounced it was flawless, as though he’d been saying it his entire life. You blinked, caught off guard by the effortless precision. “Thank you, you too,” you said cautiously, unsure of what else to add as a flicker of recognition lit in your mind.

Gaunt. The name wasn’t just uncommon—it carried a certain weight, steeped in the histories of old wizarding families, and the implications lingered, leaving you hesitant as you glanced at him again.

Before you could dwell on it, Imelda’s voice cut through your thoughts. “Don’t look so worried,” she said breezily, elbowing you in the side. “Ominis isn’t nearly as scary as his last name makes him sound.”

Ominis’s lips twitched faintly, though whether it was amusement or irritation, you couldn’t tell. “Thank you, Reyes,” he said dryly, “for the glowing endorsement.”

Imelda smirked. “Anytime.”

Garreth grinned. “Ominis is harmless. He just looks intimidating because he refuses to smile properly.”

Ominis shot him a pointed look, but Garreth only laughed. The banter between them was easy, and you found yourself relaxing slightly, even as your nerves lingered.

“Come on,” Imelda said, jerking her head toward the carriages. “If we stand here any longer, all the good ones will be taken. We’ll get stuck riding with a pack of loudmouth second-years.”

You followed Imelda down the path, the sound of students bustling and calling out to one another echoing across the platform. The Thestrals loomed closer, their frames almost ethereal in the glow of the lanterns. You hesitated briefly before climbing into the carriage after her, settling onto the bench beside her while Garreth and Ominis took the opposite seats. The wood creaked faintly under the weight, and with a slight jolt, the Thestrals began to move.

As the carriage rolled forward, Imelda leaned casually out of the carriage, her hand raised in a sharp wave toward someone in the distance. “Samantha!” she called out, her voice carrying easily. “Don’t forget—we’re sitting together for Herbology this year!”

Further along the path, Garreth grinned and shouted something indecipherable to a cluster of students by another carriage. One of them—a freckled Gryffindor girl with tawny-brown hair—giggled and waved back. “That’s Cressida,” Garreth explained with a cheeky glance your way. “My girlfriend, and a Charm’s genius. I’d be lost without her.”

Ominis, though quieter, acknowledged almost every passing group with a polite nod or a brief exchange. At one point, you caught him waving to a dark-haired boy holding a stack of books balanced precariously in his arms. “Amit Thakkar,” Imelda muttered under her breath, catching your questioning look. “Smartest guy in school.”

You sat back, watching the interactions unfold, the warmth and familiarity in every exchange. Imelda, Garreth, and Ominis were like threads in a tightly woven tapestry, seamlessly connected to everyone around them. The ease with which they navigated the chaos made you painfully aware of just how out of place you felt.

At Beauxbatons, you’d had your own circle of friends—people who knew your quirks and shared your jokes, who had seen you at your best and your worst. Now, all of that felt so far away, like another life entirely. You wrapped your fingers around the strap of your bag, gripping it tightly as the ache of longing settled in your chest.

“Chouette?” Imelda’s voice broke through your thoughts, her sharp eyes studying you. “You good?”

You blinked, forcing a small smile. “Yeah, just… taking it all in.”

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn’t press further. Instead, she leaned back and crossed her arms, smirking as she turned to Garreth. “Bet all you Gryffindors are going to pout when she's sorted into Slytherin with Ominis and I."

Garreth snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Please. You really think the hat’s going to let you have her? Gryffindor’s clearly where she belongs.”

“Clearly?” Ominis interjected, one pale brow arching delicately. “The hat doesn’t favor reckless overconfidence, Weasley.”

Garreth grinned. “Speaking of reckles overconfidence, I'm sure Sallow is already up to no good and classes haven't even started."

“I don’t know what’s more concerning,” Ominis muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that you think he’s already causing trouble, or that you sound impressed.”

Garreth shrugged. “If you don’t admire a little chaos, Ominis, what’s the point?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at their bickering, though the unfamiliar name snagged in your mind. “Sallow?” you asked, your curiosity piqued.

“Sebastian Sallow,” Imelda said with a roll of her eyes. “Slytherin's star Beater, eternal troublemaker, and Hogwarts’ most persistent heartbreak. Next to Leander Prewett, that is.”

“Persistent is putting it kindly,” Ominis muttered. “He’s my oldest friend, but even I’d describe him as… relentless. If there’s trouble to be found, he’ll find it.”

“And probably make it worse,” Imelda added, smirking.

Garreth chimed in, grinning. “He’s also at the top of our Defense Against the Dark Arts class. As much as it pains me to admit it, he’s annoyingly talented.”

Imelda hummed thoughtfully. “Honestly, he’s a lot like you—except dialed up to eleven.”

You blinked, taken aback by the comment. “Like me?”

“Well, sure,” Imelda said with a shrug, her tone casual but knowing. “Sharp. Driven. Bold. Stubborn. Always ready to throw yourself into something headfirst.”

“Usually without thinking, in Sebastian's case," Ominis interjected dryly, though there was no malice in his tone.

You hesitated, their words sinking in. Confidence. Boldness. Those were the things people always said about you, the qualities they seemed to admire. But underneath it all, you weren’t sure how much of it was real and how much was just a well-practiced act.

Still, you managed a smile, brushing the thought aside. “So… troublemaker, charmer, and duelling prodigy. Got it. Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” they all said in unison.

You shook your head, suppressing a laugh, though the image of this mysterious Sebastian Sallow stuck with you. Still, your curiosity shifted back to the matter at hand. “What exactly does the Sorting Hat look for?” you asked, glancing between the three of them.

Ominis’s expression softened slightly, his thoughtful demeanor returning. “It depends. Qualities, values, ambitions… It’s not just about who you are now—it’s about who you have the potential to become.”

“And sometimes,” Imelda added with a shrug, “it just throws you somewhere unexpected to see if you’ll sink or swim.”

“Comforting,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Well, here’s hoping the hat knows what it’s doing,"

“It does,” Ominis said, his voice cutting through the chatter. His pale gaze was steady. “The Sorting Hat has been doing this for centuries. It doesn’t get it wrong.”

His words carried a finality that left little room for argument, and while they didn’t exactly ease your nerves, you found them oddly reassuring.

The carriage slowed to a stop, jolting slightly as the Thestrals came to rest. The castle loomed above you, its towers piercing the darkening sky and its warm, glowing windows casting light across the grounds. Students were already filing toward the massive oak doors in groups, their chatter filling the cool evening air.

Imelda hopped out of the carriage first, her steps confident as always, and you followed closely behind, clutching your bag.

Garreth offered you a cheerful grin as he stepped down after Ominis, his hair catching the glow of the lanterns. “Well, looks like this is where we part ways,” he said, his gaze shifting toward a small group of Gryffindors gathered nearby. One of the girls—Cressida, you realized—waved at him, and he waved back with easy enthusiasm before turning to you.

“Good luck settling in, Chouette,” Garreth said, his grin widening. “And remember—Gryffindor’s the obvious choice.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his cheerful energy. “Thanks, Garreth. I’ll see you around.”

“Count on it,” he replied with a wink, then jogged off toward his friends, sliding seamlessly into their group.

Your gaze lingered for a moment, watching the way the Gryffindors welcomed him. Their laughter was infectious, their camaraderie easy. Among them was a tall boy with dark red hair and an effortlessly confident demeanor. He stood slightly apart, twirling a wand idly between his fingers as he spoke. There was something about the way he carried himself—relaxed but assured—that made it hard to look away.

Imelda’s sharp snort broke your reverie. Looping her arm through yours, she tugged you along. “Don’t let Weasley fool you. Slytherin is the best option.”

You glanced back over your shoulder one last time, your eyes flickering to the boy just as he tossed his wand in the air and caught it effortlessly, grinning at something one of his friends said. There was something magnetic about him, something that made you wonder who he was. You hadn’t even realized you were staring until Imelda tugged on your arm again, chuckling softly.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said, clearly amused. “Already eyeing Prewett, are you?”

“What?” you asked, startled. “I wasn’t—”

Imelda rolled her eyes, her grin widening. “Sure you weren’t. That’s Leander Prewett. Top Summoner’s Court player in the school, a massive flirt, and annoyingly good at just about everything. And yes,” she added with a smirk, “he’s fully aware of how good-looking he is.”

You felt heat creep up your neck as you scrambled to defend yourself. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Right,” Imelda said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You were just appreciating the scenery.”

Groaning, you nudged her with your elbow. “Can we just go?”

Ominis chuckled. “Come on, Imelda. I’m sure she’s already overwhelmed enough.

Imelda rolled her eyes but relented, leading you inside and toward the Great Hall. When the three of you reached the Slytherin table, Imelda gestured toward a spot next to her. The table gleamed under the flickering candlelight, its surface polished to a mirror shine. You sat down tentatively, Imelda on one side and two other girls—one with dark hair spilling down her back, the other with her somewhat lighter hair tied neatly into a ponytail—on the other.

“Ladies,” Imelda said smoothly, gesturing to you with a casual wave. “This is my oldest friend and Hogwarts newest transfer student."

The girl with the ponytail grinned warmly. “Nerida Roberts,” she said, offering a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Grace Pinch-Smedley,” added the other girl, giving a polite nod. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you,” you said warmly, offering your name as you shook Nerida’s hand. Turning to Grace with a small smile, you added, “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Ominis slid gracefully into the seat across from Nerida and Grace, his movements precise and deliberate. He rested his hands lightly on the table, his pale gaze shifting in your direction. “So, Beauxbatons,” he began, his voice polite and curious. “What was it like? I’ve always imagined it to be… grand.”

You blinked at the sudden attention but managed a small smile. “It’s beautiful,” you said, trying to sum up a place that had been your home for so long. “Elegant, for sure. But strict, too. Everything had to be perfect—uniforms, posture, manners.”

Nerida snorted softly, her elbow propped on the table. “Sounds dreadful. How’d you survive?”

You chuckled. “I ask myself that sometimes. It was a lot, but... well, it was home. And all my friends were there. Not to mention the grounds were stunning, and the food was incredible.”

Ominis nodded thoughtfully. “I imagine the transition to Hogwarts must be… a bit jarring.”

You hesitated, glancing at Imelda, who gave you a subtle nudge under the table. “It’s definitely different,” you admitted. “Less polished, but in a good way. It feels more alive.”

“Alive is one way to put it,” Nerida quipped with a grin. “Chaotic might be more accurate. Just wait until Peeves finds you.”

“Peeves?” you asked, furrowing your brow.

“The Poltergeist,” Grace supplied with a sigh. “You’ll hear him before you see him, unfortunately.”

Before you could ask for details, a voice interrupted the conversation—a smooth, confident drawl that cut through the noise like a sharp blade.

“Well, well, what do we have we here?”

You looked up and froze. The boy standing at the head of the table was, for lack of a better word, stunning. Dark brown hair framed his angular face, his warm brown eyes sharp and filled with mischief, and his smile—crooked and self-assured—had an edge of arrogance that was almost magnetic.

And then there was the way he was dressed—or, rather, the way he wasn’t. While everyone else around you was neatly clad in Hogwarts uniforms, this boy had abandoned the standard entirely. His black cloak was draped lazily over his arm, and he wore a faded black shirt with a band logo you recognized, the sleeves rolled just enough to show off his forearms.

Your stomach flipped before you could stop it. But then he opened his mouth again.

“New girl, huh?” His gaze flicked over you, assessing. “Guess Hogwarts is letting in anyone these days.”

The warmth that had been bubbling in your chest turned icy in an instant.

“Don't be an ass," Ominis said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Imelda’s eyes narrowed as she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Surely you don’t want to embarrass yourself before she even knows who you are.”

The boy shrugged, flashing you a grin that might have been charming if you weren’t already bristling. “Apologies,” he said, though his tone was anything but sincere. “Sebastian Sallow. And you are?”

You stared at him, your mind connecting the dots almost instantly. So this is the infamous Sebastian Sallow. Recognition flickered, followed quickly by irritation.

“Chouette,” Imelda said smoothly, gesturing toward you. “Hogwarts’ newest transfer student. My oldest friend. And if you keep running your mouth, you’ll be eating pudding from the hospital wing by the end of the night.”

Grace stifled a laugh, while Nerida smirked openly. Ominis simply sighed, his expression a mix of exasperation and mild amusement.

Sebastian raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t waver. “No need for violence, Imelda." He chuckled and slid into the seat beside Ominis as his sharp brown eyes flicked to your colorless robes, the lack of a house tie or emblem drawing his attention.

“Hmm,” he drawled, leaning slightly against the table as though appraising a particularly curious find. “I don’t think you’ll be sitting at this table for long.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh?”

“Judging by the… interesting nickname and the accent,” he continued, his tone dripping with amusement. “let me guess, you’re from Beauxbatons? And their students are what—Hufflepuff material? Maybe Ravenclaw?”

“Sebastian,” Ominis warned, his voice low and sharp.

“I'm just saying,” he said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Slytherin’s not for everyone, especially someone who’s used to…” He paused as he gestured vaguely again, “…a more delicate lifestyle.”

You scoffed. “And here I thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning,” you replied evenly, tilting your head slightly as you found your voice. “But I guess all that ambition doesn’t leave much room for creativity. It’s almost impressive, really—managing to be both predictable and wrong in a single sentence.”

Sebastian’s grin faltered for a split second before snapping back into place, though the glint in his eyes turned sharp, like he’d just found a new game to play. “I'm just saying, adjusting to a new school at the last minute must be overwhelming,” he said smoothly, his tone dripping with condescension. “Let’s see if the Sorting Hat can find somewhere for you to fit.”

Imelda groaned audibly, throwing her head back. “Shut up, Sebastian.”

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “What? Don’t you think it’s my duty to give her a proper Hogwarts welcome?”

“Your definition of ‘proper’ is questionable,” Grace muttered, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

“Is it?” Sebastian replied, his grin unwavering. “I think I’ve made quite the impression.”

“Yeah,” you said evenly. “Just not the one you think.”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s better to stand out than to blend in, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you stand out, alright,” you replied, your tone sharp.

Sebastian’s eyes swept over you again, sharp and calculating, before his expression turned mock-thoughtful once more.

"Well, I'm certainly not the only one," he said smoothly, his tone laced with something you couldn’t quite place but knew you didn’t like. “I mean, you’re kinda hard to miss. But, uh…” He tilted his head slightly, the smirk creeping back onto his lips. “Just a bit of advice, since I’m feeling generous,” he drawled. “The food here is great—buffet-style, really—but, you know… moderation. It’s worth considering.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and deliberate, leaving the table in stunned silence and feeding into an insecurity you’d carried for as long as you could remember. You’d always been bigger—bigger than the other girls at Beauxbatons, bigger than most people thought you “should” be. It was something people seemed to notice before they noticed you. Your size came first, and everything else about you—your thoughts, your talents, your personality—became secondary, if they even mattered at all.

You’d worked hard not to let it define you, not to let the looks and whispers get under your skin. But in moments like this, when someone threw it in your face with a smug grin, it was impossible not to feel the sting. For a brief moment, the familiar ache threatened to creep in, whispering that you’d never belong here, or anywhere. That you’d always be the odd one out. That you’d never be good enough.

But you weren’t about to let him see that.

Before you could respond, though, Imelda was already snapping. “What the fuck? Do you ever stop to think before you open your mouth?"

“That was completely uncalled for,” Ominis cut in sharply, his voice cracking like a whip.

Nerida let out a derisive snort. “You’ve said some idiotic things before, but this is a new low,” she said, staring at him as though he’d sprouted a third head.

Sebastian glanced around, clearly taken aback by the backlash, though he quickly masked it with an exaggerated shrug. “What? I was just joking,” he said. “Don’t get your wands in a knot.”

“Truly, what an innovative personality you’ve cultivated. So original,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension at the table. The group turned to you, startled by the calm sharpness in your tone. “I know your kind. It’s always the same with guys like you."

That seemed to catch him off guard. His smirk faltered, confusion flashing in his eyes. “My kind?” he repeated.

You tilted your head, keeping your expression steady despite the thunderous rhythm of your heart. You told yourself you shouldn’t stoop to his level, shouldn’t let him get under your skin, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them, sharp and precise.

“Yeah. The student athlete heartthrob who thinks being a prick is endearing. The guy who throws around shitty comments thinking it makes him clever or edgy. If it wasn’t already abundantly obvious, let me make it clear: it doesn’t. It just makes you predictable and pathetic.”

Sebastian blinked, clearly trying to process your words. His smirk slipped further, replaced by something closer to genuine surprise. For a moment, it seemed as though he was searching for a retort, but nothing came.

Grace stifled a giggle behind her hand, while Nerida openly grinned, her eyes darting between you and Sebastian like she was watching an impromptu Quidditch match. Even Ominis let a faint smirk tug at his lips.

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed in mock lamentation, your gaze pinned firmly on Sebastian. “What’s this? Quiet, all of a sudden?” you said, your voice saccharine and laced with venom. “Oh, don’t stop now, Sebastian. Please, enlighten me with more of your cutting wit. I’m positively desperate to hear what else you think qualifies as clever banter.”

For a fleeting second, Sebastian hesitated. Then he shook his head, his grin creeping back, though it was smaller now, almost reluctant. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, I’ll give you that.”

“And you’ve got a wardrobe full of pretense and exactly zero originality,” you shot back without missing a beat, your eyes flicking deliberately to his faded band shirt.

You were well aware of the hypocrisy in your words even as you spoke them. Merlin knew you had a drawer full of band shirts yourself, a rotating collection of your favorite oversized tees that served as both a badge of honor and a comfortable fallback. You weren’t the gatekeeping type—far from it. But Sebastian Sallow wasn’t the first guy like this you’d encountered, and experience had taught you exactly where to aim to knock someone like him down a peg.

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown. “Excuse me?”

You tilted your head, feigning contemplation, your voice calm but laced with razor-edged sarcasm. “Let me guess—you picked up that Smiths shirt at a thrift shop because you thought it would make you look deep and brooding and intellectual. What’s next? Are you going to quote How Soon Is Now? at me and call it a personality? Because I’ve met that guy before, and trust me—you’re not breaking new ground.”

The stunned silence that followed was palpable. Sebastian stared at you, his smirk wiped clean from his face, replaced by a blank expression that was almost unnerving in its stillness. For a fleeting moment, you couldn’t tell if he was about to laugh, get angry, or fire back with something equally cutting. But he didn’t say a word.

The others, however, were less restrained. Imelda cackled, slapping the table with her palm as she leaned back in her seat. “Told you to shut up while you were still ahead, Sallow. Chouette's not a push-over."

Grace covered her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, while Nerida didn’t even bother hiding her amusement. “Honestly, it’s about time someone put him in his place,” Nerida said, grinning as she glanced between you and Sebastian.

Sebastian blinked, whatever fire he’d had earlier extinguished. His sharp brown eyes lingered on you, something unreadable flickering behind them—a spark of surprise? Annoyance?—but whatever it was vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He forced a shrug, the motion stiff and hollow, and leaned back in his seat with an air of practiced nonchalance that didn’t quite land. His bruised ego hung in the air like smoke.

Not that it mattered.

Before anything more could be said, the noise in the Great Hall suddenly hushed. You glanced toward the front of the room to see Headmaster Black standing by the Sorting Hat, his expression a mix of irritation and boredom. He raised his hands, gesturing for quiet, though his sour demeanor seemed to imply he didn’t expect much from the room.

“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” he drawled, his voice carrying across the hall. “The Sorting Ceremony will now begin.”

Your stomach twisted as Professor Weasley stepped forward with the list of names, her warm smile doing little to calm your nerves. She called the first name, and your heart sank when it was yours.

Imelda gave you an encouraging nudge. “Go on,” she said with a grin.

You swallowed hard and stood, your legs carrying you toward the front of the hall almost on autopilot. The weight of hundreds of eyes on you was suffocating, and you felt your face flush as you approached the Sorting Hat. You could hear faint whispers ripple through the crowd as students speculated about the new girl, but you forced yourself to ignore them.

The hat was placed on your head, and the world around you seemed to disappear as its voice filled your mind.

“Ah, a Seventh Year, eh? Interesting. Very interesting indeed. Let’s see what we have here...”

You swallowed hard. Is it always this dramatic? you thought, the sarcasm slipping out before you could stop it.

The hat chuckled. “A sharp tongue, I see. And wit to match. You’re clever—no doubt about that. Ravenclaw would suit you well. But there’s more… bravery, certainly... A strong sense of justice. Gryffindor might fit…”

You held your breath, waiting as the hat’s musings trailed off.

“But no,” the hat said, its tone turning thoughtful. “There’s ambition here—strong ambition. And a determination too. Hmm… tricky, very tricky…”

You could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air, the hat’s hesitation palpable. But then the hat made a self satisfied "Ah!" and before you knew it, the hat's voice was booming through the hall.

“Slytherin!”

You froze for a moment and the world came rushing back into focus. Applause erupted from the Slytherin table, led enthusiastically by Imelda, though you couldn’t quite shake the knot in your stomach as you made your way back toward them… because you’d be stuck with Sebastian Sallow all year.

“Well, welcome to the den of snakes,” Imelda cheered as you approached. “Don’t worry, you already fit right in.”

You glanced across the table and found Ominis watching you with a faint smile. “Congratulations and welcome,” he said softly. “The hat made the right choice.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow. Your gaze flickered to Sebastian, who lounged in his seat with an expression that could only be described as... confused. His eyes met yours briefly, and you simply cocked an eyebrow, letting the gesture speak for itself.

Imelda caught the exchange and snickered, leaning closer to you. “Merlin’s beard, you’ve got him rattled,” she said in a low voice, her tone somewhere between impressed and amused. “That’s new."

“Is he always like this?” you asked under your breath, your gaze flickering back to Sebastian for a moment before returning to Imelda.

“Unfortunately,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. "But don’t let him get to you. He’s a prat most of the time, but he grows on you. Like a stubborn rash.”

“High praise,” you muttered, "Je pense que je vais garder mes distances."

Imelda snorted at your muttered French, clearly understanding enough to catch your drift. “Good luck with that,” she said dryly, her smirk widening. “Sebastian has a way of worming into everyone’s business whether they want him there or not.”

“Sounds delightful,” you replied, your tone flat.

As the sorting continued, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate the scene around you. Despite everything—the nerves, the awkwardness of being the new girl, and Sebastian’s infuriating attitude—Hogwarts certainly had a charm of its own. The way the candlelight flickered off the long tables, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the night sky above, and the palpable energy of students eager for the start of a new term—it all felt alive in a way Beauxbatons never had.

"Grace, look at that one," Nerida whispered excitedly, nudging Grace as another small first-year stumbled nervously toward the hat.

“Poor thing looks terrified,” Grace whispered back with a smile. “Reminds me of my own sorting.”

You smiled faintly at their banter, but a small, persistent voice in the back of your mind kept reminding you that you were still an outsider. Everyone around you had years of shared experiences, stories, and inside jokes that you couldn’t hope to understand or fit into overnight.

As the Sorting Ceremony neared its conclusion, the steady stream of nervous first-years dwindled until only one remained—a wide-eyed boy who looked moments away from fainting. The Sorting Hat barely touched his head before bellowing, "Hufflepuff!" A cheer erupted from the Hufflepuff table as the boy scurried to his seat.

Headmaster Black rose languidly from his chair at the staff table, his expression a blend of boredom and mild irritation, as if the entire evening had been an inconvenience. He waved a dismissive hand toward the hall, his voice carrying effortlessly over the chatter.

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that tiresome ordeal out of the way,” he drawled, his tone dripping with condescension, “you may enjoy your feast.”

The platters of food on the tables filled instantly with a mouth-watering array of dishes: roasted meats, golden potatoes, steaming vegetables, and fragrant pies. The smell alone was enough to make your stomach rumble.

Imelda grinned at you. “Now you’re getting the Hogwarts experience,” she said. “Trust me, the food here is one of the few things that’ll never let you down.”

You chuckled softly at Imelda’s remark, but her encouragement did little to silence the unwelcome echo of Sebastian’s earlier comment in your mind. “Moderation. It’s worth considering.” The words clung to you like a stubborn burr, sharp and biting.

Swallowing hard, you opted for a small portion: a single piece of roast chicken, a scoop of potatoes, and a few vegetables. The rich aromas wafted around you, but the knot in your stomach dulled your appetite.

Imelda didn’t seem to notice as she busied herself loading her own plate. Across the table, Nerida and Grace were deep in animated conversation about summer holidays, their voices blending into the lively chatter of the Great Hall. You focused on their words, nodding occasionally, but contributed little. It was easier to listen, to let their easy camaraderie wash over you while you quietly tried to find your footing.

Sebastian, at some point, returned to being the center of attention. He leaned casually on the table, his earlier smugness replaced with a more agreeable charm. He was laughing and gesturing animatedly as he recounted some story that had them all chuckling. The warmth in his tone was strikingly different from the sharp-edged comments he’d aimed at you earlier.

“Seems like he’s in a better mood now,” you muttered under your breath.

Imelda scoffed. “For now. Just wait until you see him on the Quidditch pitch.”

The mention of Quidditch piqued your interest, but before you could ask, Sebastian’s voice carried across the table, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Oi, Ominis,” he said, “What’s the over-under on me dragging you out to a practice this year? Still terrified of flying?”

Ominis, who had been quietly enjoying his meal, sighed deeply, setting down his fork with deliberate patience. “I’m not terrified,” he replied, his tone flat. “I simply prefer not to hurl myself into the sky on a broomstick, especially when there’s a perfectly good ground to stand on.”

Sebastian leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with exaggerated amusement. “Oh, come on. A little adrenaline never hurt anyone.”

“Except for the countless people who’ve fallen off their brooms,” Ominis shot back dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Like you."

Laughter rippled across the table, and you couldn’t help the faint tug of a smile at their banter. Sebastian’s teasing tone was lighter now, his words less pointed and more playful. It was clear this version of him—the one laughing easily with his friends—was the one they all knew and tolerated, even enjoyed.

But for you, the memory of his earlier barbs was too fresh, his easy charm only serving to deepen your irritation. You’d seen this type before: the golden boy who could say whatever he wanted and still be adored by everyone around him. He was the center of the group’s attention now, weaving through conversations with an effortless charisma that left you feeling even more like an outsider.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Ominis remarked eventually, his soft voice cutting through your thoughts. His pale gaze was turned in your direction, steady and unassuming. “Are we overwhelming you already?”

You managed a small smile. “No, not at all. Just... taking it all in.”

Ominis inclined his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Understandable. But I’ve no doubt you’ll settle in quickly.”

“Thanks,” you said, your tone genuine. Of all the people you’d met so far, Ominis seemed the most sincere, his calm presence a stark contrast to the chaos of the evening.

Imelda, catching the tail end of your exchange, grinned as she elbowed you lightly. “See? I told you. You’ll fit right in.”

You nodded, though the weight of the evening still sat heavy on your shoulders. You glanced back across the table, catching a fleeting look from Sebastian before he quickly returned his attention to his friends. For a moment, you wondered if he was deliberately ignoring you or if he simply didn’t care.

Either way, you decided, it didn’t matter. You weren’t here to impress him.

Steeling yourself, you took a small bite of the potatoes and focused on the warmth of the Great Hall around you. It might not feel like home just yet, but it was a start.

Next Chapter →

[avocadorablepirate]

Beneath The Surface - 1

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x fem!reader

Summary: When memories, buried deep within your sea of emotions, resurface, you’re left to question what lies beneath the surface. Did he truly mean to leave you behind, or was there something more to his silence than you ever understood?

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of death, OP spoilers, this story follows the Dressrosa arc

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So I haven’t properly proofread this chapter…been a bit sick this past week, but I was determined to post this part today. It’s not terrible though 🤔…I think.

You had locked yourself up in your room, claiming to be unwell. The truth was simpler: your mind had been consumed by memories you thought you had buried. Memories of him. The boy who once soothed your pain had become the man responsible for it.

He left me behind.

That thought replayed in your head, each repetition sinking deeper into your chest. Just the image of his face brought a sickening churn of emotions — hurt, betrayal, anger, and a flicker of something you refused to name.

The soft knock on your door is what finally drew your attention away from your thoughts. On the other side of the door stood Viola, a small but gentle smile on her face when she found you sprawled on your bed.

“I heard you were feeling sick, everything okay?” she asked, as she made her way further into your bedroom.

“Yeah, nothing a good day’s rest won’t cure,” you responded, and her lips immediately contorted into a frown.

“Then you’re not going to be too happy about this.” Her voice softened, tinged with regret. “Doflamingo needs you.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. Of course he needs me. You didn’t know why you ever thought you’d be able to get a day to yourself, it had rarely occurred before.

“Of course he does,” you muttered under your breath, setting aside the book you had been pretending to read.

Viola gave you a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry. If it were up to me, I'd let you rest."

You forced a smile, appreciating her kindness. "It's okay. Thanks, Viola."

She nodded, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before leaving the room. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for whatever Doflamingo had in store.

The walk to his room felt long and unpleasant as always. The entire palace always made you uncomfortable, its grandeur a stark contrast to the simpler, slightly happier times of your childhood. It was also a reminder of the life you once lived along side your parents, and without him to console you over those memories, it only brought more pain.

But it hadn’t always been like this. You remember when you first moved in, though a palace, it had a comforting and almost cozy feel to it. However, Doflamingo had made drastic changes, his reason being that the Donquixote family should live in a place that befitted them.

You had tried to get him to let you live outside the palace, the discomfort it brought had been too much at first. But Doflamingo insisted that the entire Donquixote family stay within the palace walls. And that’s why you had tried to make your own room as comfortable as possible. However, that had done little to help. With how often Doflamingo made you run around doing errands for him, or insisted that he watch over you, there was barely any time to relax.

As you gave a soft knock against the heavy wooden doors, to let Doflamingo know you had arrived, you pushed it open to find him standing by the window, his back turned to you as you entered.

“You summoned me, Doffy?" you called out, as you slowly made your way towards him, the atmosphere of the room always making you feel uneasy. It was as if the room itself embodied his very being - intimidating and frightening.

He turned on hearing your voice, a smile plastered on his face. "Ah, my little Rose there you are. Feeling better, I hope?"

You nodded, knowing the question was nothing more than a pleasantry. "What do you need?"

His smile widened, and an eerie chill ran down your spine. "I have a special task for you. I need you to retrieve someone for me."

You frowned, confused by his unforeseen happiness. You had heard there was an incident at Punk Hazard, and although you didn’t know the details, you knew Doflamingo had been beyond enraged. It was another reason why you had chosen to stay in your room, to avoid his temper. So, his uncharacteristic cheerfulness almost baffled you.

“Who?” you questioned, although you had an inkling of who it might be.

“Caesar,” he said simply, his tone light but his eyes watching your reaction closely. “I’m sure you’ve heard, there’s been some...issues. I want you to bring him back from Greenbit."

A wave of confusion hit you once again. “Why me?”

It wasn’t like him to send you on retrieval missions. While you had been privy to fights and conflicts, you had never been a fan of them, and Doflamingo knew this. It was why you mainly ran around doing tasks within the palace. He had called it “protection,” but you had always suspected he thought you too soft-hearted for the darker work.

It had happened before, when you were younger and out on a mission. He had nearly lost you then, and he wouldn’t have it happen again.

“I’ve decided you need to be involved in these matters as well. You can’t be the only one who doesn’t get involved, it’s not fair to you. ” A cold knot of dread formed in your stomach when you saw Doflamingo's eyes glint dangerously. You had thought that you would be able to stay away from such tasks given your temperament, but that had clearly changed.

“But why now?” you asked, and you could feel your heart rate pick up when Doflamingo gave you an almost sinister smile.

“We’re short on people. The pirates who attacked Punk Hazard killed Monet, so we need as much backup as we can get. Plus, the others think you need to start doing your bit,” he said, almost nonchalantly, as if the death of one of his comrades didn’t bother him at all. But you brushed it off, subconsciously convincing yourself it was his way of dealing with grief. “And I think this would be the perfect opportunity to test you Rosie.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the task ahead. You had always known that the latest additions to the Donquixote family, all but Viola, did not like the almost favouritism that Doflamingo showed - always tasking you with the simpler jobs. This was your chance to prove your worth, and finally get them off your case. Besides, what harm would come from a simple retrieval mission?

"Alright, Doffy. I’ll bring Caesar back."

He smiled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes, almost akin to a predator satisfied with its prey. "Good. And remember, I expect nothing less than success."

As you stepped out into the hall, your resolve wavered slightly, the enormity of the task ahead settling in.

So caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice that someone had walked by you into the room. The shutting of the door is what finally drew you out of your thoughts and you briefly glanced back, the voices within the room, a stark reminder of the life you had chosen.

You shook off the unease and focused on the task at hand. Whatever doubts you had, you pushed them aside. There was no room for weakness. You had a mission to complete, and you would do it with all the strength you could muster. For the town you now called home and the people you called family.

As you walked away, the voices in the room grew distant, and you missed out on listening in on a conversation that would have likely saved you from your impending misfortune.

“Doffy why are you sending her to retrieve Caesar?”

Despite his recent misfortune, another sinister smile spread across Doflamingo’s face. “It’s about time I test her abilities. And who better than Law to be the test subject?”

—————

Part 1 done! I feel like I may have included some unnecessary bits here and there, but oh well. I hope you liked it. Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist.

taglist: @riftmage27

[moonmaiden1996]

Taming the Beast Part Four

Chapter 1, 2, 3.

As you stood before the towering creatures of wing and scale, an unsettling blend of awe and defiance coiled within you. The dragons loomed, formidable and ancient, their serpentine necks arching like the spines of a mountain range worn by centuries. Each beat of their wings stirred the air into a tempest, sending gusts whipping through your hair and tugging at your cloak. Their eyes gleamed with an eerie intelligence, fixing on you as if sensing your inner resistance, your instinct to resist being commanded.

The ground trembled as one of the dragons shifted its massive weight, the vibrations pulsing through your feet and into the marrow of your bones. Your Shadowcats, tense and bristling, growled low beside you, their presence a stark contrast to the dragons and the men astride them—men you now had every reason to distrust, not least of all because of the whispers surrounding your father’s death. Each seemed to know something they weren’t saying, and you wondered just how deep their schemes ran.

"Come now, wife. Your seat awaits," murmured Aemond, his tone a dark thread of amusement. ''You will ride with me to Kings Landing'' His outstretched hand was as steady as it was commanding, his eyes glittering with the thrill of seeing your defiance. You cast a wary glance from him to Daemon, who met your look with a smirk, his amusement curling as darkly as smoke from dragonfire.

"I am not flying on that thing," you declared, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest. "If I must travel, I’ll do so on my Shadowcats."

Daemon’s smirk widened into a wicked grin, his eyes flashing with a dangerous amusement as he stepped closer, boots crunching on the gravel. “Well,” he drawled, each word a blend of humor and threat, “there’s always the carriage. It’ll be a tight fit, you know… though we’d certainly find ways to make do, sharing the same space, perhaps even a single horse.”

His words held a promise both wicked and unsettling, his eyes drifting over you as if savoring your defiance. It was a choice, but you knew it for the trap it was.

You didn’t hide the spark of anger in your gaze as you turned to Aemond. His expression, cool and watchful, didn’t falter; if anything, his mouth twitched, suppressing a grin. “The Shadowcats are magnificent, I’ll grant you that,” he said smoothly, casting an appraising look at the sleek, bristling creatures by your side. “But a Targaryen belongs in the skies.” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You would look magnificent up there,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Astride a dragon, fierce and untamed, as if born to it.”

Your pulse quickened at his words, and you struggled to keep your resolve as he and Daemon closed in, a pair of dragons in their own right, fierce and relentless. Daemon’s voice, low and smooth, drew you from your thoughts. “If you’d only come sooner,” he purred, tone half-taunt, half-hunger, “we wouldn’t need to rush to our own wedding like this. But now, the skies are waiting. Though I wonder…” he leaned in, his breath a whisper against your skin, “…how we’d ever manage to strap your Shadowcats to a dragon’s back.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself against the surge of emotion his words provoked, refusing to give in to their gaze, the fire of their combined intensity. "Fine," you bit out, every word laced with defiance. "I’ll go to King’s Landing with you. But let me be clear—I go on my own terms. I’ll take the skies if only to keep my Shadowcats safe from your… ambitions.”

Daemon’s hand found your waist, pulling you in, his voice a velvet murmur against your ear, “Ah, our fierce little wife, it’s your spirit we admire most. Do not worry, you will reunited with them soon, it won't take the rest of your party more then a month to get to use. Give us time to settle in.”

His words burned through you, setting off a spark of anger mingled with something darker, something thrilling. You met his gaze, feeling the heat of his proximity, the anticipation simmering beneath his amused smile. Aemond stepped to your other side, guiding you toward the dragon’s saddle, his hand firm yet intimate as his fingers brushed yours in a possessive, silent claim. You allowed his guidance, your jaw set, refusing to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the dragon beneath you. Its scales shimmered, warm and unyielding, radiating a power that pulsed through your body.

Aemond mounted up behind you, his arms encircling you, his strength pressing into your back. He leaned down, his voice a dangerous whisper in your ear, “Then let us show you what it means to be truly free. To soar above it all, fierce and untouchable.”

With a final protest from your Shadowcats, the dragon leaped into the sky, and the world below fell away. The landscape stretched beneath you, vast and endless. For a fleeting moment, you lost yourself in the exhilaration of flight, in the wild freedom, though it only took a heartbeat to recall the looming mysteries—the whispers of treachery and of your father’s untimely fate. You glanced back at the men who held you captive in this sky, men who, for all their passion, might have bloodied their hands with your father's end. And despite your resolution, you felt the pull of something dark and inevitable, a current dragging you towards a dangerous intimacy with these fierce, untamed men who had woven you into their designs. You had to do this, to enter the dragons den, the pit of blood thirsty animals for your father, your mother and grandmother, gods even your uncle. To find out the truth.

I am a little bit rusty with this story but I am back and have the rest of the chapters outlined. Please let me know what you think?

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Dark Things are to be Loved - Part 2

A/N: Did I write this entire fic just so I could finally use my favorite AO3 tag? I’ll never tell.

Pairing: Bodyguard!Savage Opress x Reader (Fem)

Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)

Wordcount: 2.5k

Fic Warnings and Tags: angst; language; toxic, controlling, and possessive behavior; discussions of violence and violent ideation; Reader is in a deeply unhealthy relationship with Maul; allusions to abuse; infidelity but it’s complicated; Savage is down bad, but he’s still a Sith and acts like one.

Chapter Warnings and Tags: jealousy; pining; infidelity but it’s complicated; SMUT; consensual wrist pinning/restraining; semi-public sex; oral sex; inappropriate VERY appropriate use of the Force; biting; hints of primal play (that’s what we call foreshadowing, folks); size difference; arguably monsterfucking (except he’s not a monster and I will die on this hill).

Summary: After months of Savage serving as your bodyguard, you are at your breaking point.

Suggested Listening: 

This fic smells like: Jasmin Rouge by Tom Ford (heady, rich floral jasmine)

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I love you because I know no other way.

-Pablo Neruda, “Love Sonnet XVII”

Your heart thundered in your ears, the rush of it drowning out the pulsing music and the nearby clatter of the party. You could feel your teeth chattering, and you clenched your jaw to control it, but you couldn’t quite slow your breathing as adrenaline coursed through your veins. You stared unblinkingly into Savage’s golden eyes—his eyes, normally so unreadable, now gazing back at you with such aching vulnerability that it made you want to scream, “Stop looking at me like that!”

As if you’d spoken the thought aloud, his mask of indifference settled back into place. His eyes traced a cautious path down to the lightsaber hilt in your fist.

“I’ll have my saber back.” His deep voice was calm, despite the rage and betrayal you knew he must have felt. 

He could kill you in an instant. You knew he could. He didn’t need a lightsaber. He could do it without ever touching you. You’d seen his raw power—seen him use the Force to push back a dozen strong men without breaking a sweat. He wouldn’t even need to snap his fingers to snap your neck. 

And yet he didn’t.

Gods, you wanted to give it back. Every fiber of your being, every instinct you possessed, screamed at you to trust him, but you couldn’t take that risk. This was your chance. You had to seize it.

“No.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours, hardening as he heard your refusal. He moved toward you, and you stepped backward, holding the lightsaber behind you. Undeterred, he reached for you, his long arm snaking behind you without difficulty, his cold durasteel fingers closing around your wrist in a gentle but inescapable grip. You knew it was futile to try to pull away, but you refused to cede a single inch, either—no matter how close his face suddenly was to your own. 

“Give me my goddamned lightsaber,” he growled, his breath warm against your cheek, his menacing tone a stark contrast to the careful way he held you in his grasp.

Your mouth went dry. You were playing with fire, and you knew it. All he had to do was tighten his cybernetic fist, and he would shatter your bones. He loomed over you, his eyes locked on yours. Your faces were separated by mere inches as you glared defiantly back at him. 

The air seemed to thicken around you, heavy with the weight of months of tension, of words unspoken, of truths buried, of secrets kept and lies told. From the moment you had met him, you had been locked in orbit, circling each other, desperate to move closer, yet inescapably aware that to do so would lead to a collision of ruinous proportions. You were bound to him as if by an invisible tether that was stretched well beyond its breaking point.

And all at once, it snapped.

You moved, and then your lips were on his. He froze. As your hand slid up his shoulder and around the back of his neck, though, he let out an agonized groan and wrapped his free arm around your body, pulling you tightly against himself. His tongue swept into your mouth, driving every thought from your mind except Him. His taste, his touch, his scent, his warmth, his strength.

Gods, he was strong! When he held you to him, you felt like the galaxy could explode around you, and yet you would be utterly safe and protected, shielded in his embrace. The Republic could unleash the full wrath of its clone army, and nothing could touch you, so long as you were in his arms.

You didn’t even notice that he’d walked you backward across the terrace until you felt the cold stone wall of the villa press against your back. You still held his lightsaber, and he still held your wrist, and as you leaned against the wall, he lifted your hand above your head and pinned it there as his lips broke away from your mouth to bury his face against your neck. He inhaled deeply as he nuzzled along your throat, taking in your scent.

He breathed your name as he exhaled, and then began to kiss down your jaw. His kisses were soft and heated, and he dropped to his knees as he reached the base of your throat.

Holy Force, our eyes are almost level even when he’s kneeling.

He trailed his lips and tongue with the lightest, gentlest imaginable pressure slowly around your neck, and you inhaled sharply as you realized he was kissing every centimeter of skin that had been touched by Maul’s necklace, as if he could burn away the memory of it with the heat of his lips. When he finally finished his circuit of your throat, he pulled away slightly, gazing into your eyes.

He brushed his fingertips over your temple and down your cheek, his eyes roaming hungrily over your features, unwilling to tear his gaze from you even long enough to blink. His fingertips continued their gentle exploration as he traced downward over your neck and across your collarbone until they dipped beneath the strap of your dress. He stroked your skin lightly, his eyes fixed on the outline of his fingers as they moved beneath the sheer fabric.

He looked back into your eyes, and then he leaned in, kissing the delicate skin of your shoulder as he slid the strap down. He took his time, his lips following the path his fingers blazed down your arm, until you felt the cool ocean breeze against the bare skin of your breast. His breath was shaky as his lips closed around your nipple and his tongue flicked softly over your skin. His massive hand came to rest on your side and gradually inched up your rib cage until he caressed the underside of your breast. 

Your hand shook, and you nearly dropped the lightsaber. He didn’t release your wrist, but his thumb drew tiny circles at the base of your hand, the cold metal alloy gradually warming from your body heat.

“Savage,” you whispered.

He didn’t cease his attentions to your breast, but he turned to gaze up into your eyes with an expression that could only be described as reverent. Slowly, his hand traveled down your body, to your hip, and lower.

“Will you let me?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly.

His hand dropped to your knee and skimmed up the inside of your thigh as he continued to lavish kisses on your breast. When he reached the top of your thigh, and his fingers encountered your heated, silken arousal, he let out a short, desperate sound. He sank down, guiding your wrist lower but still not attempting to take the lightsaber. 

He kissed his way up the inside of your thigh, his lips following the trail that his fingers had blazed. Pushing your skirt out of the way, at last he reached his goal. The first brush of his tongue against your skin wrenched a quiet cry from your throat.

“Shh,” he soothed you, kissing you gently.

You glanced toward the doorway. You could see that the ray shield was still active, but it did nothing to block the view—or the sounds. Savage had managed to maneuver the two of you behind a pillar that would shield you from the view of anyone inside the ballroom but still allow enough of a vantage point that you could spot trouble before it arrived.

Clever. You’d had no such practical matters on your mind when he’d backed you against the wall. For the thousandth time, you were stunned by how often he was underestimated. And then his tongue slid into you and the only coherent thought in your mind was, Oh, fuck! Oh, god—don’t scream—they’ll hear—

His tongue was thick, hot, and skilled. It swirled over you, into you, invading your body and your senses and ravishing you with devastating efficiency. He feasted on you, not like a man starved, but rather like a connoisseur, savoring every taste, every sigh, every drop of arousal that flowed into his mouth.

You nearly lost your balance when he gripped your thigh and lifted it over his shoulder for better access. Instinctively, you steadied yourself by resting your hand on his head, and as you stroked your thumb across the base of one of his horns, he let out a tormented gasp. Fascinating. You’d never noticed Maul seeming particularly sensitive around his horns, so it surprised you that Savage would find it so stimulating. You began to trace tiny, delicate patterns over his head, brushing your fingertips lightly across his skin and horns.

Gently, you tilted his head backward until you could see his eyes, glazed with lust and bliss. He didn’t stop the incredible things he was doing with his tongue and lips as you shifted his position, and he was driving you nearly out of your mind with pleasure. He moved over you slowly, kissing, licking, sucking, teasing, and as he did, he whispered against you, so quietly that you only caught a few words. Words like “perfect,” and “soft,” and “delicious,” and “taste you forever.”

His hand stroked gently up and down your thighs, teasing your sensitive skin. At last, it slid back between your legs, coming to rest mere inches below your pussy as he continued to devour you as though he'd been waiting his entire life just to taste you. 

You felt a tiny, soft stroke of pressure deep inside—so feather-light that at first you barely noticed it. It came again, more insistently this time, and you let out a faint, choked whimper. With a quiet, pleased rumble deep in his chest, Savage closed his eyes, working his lips and tongue over your clit as the pressure inside your body settled into a steady, intense rhythm. 

All at once, you realized exactly what he was doing—and why. Unwilling to risk tearing your delicate skin with his thick, clawed fingers, he was using the Force with delicate precision to find and exploit every sensitive, erogenous spot inside you. The sensation was like nothing you’d ever felt before, and soon it sent you hurtling into unstoppable, overwhelming pleasure.

You bit your lip hard, choking back a cry. Your body convulsed and you arched away from the wall as your orgasm slammed into you, unconsciously gripping him closer with the leg that he had hooked over his shoulder. He stroked his tongue deeper into you, lapping you up with an urgent moan, consuming you as you came on his face until your legs were quivering and nearly ready to give out. 

Feeling your body shake, he eased your thigh off his shoulder and held you steady as you slid down the pillar and onto his lap. You slumped forward to bury your face against his neck, thighs spread wide as you straddled his kneeling legs. His arms closed around you, holding you securely.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he murmured as he pressed his lips against your hair. “So kriffing beautiful. So good for me.”

His hand drifted down your back and settled on your ass, pulling you tighter to his body so you could feel the rigid length of his cock rocking against your oversensitive cunt. Your breath stuttered, and you let out a quiet whimper that you muffled in his chest. 

“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined you like this, falling apart in my arms, making those gorgeous little sounds for me, not for him.” He groaned roughly. “You taste so fucking sweet. It’s no wonder he can’t keep his tongue out of you.”

A tide of heat swept up your chest and washed over your cheeks, and you tilted your face up to meet his eyes. “I pretended it was you. I knew you could hear us, and I—”

His mouth cut you off as his lips and tongue crashed into you. His kiss was ravenous, breath-stealing, head-spinning, all-encompassing. He tightened his arms around your body, crushing you against him and grinding his cock between your thighs. His hand tangled in your hair and pulled your head back, pulling you out of the kiss and exposing your neck.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted me?” he growled.

His golden eyes glinted intensely in the moonlight, his teeth hovered over your throat, and you were struck by a sudden feeling that you were teetering on a precipice. Which direction you fell hinged entirely on your answer, but fall you would. It was as inevitable as gravity, as inescapable as death. You felt the heat of his breath on your skin, and your pulse began to rush with a mixture of arousal and adrenaline. You froze, like a small animal caught in the grip of a much larger and more dangerous predator.

“I c—couldn’t,” you whispered hoarsely, embarrassingly aware that the hair on your arms had risen and your nipples had hardened against his chest in response to his stance.

He lowered his mouth slowly to your throat, scraping his teeth over your neck and sinking them in slightly before dragging his tongue across your soft skin. He licked up your neck, then closed his teeth on your earlobe. You shuddered, unable to speak while your instincts screamed at you to run, even as your body urged you to melt into him and let him do anything he wanted to you.

“Why not?” he whispered, his breath hot as his tongue traced along the shell of your ear. 

“Because—oh, gods—” You bit back a moan.

“Tell me.”

You gasped at the sharp note of command in his words. “Because not telling you was the only thing holding me back from doing something incredibly stupid, like pulling you into my bed and begging you to take me.”

“I would have said yes,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble as his mouth moved against your skin.

“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Maul would have killed us both without a single thought.”

“And now?” 

Dark hunger filled Savage’s eyes as he gazed at you. His pupils were dilated so wide that his irises were only a narrow golden ring around their inky depths. He made no attempt to mask his desire, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flutter. 

You knew it was a terrible idea, and you didn’t care. The desire that had been building for months mingled with your fear of discovery to create an intoxicating sense of urgency that was only enhanced by the bittersweet knowledge that this was your one and only opportunity to be with him. After tonight, one way or another, you would be free, but the cost of that freedom was almost more than you could bear. You would never see him again, never know his touch. It was unthinkable.

And now that you were in his arms, it was better even than you had dreamed. All logic, commonsense, and any shred of self-preservation abandoned you, leaving you with only one thought: you needed him.

Your hand slid down his body to unbuckle his belt. “I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.”

Next Chapter

Spicy Savage art (or see the uncensored version here)

[kizudnyy]

Aubrey's Sunset 2019 

― You stand before the grave of a young soul, a bittersweet smile spreading across your face as tears slowly spill down your cheeks. Your one true love is gone, and there’s no changing that. 

“Have we met before?” The voice of the dead rang inside your head.  Unable to process everything as reality struck you hard. You have repeated the cycle once more. 

"I…" you begin, your voice trembling as a weary chuckle escapes your lips. "I guess we have, huh?" 

I know the fandom and the whole ordeal itself is dead at this point, but I don’t fucking care cause the hyper fixation just got back to me and – As a writer, it is my DAMN duty to project my thoughts into the archives! To hell with the 2023-2024 problematic shit! 

CHAPTER 1: My deepest regrets, is to never tell you that ‘I love you’ 

The sun was beginning to set, casting a long shadow over the cemetery. The world around you have never felt so eerily still, so numb, and so-so cold. It was as if reality itself has taken a huge disliking to you and you only, letting you suffer such great consequences, and yet despite everything, it had held its breath for the presence of such deep sorrow. You could hardly believe that you were standing here once again, above the soil that had buried someone so important. A grave, a person’s spot that marked a resting place of one person who had meant everything to you. 

'Do you think we will be together in another universe?'

'I hope so.'

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The memories kept replaying back to your mind. Memories of your time together played in your mind like a film reel, each scene more vivid than the last. His laughter, his smile, the way he always seemed to know how to make you feel better—everything about him was etched into your heart.  

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

“Why does it have to always end like this?” You muttered to no one in particular, your voice barely a whisper, making it seem like the question was meant to be answered by you. “Alex, Alex, Alex. Why!” Your voice was already trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles that you went through, the endless repetition – a curse of finding him at your very lowest, to losing him at his peak. It was becoming too much to bear, too much for your little heart. 

But now, he was gone. And you were left with only the remnants of what once was. 

"Why does it always have to end like this?" you whispered to no one in particular, your voice trembling with emotion. The weight of the cycles you had lived through, the endless repetition of finding him and losing him, was becoming too much to bear. 

You knelt beside the grave, your fingers tracing the letters of his name carved into the stone. It felt cold and distant, a stark contrast to the warmth you had known in his embrace. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t bother wiping them away. This moment, this heartache, was all too familiar. 

And then, as if summoned by your grief, his voice echoed in your mind once more. "Have we met before?" 

The question lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the countless times you had met, loved, and lost him. Each cycle was different, yet the outcome was always the same—his life cut short, leaving you to mourn him over and over again. 

"I…" Your voice cracked as you tried to respond, the words getting caught in your throat. A bitter laugh bubbled up inside you, born of frustration and sadness. "I guess so, huh?" 

You leaned back on your heels, letting the stillness of the evening wash over you. The sky above was a canvas of orange and pink, the colors fading into twilight. It was beautiful, yet the beauty felt hollow in the face of your pain. 

A part of you wanted to give up, to let the cycle break and leave this endless loop behind. But another part, the part that still clung to hope, refused to let go. You knew that as long as there was even the slightest chance of saving him, you would continue to fight. 

The device that had brought you here, that had allowed you to travel through time, was still tucked safely in your pocket. It was both a blessing and a curse—your only means of seeing him again, and the very thing that condemned you to relive this tragedy. 

You pulled the device out, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. It was small and vintage, yet it held the power to alter the course of history. But no matter how many times you used it, no matter how many variations of the past you lived through, you could never seem to change his fate. 

‘Remember, history isn't meant to be rewritten, even for love. It serves a purpose beyond our understanding.’ 

"One more time," you murmured, your resolve hardening. "Just one more time." 

‘...’ 

With a deep breath, you activated the device. The world around you began to blur, the colors bleeding into one another until everything was a whirl of light and sound. You closed your eyes, focusing on the one person you wanted to see more than anything. 

When you opened them again, you were no longer in the cemetery. The grave was gone, replaced by the familiar surroundings of a bustling town square. People milled about, unaware of the time traveler in their midst. 

And there, in the distance, was the boy you had come to find. He was younger, full of life and energy, completely oblivious to the fate that awaited him. Your heart ached at the sight, knowing what was to come, but you couldn’t stay away. 

You had to try. Even if it meant risking everything. 

As you made your way toward him, the sound of his laughter reached your ears—a sound you had missed more than anything. You swallowed the lump in your throat and called out his name, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hope. 

He turned, his eyes meeting yours with a look of surprise. For a moment, you saw a flicker of recognition in his gaze, as if some part of him remembered you, even if he couldn’t place it. 

"Have we met before?" he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side. 

You smiled softly, the words tasting bittersweet on your tongue as you replied, "In a way… yes." 

KIZU'S MULTI-FANDOM MASTERLIST

[archivalofsins]

The thing I love about Milgram is you can easily start to see how responsibility is viewed across cultures through how the prisoners are discussed. This is something brought up through the text through the pairing of Kazui and Amane along with the gap between their ages.

Something the series itself goes out of its way to point out from the beginning.

Q.06 What would you say is the difference between adults and children?

Kazui: Responsibility. Adults can’t just do whatever they want.

Amane: I don’t think there’s a strict boundary. There are adults who act like children just as there are children who are mature like adults.

Through putting their answers to this question together, we can discern a focal point of the story overall. Before it's brought to the forefront by Jackalope.

Responsibility. What it is, what taking it looks like, and who should have to take it.

These answer together to me read as.

Adults have to take responsibility for themselves. Ergo adults do not have the same freedoms or room for error/growth as they did when they were children. However, there is really no difference between people within these age groups as a child can be treated as an adult (adultification) and an adult can be treated like a child (infantilization). Children can behave in ways typically considered adult, while adults can exhibit behavior viewed as childish.

We see Amane's answer reflected in the ways,

Mu: Uses childish language, shifts blame/refuses to take accountability for herself, throws tantrums or pouting fits, spends a good chunk of her first voice drama crying and states she wants her parents.

Futa: Lashes out first to try to dissuade others and give himself a feeling of control over the situation, complain in nauseum, picky eater but critiques others eating habits.

Shidou: Picky eater but discusses the eating habits of others, poor communicator, uncompromising likely to keep trying the same method without changing it- This ties into why he asked to be guilty and his desire to have someone else put an end to him. Unlikely to change his pattern of behavior even if it's shown to be unbeneficial to himself and those around him. As shown through his crime. Stubbornly asserts he knows best anyway even when faced with someone who has seniority.

Such as Kazui. Shown on Amane's birthday after the attacks where he doubles down stating he knows he has other priorities. Kazui even verbalizes that Shidou is pouting when he tells him not to look at him like that.

22/06/27 (Amane’s Birthday)

Kazui: What’s up, Shidou-kun? You’re looking pretty down. I guess you must be tired, I’ve been relying on you a lot lately.

Shidou: Yeah, I just remembered…… today is Amane’s birthday. I’m just getting a bit sentimental.

Kazui: Hmm, it’s unfortunate, but at the moment we can’t worry about that. ……you understand, right? There’s something that you need to do right now. And if you tried talking to her your words definitely won’t reach her. Don’t look at me like that. We’ll just wait until the situation changes. Let’s do our best.

Shidou: Yeah. I’ll do what I can. I can’t have a child making a face like that. Even though we’re “murderers”…… we’re also the adults here.

In stark contrast to Yuno's response to Mu's birthday where Yuno properly prioritizes the dire state the prison is in over celebrating and asks Mu to do the same.

22/07/05 (Mu’s Birthday)

Mu: Hey~~~ Isn’t everyone a bit gloomy lately? I get that this situation isn’t ideal, but you’re really bringing down the mood for my birthday.

Yuno: Haha, surely even you can tell now’s not really the time for something like that right. Nobody’s really in the mood, or rather nobody has time time to deal with something like that.

Mu: Boo, how boring. You seem to be free, you can celebrate for me. Go on, celebrate.

Yuno: Wow, what a pain. I’m reading the atmosphere properly and keeping quiet. Well, you just go and have fun with Haruka. In the corner somewhere so you’re out of everyone’s way.

Yet Shidou despite Kazui's explanation still emphasizes how they as adults shouldn't be letting this situation cause a child to make such an expression, or be unhappy.

Mikoto: Using childish language, whines/throws tantrums when met with opposition or when not given the treatment he believes he deserves, shifts blame/accountability onto other parties, inclined to woe is me behavior even when there are others going through the exact same situation as him.

I won’t forgive you if this is happening to me even though I’m right./ Come to know me as an honest man, eat your words, gulp them down.

Oh also is noted in the text to tantrum by lashing out violently and breaking things when situations don't go his way.

Mikoto : AAAHHHHHHHHHH!! DESTROY EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING!!

Mikoto: [scream] You’re all fucking annoying! I’ll beat you all to death, pieces of shit!!!

It's through all these ways that the Milgram cast supports Amane's initial answer of there being children who act like adults and adults who act like children.

Such is the case with Yuno in comparison to her senior Shidou when it came to prioritizing the severity of the situation they were in over a birthday.

This mindset of Shidou's ends up greatly impacting how he engages with Amane.

At a glance it can appear that he is only projecting how he treated his own family and the children within it onto Amane. Yet it may not only be that. Shidou may in fact be projecting how he wished to be treated as a child on Amane as he may have done with his own children. As this is something that people can end up doing to their kids once having them. Trying to vicariously live out the childhood they didn't have through their kids.

Simply put, he may just really like pancakes, and none of his kids ever really did. I mean, they aren't making pancakes when the wife's there. I'm just saying.

In a lot of ways Shidou could be considered an adult version of Amane.

As he projects on others how he would want to be treated in contrast to how he did get treated. Something that Amane does a great deal as well.

This is something we see her do in her first voice drama when it comes to her reaction to Es' tardiness. Along with the way she attempts dictate her religious beliefs now that she is free of her parents input.

"Okay! I'm kind, so I shall forgive you. That's nice, isn't it? If my parents were in my place, you would have been lectured for another hour."

Amane's stated desires during trial two contrast with the implication of how she was taught in Magic and Purge March. As she was shown very little lenience or acceptance yet says she wants to alleviate the pain and confusion the guilty prisoners were facing.

Her definition of love also conflicts with how her upbringing was portrayed in both of her music videos,

Q.09 What is love to you?

Kazui: Being able to be as you are, and having that accepted.

Amane: All-encompassing, eternal affection.

Though her answer still aligns with the sort of love she states she wanted in Magic. A forgiving love where her apologies were accepted and she was given space to grow/become better. A love where her capacity to develop was recognized along with the fact that growth came through trial and error.

"Will you laugh with me and forgive me? I promise! I can only become a better girl!" - "Even I can say "I'm sorry". Even I have hope I swear! I'm going to be a good girl now! That's it!"

This also plays into Es' assertion that Amane actually did want to be treated like a child in her second trial interrogation.

This web of responsibility all spirals back on the audience and Es. A lot of fans of Milgram have blamed a lot of their actions on the series, the way it progressed, how others talked about it. The blame shifting transcending the work to become and endless bout of finger pointing with no end. Despite from the beginning Milgram through Jackalope blatantly stating,

"Yeah. Milgram leaves how it’s administered up to you. Whether you wanna make it heaven or hell, that’s your call."

Milgram has and always will be what the fans make of it, whether the audience enjoys the series, learns anything from it, or continues engaging with it is fully up to that audience member alone. Just as the ways we engage with it are up to our personal discretion as well.

In this game the audience has the power to vote based on whatever biases they may hold. Yet, with choice comes culpability.

"You can even make a decision on whether you like them or not… just be careful of the consequences, that's not my responsibility."

It's okay to like or dislike but when it's time to reap the consequences who will really be ready to eat what they've grown?

Well, it's not like it's my responsibility to answer that. That's something only time can tell.

[flurrys-creativity]

Royal Quest

Pairing: Kim Yugyeom (GOT7) x GN!Reader; Genre: Royal AU, Shifter AU, Historical AU, Angst, Fluff; Rating: sfw, PG-13; Warnings: mentions of blood, an accident and bandages, mentions of human sacrifices and fights; Wordcount: 2.094

Summary: Yugyeom got gravely hurt on his quest to kill the ferocious dragon. To his fortune you found him and intended to nurse him back to health. Would he accept that though with you being the ferocious dragon?

A/N: This is part of a deal with @daemour and I finally managed to pull off my part of the deal again!!!!

Yugyeom winced in pain from his sudden movement upon hearing pebbles and boulders rolling further down the mountain. He didn’t know how long he laid there, heavily injured from his fall, but it seemed to be enough time for the first animals to approach.

He forced his eyes open, vision blurry and unfocused, yet he saw something colourful a few feet away from him. A stark contrast to the otherwise grey surrounding. 

With his last strength Yugyeom tried to raise his sword, ignoring the pain that shot through his body. The metal clattered against the stone as he was unable to move his arm at all. Yugyeom bit on his lower lip, refusing to show any weakness. 

As the seventh son of the kingdom, with no chance of ascending to the throne and constantly teased by his older brothers, he grew accustomed to swallowing his pain and hiding his true emotions. For the same reason he decided to leave the safety of the castle and made his way into the mountains in search of the dragon that supposedly terrorised the citizens of a nearby town.

The castle had received a lot of complaints, saying they couldn’t mine any further without the dragon attacking them. The kingdom relied on the riches hidden deep inside these mountains and no dragon should prevent the wellbeing of the kingdom.

Yugyeom’s hand trembled as he still tried raising his sword, showing whatever had appeared in front of him that he wasn’t the simple meal it imagined him to be.

A thought crossed his mind, the possibility of a human having found him. “Who are you?” His voice sounded off, way too deep and raspy for his own liking.

He didn’t get an answer and that colourful thing didn’t move either. Yugyeom sighed and dropped the tension from his arm, his whole body relaxing as much as it could with all the pain numbing it. The thought he started hallucinating either from blood loss or from being alone for so long made its way into Yugyeom’s mind.

Despite the blurry vision Yugyeom tried to keep looking at the splotch of colour. Though even that became too much of a burden and his eyes rolled upwards. 

Dark clouds chased each other far up in the sky, giving the illusion there was no distance between the grey mountains and the grey clouds, the only difference being one of them moved around. A raindrop hit Yugyeom’s face. ‘Great’, he thought and closed his eyes. Though it wouldn’t be much of a difference with the coldness of his skin.

~

The scent of blood made you crawl out of your hideout, following your nose towards the source. You desperately hoped it was only the remnants of a wild animal being killed by a mountain lion or eagle. Anything would be okay, as long as the humans didn’t start sacrificing their animals or worse their own kind again.

It had been centuries since that happened but the horror still haunted your dreams from time to time. You had gone deep into the mountains as a result, far away from the humans in hopes of never crossing them again until a few years ago, when you came home to a ransacked bedroom. Seeing it smashed like that, you had gone berserk.

In hindsight you might have overreacted at that time but your instincts had run wild on that night.

You stopped in your movements, seeing an injured person between debris on the ground. Blood oozed out of several wounds all across the body and the human appeared unconscious until your eyes snapped to the shaking hand, taking note of the sword that clattered against the stone. 

You stood a few feet away from the human, not moving an inch while you observed the situation. Even when a deep male voice spoke to you, you kept silent and waited. Waited until the human actually lost consciousness.

Once that happened you changed your form, your scaly body now towering over the small human being. You grabbed the body with one of your mighty claws, careful as to not hurting him any further. You shielded the body with your other claw after you pushed yourself into the air and glided on the back of the wind. 

When you reached your home, you placed the human on your bed, pulling fur and other soft things closer to his body before you turned into your human form again. You stared at him, contemplating why you brought him into your home.

You didn’t know much about humans but he looked like a fighter with the sword and the shiny plates covering most of his body. You definitely didn’t want any of that near him once he woke up again. It felt like walking on eggshells when you removed those plates, questioning why a human would wear something so uncomfortable. They didn’t bend and move along the body like your scales, you couldn’t imagine he had a lot of freedom moving around in that.

Only after you removed them came the whole severity of his wounds to light, making you swallow harshly. You didn’t want to know how much blood he already lost before you even found him. The possibility this human died in your care became threateningly high. You also didn’t want to imagine what kind of reaction other humans would have if they ever found out. For a moment you wondered whether he would be missed, meaning more humans would come to find him.

You shook your head, trying to get rid of your thoughts. There was only one solution: You had to nurse him back to health and then bring him far away from your home but near other humans so he could show everyone that he was in fact still alive and well.

~

The scent of a warm broth pulled Yugyeom from his slumber. He groaned as he stretched his limbs with closed eyes, wincing slightly from the lingering stinging sensation. 

His eyes opened together with his memories of dying in the rain. Yugyeom pushed himself up and looked around, unfamiliar with his surroundings. He blinked several times while he tried processing his own thoughts and what he saw.

His attention shifted from the cave like room to the bright colours that appeared in the corner of his vision. Blue, green, red, yellow - somehow you had matched every colour he knew in your outfit.

“You’re awake.” You carefully moved closer to him, offering him a wooden bowl with a clear, steaming liquid. “You must be hungry. I can bring you some other things to eat as well.”

Yugyeom hesitantly accepted the bowl with a nod, watching how you turned around and left through a narrow hall. He glanced down at the broth, tentatively sniffing it. It was then that he noticed the linen bandages wrapped around several parts of his body. 

“Don’t move too much”, you interrupted him as you brought steamed vegetables and meat in more bowls. “Your wounds just started closing a few days ago.”

“How long was I out?”

You pursed your lips in thought, placing the bowls next to him, and sat down on the ground. “A week? More or less, I think.” You shrugged with your shoulders. “I wasn’t outside that much.” You looked up at him, tilting your head with curiosity. “Are you warm again?”

Yugyeom stared at you with a confused expression, waiting for you to elaborate. 

“You were very cold when I found you. I had to warm you up a lot!” You kept a safe distance from him and observed his every movement, noticing how he appeared to be in distress.

“Warm me?” Yugyeom sputtered, feeling the heat creeping up his neck and tinting his ears a darker shade of red. His eyes darted around the area, making sure his thoughts were justified - and indeed there were barely any blankets around. He glanced back at your form, desperately trying to pull his mind out of the gutter.

“You look like you’re too warm now.”

Yugyeom choked on air and started coughing violently. He never met a person so straightforward. Even though he was only the seventh prince of the kingdom and got teased relentlessly by his older brothers, he still got treated like royalty by anyone else. Though he had to admit, he liked it.

His eyes landed back on your form, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Who are you?” Seeing how you tensed, Yugyeom let his gaze roam around the room one more time. “Also, where am I and where are my belongings?”

“The metal plates and pointy thing?”

Yugyeom nodded, dumbfounded.

“They’re outside. These things are dangerous and can hurt you,” you explained quietly, avoiding eye contact.

“They’re supposed to help me, so I can defeat the ferocious dragon!”

“Ferocious?” You scoffed, barely able to suppress the smoke rolling out of your nostrils. You quickly got up and walked away from the human. “Maybe if the dragon would be left alone, there would be no need for the attacks.”

“Maybe if my people could peacefully do their work up in the mountains, there would be no need to bother the dragon!” Yugyeom sat up completely, feeling irritated by your behaviour.

You turned back around, chest rising in anger. “If their work wouldn’t include invading my home, I wouldn’t have to defend myself!”

Yugyeom’s jaw dropped to the floor. “Your home?” He pushed himself from the bed and hurried over to you, grabbing your upper arm. “You’re the dragon?” His eyes wandered over your form, searching for the tail or horns or even some scales. “How? Aren’t you human?”

You scoffed and raised an eyebrow, even stepping closer to him until your chests touched. “Am I not looking ferocious enough? Am I too tiny, not beastly enough?” You had to tilt your head back so you could properly look at him. It irked you how he looked at you - not in fear or horror, no, he stared at you in wonder. For a split second you even played with the thought of simply shifting right in front of him.

“You’re messing with me.” Yugyeom let go of your arm and stepped back, running his hands through his hair. “Did my brothers set you up for this? They did, didn’t they?” He turned away, scoffing in disbelief, before he turned back around quickly. “How did you even find me? Did you follow me up here?”

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, rolling your eyes and barely holding in the scoff. You closed your eyes and rolled your head from one side of your shoulders to the other, feeling the tingling underneath your skin as you let parts of your body transform.

Yugyeom could feel his mouth drop open again and his eyes widened as two horns grew on your head and a line of scales appeared on your skin along your hairline. He gasped audibly the second you opened your eyes and to vertical slits stared right back at him. 

“I found you because of the stench of blood in what can be considered my front yard,” you hissed out. 

“Why did you help me?” Yugyeom stared at you in awe, his initial quest completely forgotten. “I don’t understand. You knew why I came to the mountains and you still helped me.”

“Because I’m not a monster unlike what your people love to call me.”

Yugyeom absentmindedly rubbed over the bandages on his upper body. “I can see that,” he mumbled, blinking several times as his thoughts raced through his head.

“So”- you walked over to your bed and sat down - “what are you going to do now, little human?” You got caught by surprise when he sat down next to you, hiding his face in his hands.

“I don’t know.” Yugyeom came into the mountains to slay the dragon that drove away the nearby villagers, but instead he got rescued and nurtured by said dragon. How could he possibly slay you now?

You shifted back into your human form completely. You sighed deeply before you got up and walked towards your kitchen. “Maybe we’ll find a solution that doesn’t involve bloodshed over some cookies and tea.”

“And some answers to my questions, please.” Yugyeom immediately followed you like a lost puppy, thanking you the second he got a cookie. “I think I’ll have some more time before anyone actually searches for me.”

“Because a quest to slay a dragon is quite time consuming,” you joked but nodded nonetheless. “Well, then let us have a heart to heart.” 

© all rights reserved

Taglist: @xavi-in-kpopland

[enden-k]

NOW THAT SOMEONE ELSE BROUGHT IT UP YES there's very peculiar things in the artstyle, one being obviously the eyes (both on doodle (unserious) and rendered (serious) artworks) The eyes are very distinctive to the character! They add so much to them!! Forever gonna be obsessed with how they are drawn

Azai feels a lot like a predator in like, immediate danger kind of way. Saran feels more ominous, looming, the tentacles dont really add much to that (despite the amount of eyes, funny enouhj) but rather, it's thanks to him often being drawn with his eyes closed and smiling (Which fits their characters!! Azai is dangerous, yes, but Saran is worse now, and he is after Azai, and Azai doesn't realize it yet!. To quote you, he's making use of every blind spot to crawl closer to Azai and get what he's after)

Even from child Saran, he just feels like he's constantly scheming lol. The danger is high but may not be directed at you (Saran) vs feels like if his eyes fell on you, its because you fucked up (Azai)

Others like Vika or Luka (who have this ethereal look to them usually) feel a lot more, i would say open? But also feel like their eyes are rather empty compared to the vibe the other two give off?? Half the time Vika's eyes give off a vibe he's not quite there (disconnect between body and person. Which is literally what the parasite caused) that is fascinating! I would argue he feels more present in artwork where the character has his eyes closed/his face is not shown at all. It's incredible!!

For Luka it's a but softer, but its a similar sensation. It feels absent too but more in the way a person can be when they're deep in thought. Ivan's eyes I refuse to look at enough to analyze properly lol. Your art style highlights a part of canon that unnerves me lol. I think it might be due to the red dot in his eye but his eyes feel too focused? He has one feet in each side at the line between devotion and obsession

He and Saran are always looking, but funny enough despite the amount of eyes Saran has, Ivan beats him in intensity

(I am slowly making my way through the other OC's so review pending on how their gaze feels too. I will say now that the vampire guy whose name i cannot remember currently for the life of me feels skittish. Which, he's drawn skittish, so that tracks. He feels like he's one thing going wrong away from a meltdown lol. Highstrung)

The second thing is, on those that are rendered, colors!! The pallette usually skews towards colors that are more contrasting (WHICH IS LOVELY), and that pattern even sorta follows to the black and white pieces because you will have things that are glaringly stark (/pos) against the white background. Looking at other's quick doodles and black/white pieces, that contrasting feel seems to be unique for yours (fun thing to look at, it seems that some characters are less prone to looking that way (softer, thinner lines, less blocks of contrasting color more gradients that tend to melt into the background color))

Third thing is hair. So soft. Lovely. I haven't been able to pinpoint what it is exactly (maybe it's that messy-like appearance? Like, it doesn't FEEL like messy hair (there's Saran's bed hair for comparison lol) but there's something about it. It eludes me. The closest my brain is getting is "uncanny perfection/natural mess". If that were a scale the hair would be firmly on the natural side

I just like the vibe hair has in your style. Very fluffy

(The bonus thing is expressions. Goes with what I said about the eyes, but the expression (both face and body) tie it in as a whole. Their body language is really good. I find particularly pleasing the way confidence is portrayed through some of the actions (it shines a bit more in the NSFW blog) or the pose. Beautiful)

(This is just me going on a tangent about a particular variant of all of the above, but in the Bonus to that mini comic about Vika being insecure in how he will change while Saran remains the same, the way Saran wraps his arms around Vika and the style changes to something a bit more goofy (reflecting how Saran starts acting to cheer up Vika) is very neat to me. I think about that a lot. It screams safe)

-eepy 🦜

Sorry for the long rant lol

OMGGG WAAAHHH read it twice and held it close

i dont even know what to say but its crazyyy how you figure them all out just by how i draw their eyes etc, im always unsure if i can get atmosphere or vibes across properly but waaa

even vin (you corrected vampire to elf later so i understood u meant him) who i showed maybe like once or twice since i didnt post much of that old project you got right, yes hes always on the verge of snapping and breaking down akjsbck

dont apologize for the long message!!! love all ur messages honestly, im gonna save this fr sob

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

To Walk In Part 2

Pairings: Remus Lupin x disabled!reader (Part of my poly!marauders x disabled!reader universe) Summary: You and Remus talk about the night before. Warnings: Mentions of catheters, self-worth issues Series Masterlist | Part 1

Your eyes flutter open to a new day, the weight of last night's revelation pressing down on you like a lead blanket. It's difficult to think of anything else but the dread that sits heavy in your stomach, churning with every thought of what Remus might be thinking now.

You remain still in bed, the soft pillow beneath your head offering little comfort for the turmoil within. Remus is there, propped up against the headboard with a book in his hands. The morning light filters through the window, casting an ethereal glow upon him and accentuating the worry lines etched around his eyes. His presence should soothe you, yet it only serves to remind you of your vulnerability.

The memory of the catheter from last night is still fresh, too fresh, and you can't help but shift under the sheets, causing Remus to look up.

"Love, you're awake," he says softly, closing his book and setting it aside. His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh reality of your situation, and for a moment, you want nothing more than to lose yourself in its warmth. But your anxiety refuses to be quelled, and you attempt a small smile, though it wavers at the edges.

“Mmm,” you hum in response, a noncommittal sound that does little to mask your unease. You draw the blanket up higher, a thin shield from the weight of his scrutiny. It's not that you don't trust him—it's just that right now, you can't trust yourself.

He doesn't miss the small gesture, the way you retreat further into the cocoon of fabric. His brow furrows slightly, concern etching lines onto his usually smooth forehead. He has always been perceptive, able to read between the lines of your carefully composed facade. It's one of the reasons you've always felt safe with him, why his presence has been a constant source of reassurance. But today, even his steadying influence can't quell the storm raging inside you.

"Would you like to speak about what happened last night?" His voice is so soft, a low murmur that barely disturbs the silence of the room. He's cautious, careful not to push too hard, but the question hangs heavy in the air between you, reminding you of the reality you're trying to keep at bay.

Your heart stutters in your chest, skipping a beat, and for a moment, you can't breathe. You don't want to talk about it—not because you don't trust him, but because speaking it aloud feels like an admission. An admission that things are different now, that *you* are different. And you're terrified of what will happen if you give voice to the fear that's been gnawing at your insides.

"I..." Your voice is barely audible, a whisper lost among the rustling sheets. "I don’t want you to see me...differently." The confession hangs heavy in the air, a secret shared in the quiet of the dawning day.

His frown deepens, his gaze never leaving yours as he leans closer. There’s a tension in the way he moves, like a string pulled taut, ready to snap at any moment. "What do you mean?"

You sigh, the sound aching with the weight of unspoken fears and frustration. "It's just... everything." Your hands move in vague gestures, encompassing the catheter, the wheelchair, everything. "I don't want you to think I'm not—" The words are there on the tip of your tongue, but they're too raw, too real to release into the world.

"That I'm not... attractive anymore," you finally whisper.

Saying it aloud feels like admitting defeat, and you instantly regret it. You turn your head away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, suddenly aware of how absurd your concerns must seem when stacked against the reality of your condition. How can you think about attraction when your body is a battlefield, when even the simplest tasks leave you breathless and weak?

Remus blinks, his brow furrowing as he tries to decipher the tangle of emotions behind your words. He doesn't laugh or dismiss your fears as trivial; instead, his hand reaches out, fingertips brushing gently against your cheek. It's a silent plea for you to look at him, to let him see you.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, and it's such a familiar term, one James often uses. But when Remus says it, it's different—softer, more personal, imbued with an intimacy born of shared secrets and quiet understanding. "You're not—You're still you. You're the woman I'm mad about, and nothing can change that."

His words weave a thread of comfort through the fabric of your thoughts, but it frays against the rough edges of self-doubt. "But last night... you saw me... struggling to use a catheter and then helped. That's not something I ever wanted you to see."

His hand leaves your cheek, warm fingers curling around your own, grounding you in their steadiness. "What I saw last night," he begins, voice firm yet gentle, like the caress of a summer breeze, "was strength. More strength than you realise you possess. And not a single moment of it—not one—made me think any less of you."

His words strike at the heart of your insecurities, each syllable a challenge to the doubts you've nursed in silence. You search his face for any sign of pity, but there is none—only the steady glow of sincerity.

"This isn't about pretending to be perfect," he continues, voice firm with conviction. "You're perfect for me, for us. Last night... it didn't change the way I feel about you. If anything, it made me love you more because I wish you'd let me in sooner. You don't have to bear this burden alone."

Your throat tightens, making speech impossible. His gaze holds yours, unwavering and sure. He means it—all of it. There's no hesitation, no shadow of doubt lurking behind his words.

"But... what if it becomes too much?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper, fear creeping into the spaces between your words. "What if one day, you decide it's too much to handle?"

Remus's hold on your hand tightens, his thumb tracing reassuring circles over your knuckles. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, not out of amusement, but a quiet sort of confidence. "I'm not going anywhere, love. I'm in this with you, for better or worse. We've already faced so much together. I'm not afraid of this—and neither should you be."

His words crack the shell you've formed, seeping into spaces within your heart that you'd forgotten existed. You feel a slow and steady release of tension from your shoulders, the burden of the previous night lifting ever so slightly at his touch. He speaks no more, simply holding you with a gentleness that only Remus Lupin seems to possess.

"I... I don't want you to think I'm weak," you confess, your voice no louder than the rustle of sheets beneath you.

"You're the farthest thing from weak," he assures you, the certainty in his tone wrapping around you like a warm blanket. "You've faced things others can't even imagine, and you're still here, still fighting. That's not weakness. It's strength."

Something shifts within you, something small but significant. His words echo in the hollows of your mind, filling them with a truth you've long denied yourself. Perhaps he's right—perhaps you are stronger than you've allowed yourself to believe.

"And remember," Remus adds, his voice low and soothing as a lullaby, "if you ever need help with anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be there. James and Sirius too."

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, all you can do is nod. Then, slowly, you find your voice again. "They don't know... about the catheter. Not yet."

Remus's eyes soften in understanding. "That's your decision to make, love. When you're ready to tell them, they'll understand. They care for you as deeply as I do."

His voice is a balm to your ragged nerves, making the promise ring true in spite of everything. The fear isn't completely gone, but it's quieter now, overshadowed by Remus's unwavering presence.

You look up at him and finally allow the ghost of a smile to touch your lips—a small victory, but a significant one. "Thank you," you whisper, the gratitude heavy in your voice.

Remus's own smile is gentle, the lines around his eyes crinkling in response. He leans in, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. "Anytime, love."

[alezangona]

The Shadow of Khansar (Salaar Fic)

Part 4 - Mouthing Off

Part 3 | Part 5

Deva bars his teeth as the sunlight filters into the room, forcing him out of a restful slumber. It takes all of his effort to move, arms floundering across the surface to find some leverage to pull himself up. His lips form a small pout as his fingers come into contact with a firm yet fluffy plane and he works to force one eye open. Squinting against the bright light, he can make out the strong chest of a man, sprinkled with dark hairs and adorned by silver chokers. He immediately shuts his eye when the memories flood back into his brain.

Oh.

Deva takes a deep breath, not quite wanting to leave the cocoon of warmth that was extruding from Varadha’s body. A part of him wonders if he should pull away, leave before he wakes up and handle the business of preparing for the upcoming conflict. He can’t bring himself to care though, not when he wasn’t sure when he’d be invited back into the arms of his current company. So he chooses to huddle closer into Varadha’s body, fingers grazing across the planes of his chest and twirling the soft, dark hairs peppered across the warm skin.

“Awake already?” Varadha’s throaty hum breezes by his ears. Before Deva can react, Varadha’s arms wrap around him, pulling him in much closer than before. Deva’s face is drawn up against the hollow of Varadha’s neck, as his chin settles on top of Deva’s head. He catches a hint of the clean, smoky smell that radiates off of Varadha and relaxes against him, a calm settling through his mind as he lets the early morning ambiance envelop him once more.

“Meekenti babu, doralu. Yepudiki appudu podukuntaru, lestharu. Maa laanti mamulu manishulaki atlanti soukaryalu leve.” Deva huffs breezily, a smirk tugging at his lips. Varadha chuckles from above him, pulling back slightly, enough to catch his gaze. Deva finds his heart fluttering at the sight of Varadha in the morning with his hair ruffled beyond repair, tilakam having lost its shape, eyeliner smudged across dozy eyes, and septum piercing (dulled by the years) providing a stark contrast against the bright sparkle of his sleepy smile.

“Mouthing off so early in the morning? You’re lucky I’m as kind as I am. The other Doralu wouldn’t let you run your mouth so easily.” Varadha warns, trapping Deva’s chin between his fingers as he leans in closer.

“Oh? Then why should you let me off the hook?” Deva’s gaze flickers hungrily towards Varadha’s lips. “Don’t you think I deserve to be put in my place?”

Varadha stills for a moment, blinking in shock as the words register in his brain. Slowly, a predatory gleam forms in his eyes and his smile sharpens instantly. Not a moment later, Deva feels Varadha’s powerful thighs wrap around his waist before he flips them over in one fluid motion, hands wrapping around Deva’s wrist as he pulls them above his head. Deva’s body arches up toward Varadha, a curse slipping from between his teeth when he realizes just how close their lips are to brushing against each other in this position. Arousal stirs at his core, every part of him emboldened by the raw fervor evident in Varadha’s actions.

“You’re right. Running your mouth like that anywhere else can get you into a whole lot of trouble. It’s my job as your Dora to teach you how to behave.” Deva holds his breath in anticipation as Varadha grinds into him, deliberately, eyebrow cocking and chin tilting up in a show of power.

“If it’s my mouth that you want to control, there’s a faster way to go about doing so.” Deva bites his swollen lip, squirming under Varadha’s hold, and gazing up at him through hooded eyes. Varadha huffs in amusement at the comment, a flash of curiosity passing over his features before rearranging to the ravenous visage from earlier. He plunges down in a swift motion, drawing Deva into a deep kiss that steals the breath from his body.

And he doesn’t stop there, choosing to establish his dominance by taking what he wants from Deva, refusing to give him the chance to take back. Every time Deva tries to nip at his lips, he pulls away, moving down to explore the span of his body through taste alone. Every time Deva tries to lift his hips, looking for friction, he tightens his grip around his hips, halting any movement as he blows delicately across the sensitive surface of Deva’s skin. Soon Deva is groaning in frustration, begging for more and receiving none of the relief he craves.

“Please, please Varadha. I can’t do this, I’m sorry. Just please give me more.” Deva gasps into the crook of Varadha’s neck, voice hoarse from the onslaught of teasing. Varadha’s smile softens as he presses a gentle kiss onto the side of his temple.

“Anything for you, bangaram.” He kisses his way down Deva’s face. Lips brushing against his brows, eyelids, the highest points of his cheekbones, and finally settling on his swollen lips, softened from the relentless teasing. He releases Deva’s wrists from his grip, fingers making their way to thumb at the clean shaven beard, and settling himself so that their hips align. The unrestricted force of it is enough to draw a collective moan from their lips and they find themselves moving rapidly, working to undress each other as soon as possible, chasing the much needed release.

A sudden pounding at the door interrupts them and Varadha freezes immediately at the sound of his brother calling for him. Deva’s grip on him tightens instantly and he glowers in the direction of the door.

“What?” Varadha snaps, grimacing as he burrows his face into Deva’s chest, holding back an agitated sound that was looking to claw its way out of him.

“Anna, get ready and come down will you. Baba spent all of yesterday brainstorming a plan for our next steps, and he needs you down to okay it.”

“It’s nine in the morning Baachi, can’t this wait?” Varadha grits out.

“Nope. Not when the next steps consist of you meeting with military personnel so we can gather strength in numbers as soon as possible.” Then comes a thoughtful pause. “Though, with the way your Salaar has been fighting, we might not even need backup. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him all morning.”

Varadha tightens his grip around Deva, feeling a headache coming on. “Go Baachi. I’ll be down in ten minutes and I’ll bring Deva along too.” Finally, they hear footsteps retreat and Varadha separates himself reluctantly from Deva’s hold. “How about we get back to this later? Because I don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

Deva’s deep laugh fills every corner of the room, lightening the mood in seconds. He slips out of bed, pulling on his shirt as a flirtatious smile makes its way onto his face.

“Maybe not anytime soon. With the way I’m wound up, I think I could single handedly take on all the armies without breaking a sweat.”

“Pichoda. Padha Mundhu.” Varadha pushes him towards the door. “And maybe you’re capable of pulling those feats, but the most anyone is going to get out of me today is the attitude of a grumpy old man.”

~*~

“Your plan is to gather members from Khansar’s army?” Varadha can’t control his incredulous reaction as he stares at Baba in disbelief, wondering if his age was finally catching up to him.

“Yes.” Baba confirms, voice infuriatingly level at 9:30 in the morning.

“The army that is loyal to my father?” Varadha’s face falls into his hands and he rubs his temples when the headache worsens. There’s a clink of a glass of tea being placed in front of him and he is just able to catch a glimpse of Chintu’s form before he disappears around the corner.

“The army that fears your father. You know as well as I do that there’s a difference.” Baba nods toward the glass of tea and Varadha takes a sip. The pounding in his head begins to subside.

“If it makes a difference at all, he’s not pulling this idea out of his ass.” Bilal straightens in his chair. “Mahit suggested it to him a few days ago. Apparently he and his colleagues aren’t fans of how your father runs things. It was motive enough for them to seek you out to strike a deal. Well that and Devaratha since credit where credit’s due. It took Baba all of yesterday to organize the logistics though.”

“So what, Khansar’s army is willing to turn against their Karta over a small dispute?”

“Not the entire army. Just a small number of them.” Baba’s eyes slip meaningfully behind Varadha, settling on the hulking form of Deva. “With Devaratha on our side, it’ll be just enough to defend ourselves against any further attacks.”

“Baba, I don’t-”

“Betta,” Baba’s tone sours noticeably. “I understand that you’re hesitant, but with the resources we have available, this is the most we can do to ensure our protection. You don’t have as much money as the other leaders, nor do you have the network for us to even consider bringing in external troops. What you do have, is a loyal friend who is putting his faith in you and the vision that you have for this nation. A friend who is willing to risk his own position and safety to help you gain access to the throne when the odds are stacked against you.

“So, what you can do now is get ready and make your way over to his place to further discuss his proposal. If you end up disagreeing with my judgment, then we’ll figure out another solution. But for now, as someone who is like your father, I’m asking you to go talk to Mahit and hear him out.”

“Fine,” Varadha stands up, turning to leave the room.

“Oh, Bilal.” Baba utters as he settles back into his chair, picking up his newspaper and burying his nose in it. Bilal’s eyes flicker to him in confusion before realization strikes.

“Dora,” Bilal coughs, catching his attention.

“Hmm?”

“Make sure to cover your…” Bilal gestures vaguely to his neck area. “Might not be in your best interest to visit a potential partner covered in, well.”

Varadha stumbles, turning back to face the group, suddenly aware of just how close to Deva he was standing. His palm flashes up to touch his neck and he takes a step away, preparing to defend himself just as Baachi pushes past him.

“Don’t you think you’re overthinking Bilal,” Baachi smirks, tossing an orange in his hand as he swaggers into the room. “After all, the potential partner is my brother’s ex. I’m sure he’s seen him in more compromising positions than this.”

“Baachi!” Baba warns, not looking up from his paper. “Regardless Varadha, it’s important to maintain a sense of decorum in professional settings.”

“I wasn’t going to-“ Varadha flushes when the three pairs of eyes flash up to him. “Whatever. Come on Deva, we have a meeting to prepare for.”

~*~

Quick note! Not the way when I’m imaging all these scenes, they’re happening in Telugu and it’s so hard to take that playfulness and translate it into English because it just doesn’t work right. So that’s been a fun little experiment in this writing project.

Leaving the translation of that bigger Telugu phrase down here though for anyone who needs it! I promise it sounds more sarcastic in my head than the translation makes it out to be.

“Meekenti babu, doralu. Yepudiki appudu podukuntaru, lestharu. Maa laanti mamulu manishulaki atlanti soukaryalu leve.” [“What’s it to you, you’re a dora after all. You can sleep whenever you want, wake up whenever you want. Us normal people don’t have access to such luxury.” ]

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 12

💥Flashback chapter💥

this is lowkey highkey inspired by @seasaltandcopper 's "House Rules" so go check that out its got vampire whumpee getting whipped

but ye Envy backstory time

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masterlist

warnings: blood, torture, whipping, partial nudity, weird thoughts on purity and sin that isn't specifically mentioned as religion but pretty close

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Envy hung from the chains, unrelenting in his pursuit of escape. He’d yet to find a way to free himself, and with the silver dampening his powers and his influence, it was more of a struggle than he cared to admit. It lined the outside of the wrist cuffs, inscribed with some kind of sigils Envy couldn’t make out. He was just glad it wasn’t on the inside of the metal, for if it touched his skin, it’d burn. He didn’t shudder at the idea. He definitely didn’t.

He knew he could find a way out if he tried hard enough. Sure, he had never heard of a demon surviving an attack by an angel, but this was not an attack. The angel wasn’t actively coming for his life. She’d probably like to think she could hurt him, but he would best her sooner or later. Envy was the most intelligent, if not the most powerful of his demon brothers, so this wouldn’t be a challenge for him.

Or so he hoped.

The angel stepped into the room holding a long, wiry object that trailed the stone floor and glinted in faint torchlight. Silver, of course. Envy rolled his eyes. Everything had to be made of silver. The angel caught him staring.

“It has to be pure,” the angel told him referencing the metal she knew he was eyeing. “I am going to make you pure,” she said.

Envy spat at the feet of the approaching creature. She stared at him, locking his eyes with hers in an intense battle of wills, a wicked thrall. It hurt to look upon the angel, her form radiating soft light. The divinity of the angels was for demons how staring directly into the sun was for humans.

But Envy still had his pride, so he tightened his jaw and refused to look away.

The angel came closer and raised the object she had in her hands, which Envy could now identify as a whip. His stomach leapt into his throat and he swallowed, forcing down the riotous fear that thrashed inside him. He would not give the angel the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Surely, surely she didn’t mean to actually use that on him, right? The silver he’d spotted lined the entire length of it, something that would poison and burn as it bit into his flesh and blood.

The black leather of the thing contrasted to the stark brightness of the silver. It made a tinny sound as it dragged across uneven stone. Panic ricocheted through his body, a cold spike of fear racing up and down his spine. He didn’t let any of it show on his face. The silence echoed in the dim chasm, lit only the angel’s glow and the crackling torchlight. Envy tightened his hands into fists.

He’d been shirtless and barefoot when he first woke up in the cell, so he was left with nothing but slacks, leaving left his back wide open for the angel. With his hands chained above his head, there was nothing he could do to protect himself.

She wouldn’t—

Envy’s breath hitched. The angel’s eyes stared at him, cold and unrelenting.

She absolutely would.

He struggled harder in his chains, the rattling increasingly loud in his ears. A discordant symphony with the frantic beating of his heart. He needed to free himself. He needed to escape now. He pulled on the chains, disregarding how they dug into his wrists—tugging, pulling, nearly wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets, and still he was no further than where he started.

Get me out of here!

The angel just stood and watched.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she said. “You must be good. You must behave.”

Envy sneered at her. His eyes burned with the fires of Hell, and that was not a metaphor—he’d seen them.

The angel moved behind Envy, trailing the whip along with her at a leisurely pace. Envy gulped, hating himself for it. A crack. A whoosh of air. Then pain. Blinding, white-hot pain that blurred the world for a few seconds, sending Envy stumbling. He was and he was not for that single moment. An empty shell that saw nothing but light and fury. He arched his back and sucked in a breath, managing not to make any more sound than a quiet hiss but already feeling dizzy and light-headed.

The angel struck again, creating another line of fire across Envy’s back. A thin strip of blood, but he felt it throughout his whole body, the pain lancing up his spine and straight through his abdomen. He caught himself unable to take in air for a moment. His ears were ringing and his stomach roiled. He tried to brace himself but for what, for what?

Another strike.

Envy jerked in his chains as he arched his back, trying to draw away from the source of pain but it was everywhere everywhere everywhere he was not meant for this he couldn’t handle it please stop please—

He drew a shallow breath to try and steady himself. It came out shaky. The angel struck again.

The whip carved a line from his shoulders down to hips. On top of the wounds, the silver dug into his skin with each lash, tainting his blood and burning it, sending signals of pain flooding through his veins.

Another stroke of the whip. Another. Another.

His whole body quivered. The tremors that wracked his body had the chains make an ever-present rattling sound to accompany the startlingly loud crack of the whip. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. Envy gritted his teeth; he wouldn’t scream. He would never. But he wanted to.

He couldn’t do this.

The lashes came faster and faster now and Envy felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He threw his head back, arcing with the force of the strokes. Suppressed groans fought to be free of his throat. Hitching, gasping breaths overlaid his gentle quivering.

All the while, the angel murmured to him that this was going to make him pure. That if he was good, this would all be over. He didn’t know how to be good. He did know that nothing he did would ever fulfill the angel’s vision of good—he was already damned the moment she realized what he was.

Despite the many lashes that now marred his back, or the shaking of his body and the weakness of his legs, or the fact that he knew these chains were the only reason he was still upright and not on the floor, he would not submit.

“You will burn,” he snarled at the angel, who responded to this not with words but action.

Envy didn’t know how long it lasted. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He almost forgot his own name, everything had been blurred out with pain. There was nothing else. He had no beginning and no end and was merely an amorphous cloud of thoughts and nerve endings.

Shattered.

He was a vase that had been knocked from a shelf and broke into a million pieces as it hit the floor; he was a mirror punched in a fit of rage that sliced open bruised knuckles. He would know—he’d done both of those things.

He gulped down air greedily into his lungs but there was never enough. Never enough comprised his entire life, his whole meaningless existence, but only this moment was what truly defined him. Only this pain, and beyond that, he knew of nothing else.

He hardly registered the damage done to his wrists. He’d pulled them so fiercely and thrashed so violently that the thick manacles had scratched the skin raw. Blood seeped from patchy wounds to fall prey to gravity that led each drop in rivulets down his arms.

His back was tatters and scraps by now. The blood flowed freely and the silver poisoned him, burned him, purified him. He was broken and made new only to be broken again and he screamed. He tried not to. He held in the sound at first, gritting his teeth and setting his jaw. He thought it might break with the force of his stupid, prideful restraint. He clenched his hands into fists, the nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms, but that pain was miniscule compared to the lashes he received on his back that he’d since lost count of.

It had started with a low hissing sound, a whisper of air that escaped through clenched teeth. Then a gasp, drawn in before he stop it. Grunts of pain clipped short, getting harder to do with each stroke of the whip, each bite of the silver that reminded him of his impurity and sin.

He didn’t want to give the angel the satisfaction. But he was not meant for this. He’d never been hurt like this before. He simply wasn’t strong enough to stand it.

So, he screamed. He screamed until his throat was sore and raw and ragged, his voice petering out into a dry hacking cough that sent jolts of pain through his fresh injuries with the movement.

And still, the angel continued.

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