#and then - and i cannot stress this enough - NOTHING HAPPENED TO IT IN THE CARRY ON

[fortunatelyfresco]

windows friends with older laptops, what do y'all use/recommend

my refurbished macbook air just Fucking For Real Died yesterday and i am trying not to scream myself to death by thinking of this as an opportunity to finally leave the cursed apple ecosystem, but i do have to buy refurbished again

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — please note that this is a civilization thousands and thousands of years ago, so they probably aren't as socially accepting.. you are also of arabian and hellenistic heritage. normally i am ambiguous of how i describe the protagonist of my stories, but i'll be a bit more focused on my details in this story. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE TRIGGERS PLEASE BE MINDFUL. i will also put a DISCLAIMER of any non consensual stuff or any triggering events that may end up happening PRIOR to the actual scene. (obviously it will not be frequent thing) — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — PROLOGUE | next chapter

this will be a bit short. its the prologue— so its going to just go over a little tid bit of how everyone is going to be and you can see how the atmosphere is.

the morning is soft with silence.

sunlight filters through the sheer drapes like it’s hesitant to enter, golden dust suspended in the hush. your room smells faintly of rose oil and crushed figs, of silk warmed by the sun. servants move quietly around you—gentle hands braiding your hair, smoothing the folds of your linen dress, adjusting the golden clasp at your shoulder. you don’t speak. neither do they. it’s an old, practiced ritual. the preparation of a daughter for something unspoken.

you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”

your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.

“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.

“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”

you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate? 

“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.

“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber. 

later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn. 

the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.

outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.

caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.

he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:

“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”

caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.  

“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his.  the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”

caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.

caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you. 

and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him. 

shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)

the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah  sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.

“what decision?”

“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”

sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.  

“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”

sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through. 

“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”

the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”

sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.

“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”

“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”

sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.

“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”

the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”

sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more. 

he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”

the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.

“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers

[cloudyluun]

No Cameras Allowed | famous!harry

Summary: You and Harry have been secretly hooking up for months, but at a high-profile event—surrounded by cameras, fans, and industry people—you have to pretend like nothing is going on. The tension builds to an unbearable level, leading you to sneak away for a risky, reckless rendezvous.

A/N: Listen, I started writing this thinking, “Let’s make this classy and controlled,” and then Harry had a meltdown over a missing condom and suddenly we were all in too deep. 🤡 This fic is 90% tension, 5% absolute recklessness, and 5% me screaming into my pillow because these two cannot behave. Hydrate, take deep breaths, and maybe say a prayer, because I swear, I’m just the stressed-out typist here. If you need me, I’ll be in horny jail. 🚔🔒🔥

Word Count: 2,7k

Warnings: 

Explicit sexual content (Smut, NSFW, 18+)!!!

Jealousy & tension-filled interactions - Both are very jealous. I probably would be too. 

Mentions of alcohol consumption

Strong language & dirty talk

Mentions of an implied lack of protection (brief but relevant to the plot)

Secret relationship shenanigans – They’re sneaking around, and they’re GOOD at it… except for when they’re not.

Unholy levels of sexual tension – You will feel the need to take a deep breath and maybe fan yourself.

Public sex – Yes, they did it where they absolutely should not have. No regrets.

Desperation – The kind where you physically feel the ache in your soul (and elsewhere).

No condom moment – Highly irresponsible. Highly hot. They make choices, not necessarily good ones.

Hand over mouth trope – He’s gotta keep her quiet. You already know.

Neck-grabbing, wrist-holding, wall-pressing – He’s got control issues, and you like it.

Mutual corruption – Neither of them is innocent, and that’s exactly why this is happening.

Proceed at your own risk. But let’s be real—you’re already in too deep.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The hotel room is bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across the sheets that are barely covering your tangled bodies. The air is thick with the remnants of earlier touches, the room still carrying the heat of whispered confessions and the slow, lingering movements that had left both of you breathless.

Harry’s fingers trace lazy circles on your bare back, his touch featherlight, almost absentminded. It’s a stark contrast to the way his hands had gripped you just an hour ago—possessive, desperate, leaving invisible marks on your skin. Now, he’s all slow affection, the pads of his fingertips skimming your shoulder blades as if he’s memorizing every inch of you.

Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the way it slows now that you’re here, settled, unrushed. His other hand is tucked behind his head, his bicep flexed just enough to make you roll your eyes at how effortlessly attractive he is, even in this sleepy, post-bliss state.

“I love how you think we’re subtle,” you murmur, a smirk pulling at your lips as you press a kiss to his warm skin.

Harry huffs out a laugh, shifting slightly so he can look down at you, his dimple peeking through as he grins. “No one suspects a thing.”

You tilt your head up, raising a brow. “Mitch literally asked me why I disappear at 2 a.m. all the time.”

Harry groans dramatically, rolling his eyes as he pulls you closer. “Mitch needs to mind his own business.”

You giggle against his chest, your fingers idly tracing over the swallows inked onto his skin. “I think he’s just concerned that I might be in some kind of secret underground fight club or something.”

Harry laughs, a full-bodied sound that shakes both of you. “Right. Because that’s the more likely scenario.”

“Exactly,” you tease, biting back a grin.

His laugh fades into something softer, more intimate, as his fingers slide down your back. Then, without warning, he shifts, rolling you onto your back so he’s hovering above you. His curls fall slightly into his face, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you beneath him.

His voice is lower now, edged with something deeper. “Maybe I like knowing that no one else gets to see you like this.”

Your breath catches. It’s moments like this—when the teasing fades, when the weight of what’s between you presses against your ribs—that make your pulse stutter.

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him hum in satisfaction. “You’re ridiculously possessive, you know that?”

He smirks, dipping his head so his lips hover just above yours. “And you love it.”

You don’t argue.

Instead, you let your lips brush against his in a slow, drawn-out kiss, savoring the way he melts into you. His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating between you, but it’s not rushed this time. It’s lazy and indulgent, like you have all the time in the world.

Which, of course, you don’t.

You sigh against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “So, the gala.”

Harry groans, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Way to ruin the mood.”

You laugh, running your fingers down his back. “I’m just saying—we’re really going to pretend we don’t even know each other all night?”

He exhales heavily, propping himself up on his elbows. “No flirting, no sneaky touches, no slipping away together,” he confirms, voice laced with mock seriousness.

You let out an exaggerated groan, throwing an arm over your face. “How am I supposed to act like I don’t want to drag you into a closet all night?”

Harry chuckles, but there’s something else in his expression now—something taut, restrained. “You don’t,” he says simply, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “You pretend you don’t want me.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You shift beneath him, already feeling the weight of what tomorrow will bring—the distance, the careful avoidance, the act you’ll have to put on for the world.

Harry pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Think you can handle that?”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

No, you think. Probably not.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you force a smirk, pressing your palm against his chest. “Oh, absolutely,” you lie.

And Harry, the smug bastard, grins like he knows exactly how much of a lie that is.

Now you curse yourself for ever agreeing to this.

The flashing lights are blinding, the chaotic energy of the gala buzzing through the air as celebrities step out of sleek black cars, each one greeted by a wave of deafening screams. The photographers shout names, demanding poses, each snap of their cameras preserving fleeting moments for the world to analyze later. It’s all so polished, so orchestrated, yet it feels suffocating.

And Harry?

He’s already here.

You watch from the backseat of your car as he steps onto the carpet, buttoning his perfectly tailored suit jacket with the kind of effortless charm that makes the world swoon. His presence commands attention—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a smirk so devastating it could be classified as a lethal weapon. His dimple makes an appearance as he waves to the screaming fans, his rings glinting under the camera flashes as he adjusts his cuffs.

He looks like he was born for this.

And the worst part? He looks completely unaffected.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your dress as you watch him. He’s talking to an interviewer now, flashing that coy, knowing grin that makes people hang onto his every word. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you don’t need to. It’s the same carefully controlled persona he always wears in public—charming, composed, a little bit playful.

The side of your lip twitches. Bastard.

You’re still sitting in the car, waiting for your cue to step out, when you see it.

The shift.

One second, Harry’s engaged in conversation, his body relaxed. The next, his entire demeanor changes—his grip tightening around the glass in his hand, his jaw locking ever so slightly.

It takes you half a second to realize why.

You’ve been spotted.

Even from across the carpet, you feel the weight of his stare the moment you step out of the car. The cool night air barely registers against your skin as you straighten your posture, your carefully curated expression slipping into place. You’re aware of the way the crowd reacts—how the screams spike in volume, how the cameras angle toward you, how the buzz of murmured conversations follows in your wake.

You can feel Harry’s eyes on you.

But you don’t look at him.

You won’t.

Instead, you let your lips curve into a soft, controlled smile, pretending not to notice the ripple of attention your arrival has caused. You let the cameras take their fill, pausing just long enough for the photographers to capture the moment. Your outfit—a masterpiece of elegance and barely-contained sensuality—hugs your body in all the right ways, a choice you made with full awareness of the effect it would have.

And judging by the way Harry is gripping his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, you were absolutely right.

The red carpet is a practiced dance, one you know how to navigate flawlessly. You answer questions with ease, your responses light but distant enough to keep them guessing. You pose for the cameras, move toward the fan section, offering them your full attention.

That’s when it happens.

“Are you and Harry friends?”

The question is innocent enough, asked by a girl barely containing her excitement as she clutches her phone, ready to record your reaction.

You keep your smile intact. You don’t falter. “Yeah, of course! He’s lovely.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you hear it.

A barely contained giggle. A whispered assumption.

“She totally blushed. They’re hiding something.”

You force yourself not to react, but the air shifts just slightly, your composure settling a little tighter around your frame. You laugh lightly, as if the idea is ridiculous, before moving along with the conversation.

But Harry?

Harry hears it.

From across the room, his fingers flex, resisting the urge to drain the rest of his drink. He watches the exchange with careful disinterest, his expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But you know him. You recognize the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way his gaze darkens the moment your name is paired with his in that context.

Then, as if the universe is determined to push him closer to the edge, someone steps into your space.

It’s a man—some actor, charming and self-assured, the kind of person who knows exactly what effect he has. He leans in just slightly as he compliments your dress, his tone playful, his body language open. It’s harmless. Flirtatious, but harmless.

But from across the room?

Harry doesn’t look at it that way.

Your awareness of him sharpens. Even without turning your head, you know he’s watching. You can feel it in your bones, the heat of his stare like a brand against your skin.

You tilt your head, letting yourself laugh at something the actor says, just for good measure. Just to push back at the invisible tether Harry has wrapped around you.

Then you make the mistake of looking.

It’s quick. A glance. Barely a second.

But it’s enough.

Harry’s gaze locks onto yours, the weight of it nearly stealing the breath from your lungs. His fingers tap against the side of his glass, his lips pressing together in a way that tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

A silent challenge.

You swallow, looking away first.

Then, just when you think the tension has reached its peak, the night conspires against you once again.

The little moments start stacking up.

In passing, your hands brush—just a second too long. A lingering whisper of contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

Harry leans in to whisper something to a friend, but his lips nearly graze the edge of your ear as he passes. The warmth of his breath ghosts against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

And then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—you witness the moment that nearly breaks your resolve.

She’s stunning, the actress who leans in too close to him, her laugh like honey as she touches his arm in a way that feels practiced. You don’t know what she’s saying, but it’s enough to make Harry smirk, enough to make his fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knee.

You grip your glass tighter.

“I swear to god…” you mutter under your breath, not even realizing you’d spoken aloud.

Then, without warning—without a sound—Harry is behind you.

His voice is a low, taunting whisper, barely audible over the noise of the party.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it through the night.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

Your pulse jumps.

But you don’t turn around.

Because you know exactly what will happen if you do.

You can feel him watching you, his presence a weight against your skin, a force pulling you in even when you’re trying to resist. It’s unbearable—the tension, the push and pull of this secret that has stretched between you for months. You grip your drink tighter, the condensation damp against your fingers, and force yourself to stay rooted in place.

You exhale slowly. Then, in a move that is as reckless as it is calculated, you turn on your heel and walk away.

You don’t look back.

Instead, you slip into the nearest group of people, throwing yourself into conversation like it’s effortless, like your pulse isn’t hammering against your ribs. You laugh—too loudly, too carelessly—letting the sound carry just far enough. Your fingers graze someone’s arm, your smile lingers for a second too long. You don’t even register what’s being said; the words mean nothing. The only thing that matters is what’s happening behind you.

What Harry is doing.

Or rather—what he’s about to do.

You feel it before you see it. The energy shifts. The air crackles with a new kind of charge.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch him.

Harry is watching.

His jaw is tight, his fingers flexing around the glass in his hand. He looks calm to the untrained eye, but you know better. You know that slight clench in his jaw, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the restless way his thumb drags along the rim of his glass.

You keep talking. You keep laughing.

And then Harry downs his drink in one swift motion, his throat moving as he swallows the last drop of whiskey. He sets the glass down with just a little too much force, and without a single word, he turns and walks away.

Your breath catches.

You don’t move. Not immediately.

You wait.

One second.

Two.

A full minute passes before you finally allow yourself to move.

You slip away, just as quietly as he did, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The further you get from the main event, the quieter it becomes. The music fades into the background, the distant murmur of conversation growing softer. Your heels click against the polished marble floor as you move down an empty hallway, your heart pounding harder with every step.

You don’t have to look for him.

You already know where he is.

The moment you turn the corner into the restricted hallway near the VIP lounges, you barely have time to register anything before—

Strong hands grab your waist.

You gasp as you’re yanked back against the wall, the cool surface biting through the heat radiating off your skin. The shock of it barely registers before Harry is there, his body flush against yours, his scent wrapping around you—something deep and warm, laced with the remnants of whiskey and frustration.

His voice is low, rough, each word vibrating against your skin.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

Your breath is uneven, your pulse a wild drumbeat beneath your skin.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, biting back a smirk. His eyes are dark, burning with barely contained hunger.

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” you murmur, resting your hands against his chest.

The muscle beneath his suit jacket is tense, coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then—

He kisses you.

Hard.

The second your back hits the wall, Harry’s on you. There’s no hesitation, no space, no air left between you. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and his grip on your waist is possessive, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away.

He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s been thinking about this all night—which, knowing him, he has. His mouth moves over yours, hot, open-mouthed, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours in slow, deep strokes that make your knees go weak.

You fist your hands in his shirt, yanking him closer, feeling the crisp fabric tighten under your grip. It’s unfair, really—how he gets to look so put-together while you’re already falling apart for him. His suit, all sharp lines and tailored edges, contrasts with the way your body melts against his, your dress already slipping up your thighs.

His hands wander, explore, claim—roaming down your sides, gripping your hips, guiding your body against his. He tugs at your dress, fingertips skimming beneath the hem, teasing the fabric higher—so high that his knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You shudder. He notices immediately.

A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips against yours, but he doesn’t say anything—just drags his hand higher, his fingertips just barely brushing the damp heat between your legs.

You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his shirt, and he chuckles—a low, dark sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re already shaking for me, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and teasing.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction just yet. Instead, you tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his eyes, and shift your hips forward—just the tiniest roll of your body against his.

The reaction is instant.

Harry groans—deep, rough, almost guttural—and his head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His fingers dig into your waist, tight, desperate, like he’s barely holding himself back.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he pants, his voice rough, vibrating against your skin.

You smirk, breathless but smug. “That’s dramatic.”

Harry lifts his head slowly, green eyes blazing with something dark and dangerous, and then—before you can blink—he rolls his hips into you, pressing his body flush against yours.

You feel everything—the solid heat of him, the hardness pressing against your core, the undeniable proof of just how much he wants you.

A gasp catches in your throat.

His lips brush against your jaw, and his voice drops lower, rougher, more strained.

“Am I?”

The hallway is too quiet, the distant sounds of the gala making this moment feel even riskier. Muted laughter, clinking glasses, the murmur of conversations—all of it feels like it’s happening in another world, one you’ve completely abandoned the second Harry pressed you against this wall.

It should be a warning. It should be a reason to stop.

But all you can focus on is him.

The way he’s crowding you, caging you in, body heat rolling off him in waves. The way his eyes stay locked on yours, pupils blown wide, like he’s daring you to tell him to stop. The way he’s breathing heavy, shoulders rising and falling, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Then his hands are moving.

Sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His fingertips graze the damp heat between your legs, teasing, barely there, but enough.

You whimper.

A quiet, desperate little sound that you try to swallow down.

But he hears it. Of course, he hears it.

And it makes him lose his patience.

His palm presses against you through the lace of your underwear, applying just the barest amount of pressure—but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, enough to send a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

His lips aren’t on your mouth anymore. They’re moving—hot and insistent—trailing along your jaw, then down to your throat, biting, sucking, his teeth scraping sensitive skin. He’s not careful, not like he normally is. He doesn’t care if he leaves a mark. Maybe he wants to.

Maybe he wants you to feel him long after this is over.

Your breath catches when his other hand finds your wrist and pins it to the wall beside your head. It’s not rough, but it’s firm. Controlling. Like he needs to keep you exactly where he wants you.

His voice is a murmur against your ear, low and wrecked.

"You’re already soaked."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you squirm against his hand, hips pushing toward his touch despite yourself.

"Wonder why," you breathe.

Harry chuckles darkly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, his fingers slip under the lace, dragging through your slick folds. He groans—low, deep, almost pained—his forehead pressing against yours like he’s trying to hold himself together.

"Fuck."

His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your stomach tighten, your thighs clenching around his hand. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and your breath stutters, your fingers twisting in his shirt.

You bite your lip so hard it nearly hurts, trying to suppress the moan that’s threatening to spill out.

Harry watches you, studying every tiny reaction, his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed like he’s mesmerized by the way you come apart for him.

Then he slides one finger inside you—slow but deliberate—pushing in deep, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp.

And then he adds a second.

Your back arches off the wall, nails digging into his shoulders, your body desperate for more.

"Feel so good," Harry grits out, his voice thick with lust. His fingers work you open, slow and steady, curling just right, dragging against your walls until your thighs are shaking. His restraint is slipping—you can feel it.

"Always so fucking tight for me."

His words make your breath hitch, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You try to hold on, try to keep some kind of control, but his fingers are relentless, moving in and out of you, stroking your clit in slow, precise circles.

"Harry—" Your voice is barely a whisper, your eyes fluttering shut. "Someone’s gonna hear us—"

His free hand leaves your wrist, and before you can react, he covers your mouth, his palm warm against your lips, muffling the tiny sounds spilling out of you.

A smirk tugs at his lips, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

"Then you better be quiet, baby."

Harry’s fingers leave you, leaving behind nothing but an unbearable ache, an emptiness that makes your body tense with need. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands move fast, frantic, reaching for his belt, undoing the buckle with sharp, impatient movements.

You’re gasping, panting, your nails digging into his shoulders, hips rolling up to meet his, desperate for more. For him.

But then—he stops.

You barely notice at first, too caught up in the heat, too lost in the way his body presses into yours, how close you are to getting what you need. But then you feel it—the hesitation. The stiffness in his muscles. The way his forehead suddenly drops to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling with deep, frustrated breaths.

And then he curses.

"Shit. Fuck."

His voice is low, rough, like he’s physically forcing himself to stop. Like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

Your body stills, your mind foggy and desperate, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"What?" you whisper, blinking up at him, confused, needing answers, needing him to keep going, needing him to fix whatever’s wrong.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, his jaw tight, his fingers threading through his curls in frustration. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from kissing you, his whole body wrecked with restraint.

"I don’t have a condom."

The words hit like a slap of cold air against overheated skin.

Your stomach flips, pulse pounding in your ears. You should stop. You both should.

This is the moment.

The moment to take a breath, to come to your senses, to remember that this is a mistake. That it’s reckless, that it’s too risky, that there are a million reasons why you shouldn’t do this.

But none of them matter.

Because the heat between you is unbearable. Because your body is screaming for him, because the throbbing ache inside you is too strong to ignore, because stopping now would feel more painful than giving in.

Because you don’t care.

Your throat feels tight, your breath shaky as the words slip out before you can even think about them.

"I don’t care."

Harry’s head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours so fast it makes you shiver.

His eyes—dark, intense, searching—burn into you, like he’s trying to see if you really mean it. Trying to find a reason to stop, a reason to be the responsible one.

But all he finds is desperation.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath uneven.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, raw, almost pained—like he wants this so fucking bad but needs to hear you say it again.

Your legs tighten around his waist, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible, but it’s all it takes.

His control snaps.

Harry’s mouth crashes against yours—hot, messy, consuming—all teeth and tongue and raw need. His kiss is desperate, like he’s trying to devour you, trying to silence every thought, every doubt that should be pulling you both apart.

But there’s nothing else in this moment. Nothing but him.

His hands are greedy, impatient, everywhere all at once—roaming over your thighs, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair—taking, taking, taking, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you against him.

He drags your underwear to the side, not bothering to remove them, just getting them out of his way. The fabric is soaked, ruined, and he groans when he feels just how wet you are, just how ready.

There’s a shaky, fumbling urgency to the way he shoves his trousers down, just enough, just far enough to free himself, because there’s no time for anything else.

No time to think.

No time to stop.

His cock presses against you, hot and aching, the tip slick with need.

You tense in anticipation, body going rigid, your fingers digging into his back as you feel him right there—so close, too close, not close enough.

Then—he pushes in.

A sharp, deep stretch, the overwhelming burn of being filled so fast, so suddenly, so completely.

You can feel every inch of him—thick, hard, hot, pressing deep, stretching you open until it’s almost too much.

Your lips part on a gasp, a sharp, startled moan spilling from your throat before you can stop it—

But Harry is faster.

His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cry, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath shaky and uneven as he tries to hold himself together.

"Shhh," he rasps, his voice wrecked, strained, like he’s just barely keeping control.

His jaw is clenched so tight, his arms shaking from the effort of not losing himself completely. His fingers dig into the plush of your thigh, his other hand flexing against your mouth, making sure you stay quiet.

"Fuck," he groans, voice low and guttural, his breath hot against your lips.

"Fuck, you feel so good."

You clench around him, the pressure making your whole body arch, making your legs tighten around his waist, your nails biting into his biceps.

"So deep," you whisper against his palm, already breathless, already drowning in him.

Harry lets out a choked, strangled sound, his head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck.

He grips your hip tighter, yanks your thigh up higher, angling you just right—

Then he moves.

His first thrust is slow, deep, pulling out just enough before sinking back in, like he’s savoring it, like he’s relishing the way you stretch around him, the way your body grips him so perfectly.

Then—he snaps.

His hips slam into you, his movements turning frantic, punishing, wild, as if he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore.

It’s rough, raw, overwhelming, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve, making you feel every inch, every inch, every inch.

The wall is solid behind you, but it does nothing to ground you, nothing to brace you against the way he’s pounding into you, forcing the breath from your lungs with every sharp, perfect thrust.

Your hands scramble for purchase, fingers clutching his shoulders, his hair, his back, anything to hold on to.

The contrast is unbearable—the cold marble against your back, the scorching heat of his body against yours, the wetness pooling between you, the rough press of his fingertips against your thigh, your hip, your waist.

"I can feel you squeezing me," he pants, voice deep, wrecked, laced with pure lust.

His teeth graze your jaw, his breath hot, heavy, uneven as he presses deeper, harder, better.

"You close, baby?"

You can’t even think.

All you can do is nod frantically, your nails scratching down his back, your voice breaking, muffled against his shoulder.

"So close—please don’t stop."

He lets out a low, throaty growl, his hands tightening, his hips slamming into you even harder, rougher, faster.

"I got you," he grits out, his voice tight, desperate.

"Let go for me."

And you do.

It hits you all at once—a blinding, earth-shattering pleasure that crashes through you so violently it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your walls clench, pulse, flutter around him, drawing him in deeper, tighter, squeezing him so hard he lets out a wrecked, strangled moan.

Your whole body locks up, then shakes, trembles, collapses as your orgasm tears through you, leaving nothing behind but a pounding heartbeat and the echo of his name on your lips.

Harry doesn’t last long after that.

His rhythm stutters, his grip on your body tightens, his breath turning ragged, uneven, choked.

Then—he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep, so deep, as deep as he can go—and he lets go.

A deep, shaky groan rumbles from his chest as he spills into you, his fingers digging into your hips so tight it’s almost painful.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but harsh breaths, trembling limbs, the sound of racing hearts.

Your bodies are still pressed together, still locked in place, neither of you willing to move, to let go, to face what you’ve just done.

No space between you.

No words.

Just the wreckage of this moment, of the heat, of the mess you’ve made together.

The world around you is silent.

Or maybe your ears are still ringing from the intensity of it all—the overwhelming pleasure, the crash of your heartbeat in your skull, the way your body is still trembling from the aftershocks.

You’re breathless, boneless, your limbs heavy and warm, still wrapped around him, still feeling the echo of where he’s been, of where he still is.

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Harry’s forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and unsteady, his chest rising and falling against yours in the same frantic, uneven rhythm.

His hands haven’t left your body—fingertips tracing over the dips of your waist, the curve of your thigh, like he can’t stop touching you, even now.

He should feel guilty.

He should regret this.

This was reckless, stupid, dangerous.

Someone could’ve caught you.

Someone still might.

But instead of guilt, instead of remorse, instead of the sinking weight of what the fuck have we done—

All he feels is satisfaction.

His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement flickering in his dark, lazy eyes, like he already knows what you’re about to say.

And sure enough—

"We’re so gonna get caught one day," you breathe, still a little dazed, still not sure you can feel your legs yet.

A smirk spreads across his face, slow and wicked, as his fingers brush damp hair from your forehead, his other hand still gripping your thigh, holding you in place, keeping you where he wants you.

He shifts slightly—just enough to remind you that he’s still inside you, still buried so deep it makes your breath hitch.

Then he whispers, low and deliberate, his lips brushing against yours—

"Worth it."

You leave first.

Your legs are still shaky, your breath uneven as you move quickly down the hallway, trying to compose yourself before stepping back into the crowd. The moment you’re back under the bright lights of the gala, surrounded by elegant chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses, it’s like stepping into a completely different reality.

You fight the urge to touch your lips, knowing they’re still kiss-bruised and swollen from Harry’s mouth on yours. Instead, you fish through your clutch with trembling fingers, pulling out your compact mirror and flipping it open, only to let out a quiet curse under your breath.

Your lipstick is completely ruined.

Smudged at the edges, faint traces of it smeared beyond the natural curve of your lips, a dead giveaway to what you’ve been doing.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

You tilt your chin slightly, angling the mirror lower—your neck burns with the ghost of his teeth, the imprint of his mouth. You squint at your reflection, but you don’t have to look closely to see the faint red bloom of a mark beginning to form just under your jaw.

Jesus. You need to fix this.

Your heart pounds as you swipe a fingertip over your lips, smoothing away the damage as best you can, trying to make yourself look normal, untouched, innocent. You pat at your flushed cheeks, inhale a steadying breath, and pull your dress back into place before making your way deeper into the room.

No one is paying attention to you.

Or at least—that’s what you tell yourself.

Because the truth is…some people are.

The ones who notice everything.

The ones who have been watching you both all night.

It’s only five minutes later when Harry returns.

And that’s when the whispers really start.

📱 Twitter Explodes:

@YNUpdates: "Harry and Y/N disappeared at the SAME TIME and now her lipstick is smudged??? Someone explain." 👀

@Hstylesfan88: "Tell me why Harry looks wrecked after being ‘away’ for 20 minutes???"

@Directioner_for_life: "LOOK AT THIS. WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE JUST GOT LAID." [Attached: a blurry photo of Harry stepping back into the gala, tie loose, hair messy, jaw tight as he adjusts his suit.]

@StylinsonLover: "I swear to god if they’re secretly fucking and we don’t know I will RIOT."

It’s all so fast.

You don’t even realize how much people have picked up on until your phone vibrates in your clutch, a message from a friend—

"You might wanna check Twitter."

Your stomach flips as you glance around the room, trying not to be obvious as you spot him across the crowd.

And holy fuck, yeah—they’re right.

Harry looks wrecked.

His tie is loosened, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the strands of his hair slightly tousled, like someone’s fingers had just been gripping at it.

You swallow hard.

You shouldn’t be staring at him, shouldn’t be biting your lip at the sight of him still looking a little ruined from fucking you against the wall.

And yet—

The way he carries himself so effortlessly, the way his expression is calm, unaffected—like he hasn’t just been inside you, like he hasn’t just come undone in the deepest parts of you—it’s infuriating.

Because you feel so obvious.

Like everyone in this goddamn room knows.

And the worst part?

Maybe they do.

--

The night is winding down, the music softens, the lights dim just slightly, and the energy in the room shifts from excitement to exhaustion.

People start to leave in waves—celebrities slipping out with their teams, photographers packing up their equipment, security guiding fans toward the exits.

You keep your distance.

You have to.

For months now, you and Harry have been careful—so careful.

Because if anyone found out, the questions wouldn’t stop.

Who made the first move? Who was the one who set the rules? Who got attached first? Who’s more obsessed? Is it real? Is it fake? When did it start? How will it end?

You already know what the media would say.

That you are just another girl Harry’s using.

That he is just another celebrity falling into a meaningless fling.

That this is just another story waiting to be ripped apart, twisted into something ugly, overanalyzed until there’s nothing left.

They wouldn’t understand that it’s not like that. That it’s never been like that.

So, you play your part.

You pretend.

You act like you’re just another guest in the room, sipping champagne and offering polite smiles and nods.

And you ignore the way your skin still burns where he touched you.

But every few minutes—you feel him.

A glance across the room.

A flick of his eyes down to your lips.

A tiny smirk when you press them together, nervous, flustered, still feeling him everywhere.

Your cheeks heat up, and you force yourself to look away, heart hammering.

You have to be careful.

But then—just as you think you’ve made it out without another close call—

A hand on your wrist.

Warm. Quick. Certain.

Your breath catches as you turn, only to find him there, impossibly close, standing just slightly behind you, tucked into the shadows where no one else can see.

Your stomach tightens.

You don’t even have time to react before his fingers slide down, trailing over your palm, catching your hand in his.

His grip is gentle but sure, fingers threading through yours like this isn’t just another secret touch. Like he’s holding on.

Your pulse jumps, and his thumb brushes over it, tracing the rapid rhythm.

When you meet his gaze, his eyes are dark, still hooded from everything you’ve done tonight, but there’s something else there now, too. Something deeper.

"See you later?" he murmurs, voice low, teasing, soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

You should let go.

You should be careful.

But instead, you lace your fingers through his.

Tighter. Certain.

You tilt your head, let a slow smile curve at your lips, and whisper back—

"Yeah."

A pause.

A flicker of something dangerous. Something real.

Then, his hand squeezes yours—a silent promise—before he finally lets go, slipping away into the crowd.

But this time, you don’t just feel his touch lingering on your skin.

You feel him everywhere.

And you already know—

This isn’t just some secret anymore.

It’s too much. Too intense, too deep, too important to be treated like something you can just hide forever.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing a hand over your dress, mentally preparing yourself to leave.

And that’s when you hear it.

A sharp click.

A hushed gasp.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

You turn your head—just in time to see a fan clutching their phone, eyes wide, staring straight at you.

The screen still glowing.

Still open to the camera app.

Your stomach drops.

The fan’s mouth parts like they might say something—might call out your name, might ask if what they just saw was real.

Your breath catches, a cold chill racing up your spine.

And then—

They take off.

Vanishing into the crowd.

With their phone.

With the photo.

With the secret you and Harry just lost.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 2]

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

@oscahpastry

@mema10

@angelbabyyy99

@iloveharrystyles04

@cinemharry

@drwho06

@donutsandpalmtrees

@panini

@mads3502

@imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa

@one-sweet-gubler

@rizosrizos26

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@hello-heyhi

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@watarmelon212

[slimepuparibaba]

hi hear me out again

having half-lemurian twins with rafayel

one is a boy, one is a girl, very adorable, this one goes over the early stages of it all (the pregnancy and shortly after the delivery basically, so newborn)

the one thing i know for certain is that rafayel will immediately drop everything and go on art hiatus (as a public artist, this man will still do art for personal stuff) and start contacting as many lemurians as possible (man wants to do this right, he cannot mess this up, you need to be safe, the babies need to be safe)

he will treat you with utmost care, watch out for your needs, make sure you know you are loved and that you're beautiful and that he is with you every step of the way. he will make sure that you feel encouraged, will tell you how amazing you're doing, carrying the babies. he will cook, he will clean, he will do anything you ask of him so long as you request it (he loves you so much btw)

his bigger paintings are now on pause and instead he is now brainrotting over what the babies would look like, what their tails might look like, and thats really all he's sketching in his free time. he's genuinely so excited to meet them, he will talk to your tummy every now and then.

"hey my little pearls, how are you? are you treating mommy okay? make sure to let her get some sleep, don't kick her too much!"

he loves you so much, I am telling you he is so in love with you, and you have this glow around you as you're carrying the babies, he will want to hold your stomach and he will cuddle you (ONLY IF YOU WANT HIM TO I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH IF YOU DO NOT WANT HIM TO HE WILL OBEY—)

he actually cleaned up the studio (he doesn't want you to fall and get hurt, his chaos is now reserved for his own space that he set aside that you can't enter), he has so many books and online articles on parenting (he is anxious af and worries about being a good dad), and he is also... VERY HYPERAWARE THAT YOU ARE A HUMAN

HE IS MORE STRESSED BECAUSE YOUR TWINS ARE HALF-LEMURIAN AND HE IS PANICKING

ultimately the way most lemurian births work is THEY HAVE TO BE IN THE WATER. BUT YOU ARE A HUMAN. AND IT SCARES HIM, BECAUSE HE DOESN'T WANT ANY COMPLICATIONS

he wants nothing tearing, he doesn't want you hurt, but the lemurian midwives are like "hey, your babies come out with the tails, they need to be in the water for this to work"

ultimately both of you are trusting the lemurian midwives for this and they are very helpful every step of the way, rafayel is also very keen on asking questions just to ensure you and the babies are safe

by the time the birth happens, you're in a small pool of water that's now deemed the nursing pool. when the babies come out, they're so tiny and their tails are super soft and fleshy, their scales haven't grown in yet and need time to really set in

they're sort of wading in the water and rafayel is advised to get in the nursing pool with you so the babies familiarize themselves with a lemurian parent and also their human parent (they need to form an attachment quickly to both of you), so rafayel is in his lemurian form, and boy is he about to cry

your babies are so small. he's in awe at how tiny they are, how precious the two little lives you've been carrying in your stomach could possibly be. their hands are smaller than his fingers, their tails are soft and they're so small.

but most importantly, you did so well. and he's thanking you over and over again for trusting him, for giving birth to wonderful miracles, for letting him be a dad and for being their mom, he's just so thankful because this is a future he's wanted for so long and he never expected to have it with you

as the twins grow up, they'll be situated mainly in the nursing pool but need to be under strict supervision, so expect rafayel to be the one sleeping in there in lemurian form for most hours of the day (he knows you get cold and need a break from the water)

I cannot stress this enough, rafayel is such an eager father to these little babies and he will do everything in his power to make sure they grow up healthy and happy (he doesn't want them to grow up the way he did after witnessing lemurian tragedy), he wants them to know how loved they are, how beautiful this world is, and also he wants to make sure that you know how loved you are too

he'll always gush about how cute the babies are and how they look just like you but how their mommy is the prettiest of them all, he'll check up on you for breaks while you're nursing them in the pool and offer to switch in. you're a team, a dynamic duo, and the babies being born will never change that

ok that ends my brainrot session (I have others for the rest of the boys and their children, they're at different stages of life tho and Xavier adopts actually so he's like the most different whoops lmk if you want those too ig?)

also yes he did lay lemurian eggs in you THAT IS NOT THE POINT OF THIS POST, THAT IS TO BE DISCUSSED IN ANOTHER ONE, WE WILL DISCUSS ANATOMY AT ANOTHER TIME

[omorithedreamermod]

JUNE DEVLOG

June DEVLOG time for OMORI THE DREAMER and...some big things have happened.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION:

In even more contrast to prior optimism, it seems the entire DREAMER release timeline will be overhauled. Due to the size of the story, the assets that relies on other's to complete, and the large amount of new assets far outweighing the amount in the PRELUDE...

From now on, we will be following a "CHAPTER BY CHAPTER", or in accordance to DREAMER's naming conventions, a "BOOK BY BOOK" release schedule. So, instead of waiting for the entire game to come out and getting overloaded with way too much content, books will be released in this sequence; BOOK 1 - KEL BOOK 2 - AUBREY BOOK 3 - HERO BOOK 4 & 5 - BASIL + ???

The final release of Book 4 & 5 will be the entire game. Each new release will include the chapters before, and save files will carry over. I believe this will be better overall for development, and for you guys to experience the story without being overwhelmed. The current plan is for BOOK 1 to release in the fall, and for BOOK 2 to release before the end of the year. I want this project completed in 2026, and with the additional time, hopefully everything will be at a higher quality. The narrative was already built in this book by book format, so nothing is actually changing besides release dates!

I'm sorry if this is frustrating to hear, but I'm confident this is better overall for both players and definitely for the team. We are not in development hell–people just have actual lives and are not being paid to work on this, so it can't be a priority. Still, the goal is a timely release schedule, with each book getting its own release trailer. I hope you can still look forward to the releases ^^

PROGRESS (BOOK ONE):

Due to the time of the year and a certain game releasing, a lot of the team was busy. Progress significantly slowed, but will hopefully pick back up again. Unfortunately, I cannot help with tile-set creation as it's outside of my wheelhouse (though I'll do my best to learn in the future!) so that team has a lot of pressure on them to handle SECTION TWO tile-sets on their own. Hopefully in the future I can help carry the burden. For now, it'll take as long as it needs to to avoid stress, but hopefully the internal deadlines can still be met!

Music is coming along amazing, and once again, there is going to be a large soundtrack coming with the chapter. Lots to see and lots to hear!

As of now, I'm making as much art and surrounding assets as I can while waiting for SECTION TWO to be ready for programming and writing. Progress is steady but certainly not at the breakneck pace it used to be. I got severely burnt out after continuing to work on THE DREAMER right after PRELUDE release and churning out SECTION ONE...but I am recovering! I'll bounce back passionately soon enough! I'm learning more and more how to rely on others and be patient with myself.

Battling is in the process of being overhauled and fixed up, and that will be available for the Book 1 release still!

For SECTION THREE, progress is also steady, though similarly significantly slowed. Still, nearly all maps are actively being mad, so it's looking very promising. Bug fixing still needs to happen for SECTION ONE, though...

CONCLUSION:

Wish us luck. A lot of luck. And for more pixel artists to sign up. This mod is on the right track and will certainly be completed! Just...at a more steady pace than originally assumed. On the bright side, that means you guys don't have to wait as long for more of THE DREAMER! Yay!

[guided-by-stars]

Siffrin deals with his anxieties (both rational and irrational) by performing rituals and compulsions. These rituals can become obsessive, especially in times of heightened stress, and often focus around either checking things, or numbers. They also deal with intrusive thoughts, with such frequency and intensity that it impacts their ability to function. Those...are all symptoms of OCD.

Let's define some terms, before we go into examples. What are obsessions in this context? This often refers to obsessive thoughts/anxieties/mindsets. These are prevalent, reoccurring, sometimes disturbing, often irrational fears. Intrusive thoughts are one example of this, though not all obsessions are intrusive thoughts. Intrusive thoughts are specifically unwanted and very distressing and often graphic thoughts or images in one's mind. An example of such is this:

Next, are compulsions and rituals. Compulsions are actions that one takes to break the obsession spiral. These either soothe the root fear (though usually temporarily), or quiet the disturbing thought or image. Rituals are "safe" compulsions, decided as such either by repetition or irrational logic. The wording that Siffrin uses when questioned about obsessive checking of pillars is as follows:

One of the most common mental justifications for compulsions is "But what if?". The perceived cost of performing a compulsion is often weighed as nothing against the potential of something truly awful happening. "What if?" carries a lot of weight for people dealing with OCD- often one knows that both the fears and the compulsions are irrational and logically one cannot control the Universe by tapping a certain amount of times on a table, checking for the tenth time if your alarm was set, or repeating a phrase multiple times in your mind. However, the weight of the potential fear is just so great that one cannot take the chance, even knowing that. This paradoxical position of both awareness and delusion that many with OCD have is called "OCD with insight" (1)

This post became....much longer than I planned, so the rest will be under the cut. Please read the rest though!!! There's so much more to it! ☆

The diagnostic criteria for OCD in the ICD (2) and the DSM (3) are relatively similar (though the DSM focuses a lot more on ruling out other causes for similar behavior like anxiety disorders and delusional disorders), and focus on the obsessions being self-sustaining and the rituals being often time consuming and frustrating to have to do. However, not all compulsions are even notable enough to the person to cause any frustration or discomfort, nor are all of them consciously done with any sort of logic behind them. It's quite common for people to perform compulsions without even having a reasoning for why (4).

Hey, weren't we talking about Siffrin ISAT? What's with all this research paper bullshit? Can't you just show me where in the game my blorbo shows signs of mental disorders???!?

Well, one example of rituals that Siffrin engages in is repeating phrases, either out loud or in their head. The number they tend to come back to, again and again, is three. This is shown when they are explaining Wish Craft, and despite the fact that the specific number of repetitions of your wish genuinely doesn't matter, just that it's repeated at all, they instinctively say to repeat your wish three times, before catching themselves and correcting their error.

...When Loop explains their Wish to Siffrin, they say it three times as well. "I wished it could be over. I wished I could get out of here. I wished for someone to help me."

Whenever Siffrin wants something to go right, throughout the game, he also almost always repeats his desired outcome three times.

It's a noticeable enough habit that his party members mention it, when in the trap room. They've noticed the ritualistic mumbling that he does whenever he wants something to go right.

It's not just when they want something to go right that they're doing it though. They repeat things three times when they're panicking, too, to calm themselves down. When they loop back after beating the king:

It's not even just thinking or saying things either, they take actions in threes too, to soothe themselves. After Kingquest:

You can see both thinking things in threes and acting in threes here. It's everywhere. If you look through the game again, you won't be able to help but notice how often they do things in threes.

Speaking of the coughing though, that's another one of the compulsions they do. Covering their mouth, coughing, gagging, they do all of those when trying to banish disturbing memories or thoughts from their mind.

After looping when refusing to try to say the name of their country when the King asks.

Notice again, they repeat "You know" three times. Like I said, you'll start seeing that EVERYWHERE now.

To note, if you try to say it once and try not to say it another time, you'll get this instead:

Three breaths, here.

I could go on, but I don't think I need to.

Another important factor when considering OCD is the need for control. People with OCD not only report a lower level of perceived control over their thoughts and actions, and not only tend to need a higher level of control than the average person to feel safe and comfortable, but also, the less control over their environment they have, the more that OCD symptoms often intensify. (5)

Siffrin is in a paradoxical position here, in regards to control. When they first realize they're in a timeloop, they're absolutely ESTATIC. The first bathroom break monologue exemplifies exactly WHY he's so euphoric at this point:

He's euphoric with CONTROL. No matter what happens, he can always try again. He's safe. He can keep everyone he loves safe. He has SO MUCH CONTROL.

When the illusion shatters, after he's dragged back when they beat the king, that's when he realizes how little control he actually has. Sure, he can decide when he loops (most of the time) but he can't decide to STOP looping. He's trapped. The more he tries to escape, the less control he seems to have (Eg, what happens to Bonnie). After that, we can see him start to have intrusive thoughts, engage in more ritualistic behavior, and end up in more unhealthy anxiety spirals.

...And, we see him lean into the little control he DOES have (looping) more. Any time he's in a stressful situation? Any time that the control he has over a situation starts slipping away? Is Bonnie yelling at him with tears in their eyes and telling him to die? Is Isabeau pulling away from their shaking grip on his collar? Is Odile confronting him on his suspicious behavior? Are things OUT OF CONTROL? ...Control is taken back. Forcefully. He can't handle loosing more control, not when he already feels so helpless and trapped.

Talking about the bathroom scenes, there's another one I want to point out. The first Friendquest run. It's the perfect example of delusional anxieties and compulsions used to quiet the distressing thought, rather than soothe them.

...Yeah.

Siffrin is suddenly overcome with the anxiety that the simple act of believing that his plan could work will somehow make it not come true anymore. This is an example of "magical thinking", or a belief that defies the scientific or culturally accepted laws of causality (eg. "If I step on a crack, my mother's back will break"). It's specifically an example of TAF, or "Thought-action fusion", which is the belief that one's mere thoughts can cause completely unrelated actions to happen in the real world. This is an essential part of how compulsions can genuinely relieve anxiety, and is actually one of the differences between those with other anxiety disorders and those with OCD. Magical thinking is essential to OCD. (6)

This exchange also showcases an example of how compulsions done to quiet rather than to soothe can sometimes involve self harming behaviors to "shake" the thought out of one's mind. In this case, him hitting his own head and focusing on the pain rather than on the thought. Most definitely not a healthy way to deal with it! But what else do we expect from Siffrin, honestly.

Another example of a self-harming compulsion being used to "shake" out a distressing and unwanted thought, also including a more minor example of magical thinking:

Researchers and psychologists have often attempted to divide OCD into subtypes. This has usually been done because different types of obsessions often demand different treatment plans. (7) The actual divisions have varied from researcher to researcher, but one type that consistently comes up, is harm OCD/moral OCD. (Of note, one person usually, but not always, fits into multiple subtypes. I personally think Siffrin fits into multiple) Harm OCD is characterized by a fixation on believing one is a bad person and causing harm to others, often despite others expressing the contrary. This often comes along with very intense self-criticism and judgement.

After repeating a Friendquest route multiple times:

Mal Du Pays fight:

Siffrin specifically is fixated on the worry that the knowledge that they gained by looping gives them an unfair power dynamic with their party, and taking any action informed by that knowledge means that they're taking advantage of them or forcing them to do what he wants. This is despite the fact that, no matter what he chooses to do, they are still autonomous beings who do what they want. He has less control than he thinks.

Also from the Mal Du Pays fight:

("You should've died for me. You should've died to protect me. You should've died to protect me.", "You can wish and wish and wish all you want.", "They'll forget you. They'll forget you. They'll forget you.")

And what of Loop? They're also a Siffrin, right? Examination of the self from an outside perspective has given them time to introspect a bit more. They directly name and point out one of Siffrin's rituals. @dormont pointed this out, in one of his posts. (8)

Loop says, here:

They understand why Siffrin is doing this. Siffrin is afraid that he'll forget again. There was no warning, before the Island vanished from everyone's mind. The coin is a physical reminder that he forgot his first family, that he can't forget this one too. He often rolls it in his pocket, but sometimes grips it tightly, or flips it. In his mind, touching it will prevent him from forgetting again.

Now this is fascinating when thinking about One Hat, because in that eventuality Siffrin, after failing to find Loop at the Favor Tree, leaves his coin where Loop used to sit. This shows that he's doing better mentally, in Act 6. That he trusts himself more to remember, that he doesn't need the coin anymore.

Throughout the game, Loop keeps the comedy mask glued tight to their starry face. Because of that (and the fact that we don't see inside of their head), we don't get to see much of their own obsessions or compulsions. But there is one time where their mask slips. During Two Hats.

When they start becoming more and more distressed, they fall back into repetitions of three:

And if they win the fight....

And after the fight...

But of course, it's not all in distress. What was I saying, at the start of the post? The other reason why Siffrin repeats things in threes? When he wants something to go right, right? When he has a desired outcome, when he's sharpening his knife, when he's carving a figure. "Please be sharp, please be sharp, please be sharp."? At the end of it all, as Loop is fading away:

"I'll see you again soon, I promise! I super promise! I super duper promise!"

And Siffrin understands exactly the intention and desire that they pressed into that repetition. After Loop is completely gone, they mirror their actions.

("You flip it once, twice, three times.")

("You will see each other again.")

Additional resources:

1: Taylor, E. (2020). Discordant knowing: A puzzle about insight in Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder. Mind & Language, 37(1), 73–93. https://doi.org/10.1111/mila.12301

(About the concept of insight in irrational cycles in OCD! Very interesting)

2: ICD 10: The complete official code set. Internet Archive. (2017).

(ICD 10, Account is needed to read the full thing)

3: American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed.)

(DSM 5, for reference)

4: Starcevic, V., Berle, D., Brakoulias, V., Sammut, P., Moses, K., Milicevic, D., & Hannan, A. (2011). Functions of compulsions in Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder. Australian & New Zealand Journal of Psychiatry, 45(6), 449–457. https://doi.org/10.3109/00048674.2011.567243

(Article about reasonings behind compulsions. Honestly I think a lot of the "other reasons" categorized here for compulsions are just...different manifestations of reducing anxiety. But it's still helpful to show how sometimes compulsions are done subconsciously)

5. Moulding, R., & Kyrios, M. (2007). Desire for control, sense of control and obsessive-compulsive symptoms. Cognitive Therapy and Research, 31(6), 759–772. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10608-006-9086-x

(Article around OCD and the need for control)

6. Kingdon, B. L., Egan, S. J., & Rees, C. S. (2011). The illusory beliefs inventory: A new measure of magical thinking and its relationship with obsessive compulsive disorder. Behavioural and Cognitive Psychotherapy, 40(1), 39–53. https://doi.org/10.1017/s1352465811000245

(Article about magical thinking/TAF/history of the other studies done on the importance of them in OCD & creating a better framework to assess them)

(7) McKay, D., Abramowitz, J. S., Calamari, J. E., Kyrios, M., Radomsky, A., Sookman, D., Taylor, S., & Wilhelm, S. (2004). A critical evaluation of Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder subtypes: Symptoms versus mechanisms. Clinical Psychology Review, 24(3), 283–313. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cpr.2004.04.003

(Critical overview of the concept of OCD subtypes and what their purpose is)

(8)

(Eve's post :]. Check the replies for more elaboration!)

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.4.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: mentions of injections (!) but nothing scary (just routine stuff), domspace, slight subspace, awkward sex talk, throat fucking, masturbation, some d/s etiquette (stoplight system), slight dacryphilia

author’s note: playlist here, @rennethen my beta, massive thank you and artist is @petitesieste ♡ + translations from Czech at the bottom!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

As the door shuts behind you, Viktor both regrets that the kiss wasn’t heated at all and is relieved that you are now gone, leaving him with no need to pretend his leg isn’t suffering the repercussions of last night.

He tightens the brace and retreats to the bedroom to swap the cane for a crutch—it’s going to be one of those days. It’s also going to be a day in which he cannot drive, so soon, he will follow your lead and get himself a cab to carry him from Islington to King’s Cross.

In the mirror, he can see his lips, kissed pinker than usual, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his neck marked in one spot that he hopes will be snugly obscured by his collar. Sharp angles are softened by bliss and warm slumber, subtle, barely noticeable. He can feel his dick faintly sore, his hip aching more than he expected, and he knows instantly—he is elbow-deep in something that will be incredibly hard to keep casual.

Because, impediments aside, his chest is pleasantly swollen with joy—purer than its source would suggest. Recharged, happy even, he does little to obscure the souvenirs of last night. A part of him wants Jayce to ask questions. And even though he won’t be able to tell the truth, he will be able to smile about it.

Someone aware and vacant but not yet shaped appearing at his feet, folded neatly, clean and crisp—that does not happen. Before, it was fleeting. Singulars or doubles with the better specimens, all of them inevitably saying, My ex used to. Interwoven between the plain and the regular when there was nothing else. Never had it left him so full, so calm. Never had it left him simultaneously restless, waiting for the next time. Never in such utter denial that this could be both the first time and the last. Never so hopeful for the endless next times.

Viktor changes into something warmer—August is already autumn here, rain on and off, the air thick with dampness. He wears a coat and scarf, an umbrella hooked over his bag, and the damn crutch keeps him upright as he waits for the cab.

Uncharacteristically for London, he arrives within a blink. Francis Crick greets him with its warehouse-like vastness, people bumping his shoulder and apologising as they move past. Jayce is already inside when Viktor steps into the lab, making coffee, his own neck carrying the marks of last night spent with Mel. Just like Viktor, he has done nothing to hide them.

“Got home safe?” Jayce asks, though the proof is right in front of him—breathing and walking wonkily.

“I was attacked multiple times on the short distance between the driveway and my building,” Viktor replies flatly, swapping his coat for a lab rendition of one. “But I managed to fight them all off.” He gestures toward Jayce’s neck with a smirk. “I see you fought someone too, hmm?”

“Oh.” Jayce’s hand snaps to his throat. “Yeah. Mel, she… she got really drunk,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “But I think she had fun.”

“I bet she had,” Viktor remarks dryly, rolling his eyes as he reaches for a mug, coffee waiting for him.

Jayce groans. “Alright, get off my back. What about you?”

Viktor glances at him, feigning innocence. “What about me?”

Jayce smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Did you have fun?”

“Absolutely,” Viktor replies smoothly, taking another sip.

“I bet you did.”

“Meaning?” Viktor raises a brow, though he already knows where this is going.

Jayce gestures vaguely at Viktor’s collar. “You call me out all you want, but I have eyes too, you know. Just… please don’t tell me it was with—”

“I got it before yesterday,” Viktor lies smoothly, cutting him off before he can finish that sentence.

Jayce squints at him, suspicion creeping into his expression. “I can’t remember you coming in with a hickey yesterday, Viktor.”

Viktor shrugs, nonchalant. “It’s not my fault your perception was stunted by nerves, Jayce,” he replies, tone clipped. Then, with a smirk, he adds, “Should I keep you informed at all times when I get laid?”

Jayce grins. “I wouldn’t mind.” Then, after a beat, he studies Viktor more carefully. “Something, uh… serious?”

“Ah, no, not at all,” Viktor lies again, answer coming too quickly. Jayce’s frown deepens, knowing. Before he can press further, Viktor nudges the conversation elsewhere, chin gesturing toward the stack of papers before them. “What are we dealing with today?”

Jayce sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Uh, you’re not gonna like it, man,” he warns, flipping through a few pages. “They keep pushing to change the direction.”

Viktor exhales sharply. “Any new ones, or are we still on turning people back to teenagers?”

“I’m afraid we’re still on that.” Jayce grimaces, tapping the folder.

“Ah, I see it’s imperative that the rich stay perpetually young instead of the sick getting aid,” Viktor mutters, voice laced with dry disdain. “Why am I not surprised.”

Jayce leans against the table, arms crossed. “Look, if we do something fast and present results that prove it impossible, maybe they will give it a rest.”

“Jayce, it’s such a waste of time.” Viktor shakes his head, adjusting his stance against the workbench. “Cancer won’t halt to wait for us finding a cure for old age.” He gestures sharply. “But we can find the cure for it. What’s more important?”

“Well, obviously cancer treatment,” Jayce concedes, pushing a hand through his hair. “But we will do nothing without funds.”

Viktor’s gaze sharpens. “Did Mel threaten that she will retreat if we don’t do this?”

Jayce shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he says quickly—then hesitates. “Her mother did, though.”

“Zatraceně,” Viktor mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Usually, the exchange would go on until it breaks into a bickering fight that dies off because Jayce just can’t stand conflicts. Today though, Viktor manages to play it all out it his head before it happens and settles for a solution that they would arrive at anyway, just after a week. With a sigh, he says, “Fine. What’s your angle?”

Jayce blinks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Viktor shrugs. “If we can’t convince them, it’s more time wasted.”

Jayce exhales and gathers the documents, flipping to a few key pages. “Okay, uh… I collected everything we did in the past that failed. And here is what we’ve been doing since the beginning of the year,” he explains, dragging a finger down a chart. “So I say… a month? Maybe two, two months of tests on mice, and we can probably call it a fail for, let’s say, another year.”

Viktor frowns, considering. “Any way of just… putting it down. For good?”

Jayce scoffs, shaking his head. “Finding a different investor,” he says, defeated.

“Why don’t we?” Viktor asks, tilting his head. Truly, why don’t they? Ockham’s razor, if the method doesn’t work change the method, all those wisdoms suddenly clear as day and instead of getting angry Viktor is as calm as stagnant water.

Jayce huffs a laugh. “Ah… wait. Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Viktor, but Mel—”

“What? Will break up with you?” Viktor cuts in smoothly.

Jayce frowns. “No. At least I hope not.”

“So?” Viktor challenges, raising a brow.

Jayce exhales, reluctant. “It will take time.”

“So will this,” Viktor counters easily. “If we both look in our free time, maybe we will find someone.”

“We don’t have free time, Viktor,” Jayce groans.

“Eh, don’t be so dramatic, Jayce,” Viktor smirks, leaning on his crutch. “I’m sure someone would be thrilled to have a cancer cure on their hands.”

Jayce considers, rubbing his jaw. “I mean… it’s possible. I guess I can ask Mel if she knows anyone.”

“There you go.” Viktor nods, satisfied.

Jayce narrows his eyes. “What the hell is with you today?”

“In what sense?” Viktor mutters in mock oblivion, his head dips between his shoulders as he is sipping his coffee.

“Why are you so fucking happy?”

Viktor smirks behind the rim of his mug. “I told you. I had fun last night,” he says, and it’s the truth this time.

Jayce rolls his eyes. “Aha, alright then. I will know, sooner or later.” He eyes Viktor’s stance. “How’s your leg?”

Viktor shrugs. “Been better. Nothing too bad, though.” He pick up the folder and turns on his chair. “Alright, I’ll go through it, you prep the lab?” Jayce only nods, still eyeing the crutch.

By lunchtime, Viktor has compiled about a thousand reasons why reversing aging is not only unethical but also impossible.

The telomere theory had long been paraded as the key to immortality—until it wasn’t. Scientists once believed that aging resulted primarily from the shortening of telomeres, the protective caps at the ends of chromosomes. Each time a cell divides, these caps erode, until eventually, the cell can no longer replicate properly. If telomere degradation could be stopped—or reversed—then so, theoretically, could aging itself.

But the reality is far more complex.

Extending telomeres doesn’t simply restore youth; it encourages uncontrolled cell growth—cancer. The body has natural safeguards for a reason, and bypassing them has proven disastrous. Tumours thrive on unchecked replication, turning what is meant to be a fountain of youth into a biological death sentence.

Which is why Viktor and Jayce are attempting to achieve the exact opposite. He taps his pen against the desk, scanning the reports before him. Even if the theory had held more promise, it was still a question of priority. But they have survived and braced through so much bullshit in the past that Viktor manages to settle into something resembling certainty—that whatever this outdated spurt is attempting, it will pass. And with its passage will come the freedom to pursue a goal far more important than a face free of wrinkles.

The rest of his day rolls between countless coffees, snacks that Jayce insists on bringing and, of course, work. By the time the sun sets his thoughts have drifted to you only three times, and only because he’s caught the glimpse of your lips imprinted on his neck each time he goes to the bathroom.

Until Jayce leaves and, inevitably, Viktor is left alone with his thoughts. And with his hands, which suddenly have nothing better to do than reach for his phone. He finds your number there, hastily exchanged right before you left for work. So he sends the text.

Normally, Viktor would put his phone away and check it again when the occasion arises, but now he gapes at it stupidly, waiting. Expecting.

Ignition is instant as three dots begin to jump by your initials, and Viktor hunches over as if that would make you type faster.

I have a thing in the evening, but I should be free at 10, if that’s not too late for you :)

Perfect, he replies—too fast to be dignified, but he cares not.

By the time 10 p.m. Saturday arrives, he is fucking giddy and nearly slaps himself when the buzzer goes off. When he waits for you at the door, crutch already exchanged, cane hanging on the coat rack, he smirks at the sight of you rolling out of the elevator in flat shoes, high heels dangling from your hand.

"Did you walk here?" he asks instead of hello, leaning against the doorframe.

You parrot him, pulling a face that attempts to distort his expression, mocking his tone. "No, genius," you say as you step through the door, tossing your shoes to the floor. "They won’t fit in my bag."

One brat point, Viktor thinks.

The second pair—the ones you’re wearing—you kick off, and as you do, Viktor asks, "How was your thing?"

"Do you really want to know?" you reply, turning—only to be met with him, lurking very, very close.

He smells good. Cheeks red. Shaking his head as he moves toward you, hands slipping under your skirt, sliding past your underwear as promised. Gliding over the round of your ass, lower, between your legs. Viktor can’t decide if this would be more fun with thighs or just as it is.

Your back meets the wall, your mouth meets his, your pussy meets his fingers in a small gathering of breaths and gasps. “Did you miss me?” you tease through exhales he allows, feeling the grin blooming against your lips.

“Are you going to be insufferable?” he hums. There is no answer to this—only a startled moan as two fingers plunge inside you. Viktor purrs, so, so pleased. “Oh, but you’ve missed me too, didn’t you?”

For you are dripping, the needy thing between your hips such a traitor.

You nod, defeated, twisting your fingers into his hair, nipping at his lip, kissing him deeply—tongue out, breathing him in as if you had been gone for a month. He tastes better when you’re sober. He tastes so much better. Feels so much better. His chest flush against yours, one hand on your neck, his forearm squeezed between your buttocks as he fingers you lazily. Your ass sticks out to meet his palm, to take more, to take him deeper.

“Greedy,” Viktor smirks as he pulls his mouth away from yours, a string of wet connecting your lips. You follow the trail, but he retreats further, shaking his head.

“We need to talk first,” he says, still playing inside you as if it’s nothing.

“You said too,” you breathe, ignoring him, pressing yourself into his neck, licking where the ghost of your mark still lingers. “So you have missed me.”

“Brat,” Viktor chuckles, but truth be told, he is utterly smitten. Defeated, too—right there with you, where your entire body begs for him. And you have no idea you’re already on three brat points, nor that he cannot fucking wait to cash them in.

But just to give you something, anything, he plucks your hand off his shoulder and places it on his crotch, whispering, “I have.”

You smile at him so sweetly Viktor would drop to his knees and eat you out if his hip weren’t still slightly busted. So, reluctantly, he pulls his fingers out of you, licks them clean in front of your very eyes—obscenely slow—then kisses you for good measure. Already wanton, you mess the shirt out of his trousers, fingers tugging impatiently, and he tsks, reprimanding,

“I meant it when I said I want to talk.”

“Fine,” you pout, fixing your skirt back in place with an air of put-upon suffering.

“Brat,” Viktor says again, but there’s a smile in it. Then, he reaches behind you, grabs his cane from the coat rack, and walks past you unceremoniously. He stops in the middle of the hallway, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow.

“Well? Are you coming?”

“I could answer that in so many ways, you know,” you reply, exasperated, but you still drag your bare feet across the floor, slinging your bag back over your shoulder.

Viktor’s smile lingers as he sees it. The sight makes him feel oddly warm—because you’ve brought clothes to change into this time.

And he is so unhurried, it drives you insane. Maddening, the way he just makes tea, pours milk into yours without asking, and then sits across from you at the kitchen table as you resume your negotiations. He leans back in his chair, fingers curled loosely around his cup, staring at you as if weighing how to begin.

The silence is unbearable. “Are you always so responsible?” you blurt, unable to sit still, let alone wait patiently. You crack your toes against the floor, pressing them down in a distorted caricature of pointe.

“I like to know where I’m at,” Viktor says, stern but measured, blinking slowly. Then, without preamble, “So. From the start. Protection?”

You blink. “Oh. Straight in?”

A beat, and when Viktor does absolutely nothing to ease your discomfort, you release a breathy chuckle. “Okay, um… I have a patch anyway, and—” You hesitate, shifting in your chair. “Please don’t think I’m a freak, but…” You reach into your bag and pull out your phone. Tugging a strand of hair behind your ear, you fiddle on the screen before placing it in front of him. “I donated blood last month at a charity event, and these are my results.”

His brow quirks.

“So, you can lose the rubber,” you mutter, swallowing. “If you want.”

Viktor says nothing at first, just studies you with that unreadable expression of his. Then, with the same ease as before, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and places it in front of you. The screen is already unlocked, a document open.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low. “I test regularly. Everything’s negative.”

That catches you by surprise, though you school your face quickly, forcing yourself not to dwell too much on whatever embers of unjustified jealousy try to crack open beneath your feet. Lip caught between your teeth, you glance down—not to check if he’s telling the truth, but to give yourself an extra second to think.

Then, quietly, heat creeping up your ears, you murmur, “No condom then.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to swallow something down. His gaze darkens, as images of what he can do with this newest ruling flash through his mind. His fingers tap once against the side of his cup before he hums, satisfied. “Good.”

His voice is so casual, so certain, it’s infuriating.

“Next… safe word?” Viktor asks. You cringe, a small, involuntary wince that does not go unnoticed. He tilts his head, expression softening, and before you can even muster the courage to tell him you haven’t got the faintest idea, he steps in. “Okay,” he says, tone even, patient. “Are you familiar with the stoplight system?”

“Yes,” you say, relieved at the reprieve.

“Is that better?”

“Yes, I can do that,” you nod, fingers curling into your lap.

“Alright.” Voice still matter-of-fact, eyes stay on you, gauging, reading. “And if you can’t speak, it’s two taps for slow down, and three for stop. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” You barely recognise your own voice. It’s breathless, eager, and a little too quick to comply.

Because God, this is so hot.

Dark blood stumbles slowly through your veins, brain slipping into focus, breaths deepen and all you can hear is his voice. All you can see is his sunken-cheeked face—a map of spectacular junctions you linger on—pools of his eyes, yes, dark, yes, wanting, but above all—kind. Above all, awakened and eager when he reads the answers before you even open your mouth.

Then, his nose, again, the hill of it, the way it slithers into his cheeks. Lower, the crown of his lip, a bud made to be sucked on. It moves when he says, “Brilliant.” The word rolls out, thick and heavy, makes the muscles of his jaw flex underneath the skin and to save yourself from second degree burn on your face, you retreat to the trick of nose staring. Nearly fails you again, when he scratches it and instead of it your mind drifts to where those fingers have been just moments ago.

He leans forward, hand crawling toward you, and you place your palms flat on the table. Not yet touching, but the promise is there.

“Anything you won’t do? Hard limits?” he asks evenly, arrogant smirk impossible to hide. “It can be all sorts of things, even the basics. Like cocksucking.”

At this point it’s inching toward cruel, a praying mantis foreplay, but you suspect you are the one about to end up a meal on his plate. With a deep breath, you manage, “I’m not opposed to it,” your voice steadier than you feel.

Viktor exhales through his nose, something caught between a hum and a chuckle. “That makes me very happy.”

“I bet it does,” you mumble before you can stop yourself, pulse thundering everywhere—in your chest, wrists, pounding between your ears and legs.

The smug smile he gives you in return is positively wicked. Four points.

“So… anything?” He watches you carefully, head tilting. Then, as if making a decision, he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table, his feet touch yours. “I’ll tell you what,” he continues. “If anything comes up, tell me. Even if randomly. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” A beat. “And you?” you ask, voice quieter.

A complete change. Viktor feels his chest flooding with warmth, eyes widen when he reaches out for your palms and cradles them in his. “Yes. I will make sure to tell you.” His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

It’s merely a glimpse of something. Then, his expression falls back into the sardonic kind, and after a pause, he asks, “How uncomfortable does this make you feel?”

You shift in your seat, squeezing his palms. “Very.”

His lips curl. “Good.” He tilts his chin, eyes lazily dropping down your frame. “Are you wet?” he asks, so casually it stirs the bottom of your stomach into a tight cramp and your thighs clench.

“Show me,” Viktor says, and you are already standing up, already moving without thought, drawn in by the quiet command.

By the time you reach the other side of the table, his hands are already on you—steady and sure. Your fingers press into his shoulders as his palm sneaks between your legs, testing, feeling, confirming.

“Very good,” he purrs, voice drenched in satisfaction. His teasing fingers stroke over the fabric. Then, with a small tug, arms pull you forward.

“Now, come here,” he murmurs, his grip firm but careful. “One last thing.”

He guides you to straddle his lap, and you settle against him easily, warmth pooling where your bodies meet. The shift makes your skirt roll up, your underwear now completely visible, but Viktor’s eyes don’t drop—they linger on your face, on something softer.

His fingers reach for the high, snug collar of your turtleneck. He peels it back, unrolling the fabric slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Then, as soon as he sees the marks blooming along your throat, his breath catches.

“Oh my,” he muses, and his voice is velvet—rich, low, utterly charmed. His fingers brush over the bruises, ghosting along the evidence of his own mouthwork. “I got you good, haven’t I?”

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smirk. “I suppose you have.”

Viktor hums, tracing absentminded circles against your spine. His other hand rests on the curve of your bum. “Did it get you in trouble?”

“Not yet,” you admit, craning your neck, as he presses a kiss to the unmarked side. His lips are warm, his breath even warmer as he nuzzles into the skin, rubbing his nose over it before pressing another—softer, gentler—kiss.

“And you know… it’s going to be winter soon,” you murmur, fingers playing at the loose strands of his hair. “We can regroup in spring.”

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, but his arms tighten around you. “No,” he decides. “I’ll be more careful.”

Your hands slide down to cup his jaw, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Please don’t stop, though.”

He looks at you then, properly, and behind his eyes is fondness, undeniable, as his pupils search your face, hands reassure, his lap warms you up.

“I won’t.” His voice is a promise, lips brushing the words against your skin. Then, with a knowing smirk, he whispers, “Besides, there are other places.”

And you have neither the will nor the energy to gather more brat points this evening. So instead of snapping back with something clever, you nuzzle into his neck, pressing your nose against his skin and inhaling deeply—his stupid man-soap, his stupid plain washing powder, his stupid freckled skin.

Mouth open, you drag it up the slope of his throat, unhurried, skin pulling with the friction. He exhales, head tilting back, offering himself to you eagerly. His hips slide down the chair, and you have to hold onto his shoulders when he speaks to the ceiling, “Get on your knees for me.”

He smiles when he sees how snugly you fit there and asks, “Not opposed, hm?” Your palms rest on his thighs, fingers marching toward his belt as you shake your head, a timid smile stretching your lips. Before you can undo it for him, Viktor unbuckles himself. Metal clinks on the floor as he grasps your hands and presses them to his cock, leaning in to whisper, “Not good enough. I want you to love it.”

Your hands turn shaky all of a sudden, hesitating as you unbutton him. He looms over you, already cradling your nape, foreshadowing the moment the spaces between his fingers will be full of your hair. No drunken haze, no fucked-out brain—finally, you get a proper look. And Viktor is pretty, head to toe, you realise. His cock is half-hard, framed by dark hair that meets in a tempting line on his lower belly, rising and falling with each deep breath—just as the crown of his upper lip, it is made to be sucked on.

By the time your mouth reaches him, he’s so deeply blissed out he staggers. Because it’s not just your mouth—it’s your entire face that hugs him, repeating the gesture from the first night, when you simply rested your cheek on his length and breathed him in. His stupid man-smell. Sweet and salty with sweat, and you want to be closer, so you yank his pants down to his ankles. Viktor says nothing about the fact that you’ve done so without permission.

Because you move in, arms wrapping around his waist, your entire face pressed into his groin, mouth agape as you breathe deeply. Tranquillity, absolute and endless, floods you when, instead of yanking your head, he strokes it and sighs, long and heavy.

And then, you kiss him as if his cock were his lips—open-mouthed and with tongue—gliding over every inch in a loving rhythm, from the base to the tip and back down. Pressing him into his own stomach, hands tightening around his hips, you hum into his skin and Viktor shudders. Overwhelmed, he holds your jaw and urges you to stick your tongue out, mimicking the gesture himself. And that’s when you notice—his tongue is pretty too.

Cock lands in your mouth, its flushed head drags across the wet surface, teasing, the heat of your breath enveloping him. He pulls back, letting the tip slip free, and then smears the slickness of your spit along your cheek. The gesture so full of intent, his thumb following to spread it further, tracing the damp streak before he taps your cheek with his cock once—twice—three times, and smiles, grins with teeth and all. You’ve thought it impossible, but he just managed to get prettier even.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, gripping tight. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting.

“Ready?” he murmurs, voice thick.

You nod, anticipation rolling through you, but Viktor is nothing if not careful. His warm palm finds your cheek again, thumb pressing gently at the hinge of your jaw. “Remember about taps,” he reminds you, free hand cradling the back of your head. Then, finally, he pushes forward, slow but insistent, the head of his cock breaching your lips.

“That’s it,” he sighs, his grip tightening as he sinks deeper. “Good girl… You feel so—” He exhales sharply, rocking his hips shallowly. “That’s right. God, you feel good.”

His pace builds, measured at first, the tight ring of your mouth around him making his breath grow heavier. His fingers twitch against your scalp as he mutters, “So fucking pretty like this.”

Each word of praise spurs you on. You moan around his cock, and Viktor grunts with effort, his breath shuddering, brows knitting. He brushes your hair off your face, gathering it carefully in his hand, mindful not to pull. Tears begin to sting the corners of your eyes, but you do not falter. You clutch his legs for support as Viktor shifts to the edge of the chair, caging you between his thighs.

Sweat begins to pearl on his forehead, fingers pressing deeper into muscle. His voice thickens, English fracturing as pleasure takes over.

“Děláš mi to tak dobře,” he groans, voice rough with need. His hips push forward with a little more force, testing. “Podívej se na tebe… tak nádherná s pusou plnou.”

Less air, more heat pooling low in your belly. Drool pooling in your mouth. A tear breaks free, rolling down your cheek, and something shifts in Viktor’s expression—fascinated. Your lashes flutter, eyes hazy as he holds you there, thighs clenching.

He pulls back, letting you gasp, spit clinging between your lips and his skin before he presses in again, deeper this time. His grip tightens at your nape, holding you steady.

“Můj chytrý, drzý, krásný děvče,” he pants, voice hoarse, words spilling from him like a prayer. “Vezmi si mě celého.”

You roll your tongue out and angle your head for him to enter easier. He’s back instantly, you catch only a glimpse of his cock glistening in your drool, and it excites you, boiling over. He slides in, slowly, watches himself disappear between your lips with wide eyes, half of him, and then, oh, all of him, as your throat straightens and becomes full. All falls quiet around you, and you close your eyes, holding him in for four long seconds, before patting his thigh twice.

Viktor retreats immediately, cradles your face and asks, “Colour?” before you are done gulping on air.

“Green,” you rasp, reaching back for his cock, a string of drool hanging from your lip, low, nearly staining your chest.

You flatten your tongue, tilt your head, open up. He’s there in an instant, the blunt, slick head pressing against your lips. A brief glance down—his cock shining, thick with spit, dark hair curling damp at the base. A sharp pulse flares in your loins at the sight, and then he’s sliding back in, slow, watching himself vanish between your lips. Halfway. Then deeper. Your throat takes him, stretches, the press of him filling your mouth, your ribs tightening with the effort of stillness.

Everything stills, quiet in your ears. His hand heavy at the back of your skull, his breath gone shallow. Your lashes flutter, eyes shut. Four long seconds, your lungs burning, and then—two quick taps to his thigh.

He pulls back instantly, his hands gentle when they frame your face. “Colour?” His voice frays at the edges, all rasp and need.

“Green.” Your voice is wrecked, breathless. You reach back for him, spit trailing from your lip, stringing low, silver in the dim light. “Please, again.”

His thumbs stroke across your cheeks, slow, tracing heat beneath the skin. “What have I done to deserve you?” His voice, a rasp of breath and want. He presses a dry kiss to your forehead, something reverent in it, then tilts your face up. “Does it feel good, when you can’t breathe?”

Your breath stutters. “Yes,” barely more than air, forehead pressing to his chin, hands clenching around his wrists. “God, yes.” The words slip free like a confession.

He lets you hold on, lets you bear down as he presses in again. The tension of muscle, the slow give of your throat around him. He watches, eyes dark, intent—reads the flicker of your lashes, the shudder in your ribs, the shine of spit where it slicks him. He sees the way your body makes space for him, the way your throat clenches, the way tears bead and slip from the corners of your eyes.

A long, shuddering breath. He pushes deeper. Watches himself disappear, faster this time. Pulling your hand with him, his fingers skate down, brush the column of your throat, mapping the way it stretches, the pulse leaping beneath his touch. He watches, always watching, eyes heavy-lidded, half-wild, but still careful. His palm flattens, thumb stroking over your skin as he rocks forward, measuring each inch that slides in, each tiny shift of muscle.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice fragmented. “Touch yourself.”

Hand leaves his wrist and finds its place between your legs when you part your thighs and dip into your underwear. It sticks to your skin, drenched, when you part yourself and try to not lose focus. You picture it’s him, somehow, touching you.

His hips roll, slow at first, feeding you the length of him, watching how your lips part wider, how your jaw strains to take him deeper. He feels your fingers flex around his wrist, grip tightening before easing, giving way. The first wet sound pulls a groan from him, rough yet quiet.

“There you go,” he says, as if coaxing something delicate to open. His thumb lingers at your throat, pressing just enough to feel himself inside. His grip at your nape steadies you as he moves again, guiding you, his restraint threadbare.

The wet pull of your mouth drags another guttural sound from his chest, and it sounds so fucking lovely you moan around his cock. His words break into rough blabber, heat-struck and low. “Tak nádherná... tak dokonalá…”

A stutter of hips, breath cuts when he swallows hard and fingers tease at your throat. “Breathe,” he reminds, voice fraying, rasping. “Tap if—” His voice cuts off as you swallow around him, as your tongue presses firm.

His jaw clenches, body tight, but his hand never leaves your throat, never stops searching for your breath, for the shift of muscle as he works himself deeper.

Your eyes flicker up, wet and wide. The sight of you like this undoes him.

His breath stutters out, a ragged curse, his head tipping back. Fingers tightening as heat coils, as his restraint snaps, and with a final shuddering groan, he spills into your mouth. The taste of him, heavy salt, the sight of his stomach hollowing out under the muscle cramp, tips you over and you suck him out, milk him, grunting around his sensitive skin, cunt clenching around nothing as you come.

You swallow around him until there is a vacuum, and Viktor hisses, his grip on your head tightening. He exhales heavily, unsteady, then pulls out with a wet sigh and beckons you up by the neck, guiding you back until your thighs bracket his.

Up there, in his lap, he kisses you—deep, grateful—licking himself from your mouth. A low hum rumbles in his chest as he wraps his arms around you.

“Not opposed, huh?” he teases.

You chuckle, warmth curling at the edges of your voice. “I suppose you can call me a fan,” you admit, sheepish, fingers idly tracing the back of his neck.

Viktor is already elsewhere, mind moving faster than breath, reading you even now. “How are you feeling?”

You exhale, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “So fucking tired. But good. Now good.”

He hums, then urges you to stand. His own movements are slow, careful—he rises with difficulty, a quiet wince caught in his throat. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, then glances at you. “How early do you have to wake up tomorrow?”

You shift on your feet, rubbing your arms. “I don’t… I have to do some things in the evening, but I have Sunday morning free.”

And Viktor tries not to come off as anything, face fully naked when he says, “I implore you to stay, then.”

Spacing out just a bit, not as strongly as the last time, you nod, sling the bag back over your shoulder and let yourself be walked to his bedroom. There, wordlessly, Viktor undresses down to his underwear. You catch the glimpse of a fresh bruise on his stomach, previously hidden beneath his shirt. He sits on the bed, stretching his leg out with a sigh, then looks up at you, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You can change in the bathroom, you know?” he says, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.

“I know, I just—” you hesitate. “It’s just very domestic,” you say, cringing at your own immaturity.

Viktor exhales a laugh through his nose. “Only because we are at my home.” His gaze lingers, curious. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” you say and the fact that it truly doesn’t—that’s what bothers you. Viktor shifts from acting like he cares beyond measure to as if he would go wherever the wind blows. From being utterly excited about your discontentment to completely unbothered about anything you decide. He sits on the bed in just his boxers, giving you a lopsided smile. “Go change.”

As soon as you do, he falls onto his back and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. After a long breath, he rolls onto his belly, reaching into the bedside stand. He pulls out a syringe, rolls back, sits up, and gathers a small pinch of skin on his stomach. On the opposite side of the fresh bruise, the needle goes in smoothly, but Viktor hisses at the sensation of fluid expanding the tissues. He massages it out and drops the syringe into the trash bin beside the bed.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, he’s already in bed. His arm is flung over his face, his body slack, only the subtle rise and fall of his chest betraying that he’s still awake. You settle into the farthest edge of the bed—just like last time.

Viktor chuckles when you slide under the covers and yawn. Shifting closer, he reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest. His breath is warm against your temple.

“Why are you all the way over there again?” he murmurs, voice tired.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, arms trapped, fingers tapping his sternum. “I don’t want to invade your space.”

Viktor hums, his lips ghosting over your hair. “You are in my bed,” he points out, his tone dry but fond.

You hesitate, then offer, “I can go if you want me to.”

“Hush now,” he chides softly, arms tightening. A pause, then, quieter, “Do you mind this?”

Your breathe out a quiet groan. Then, “N-no,” you stammer. “But I’m fine today, I don’t need—”

“I do,” he interrupts, his voice lower, steady. His fingers splay against your back, pressing you close. “I need this.” A beat of silence, then, gentler, “Is that okay?”

And even if you were able to say no before, now it’s impossible. Because Viktor sinks, his face brushing against yours in something almost absentmindedly affectionate, his breath warming up your cheek. Being needed overrides the unease of non-sexual closeness.

“It’s okay,” you mutter finally. Then, “Viktor?”

“Hm?” he hums, the sound lazy, content.

“Why a skirt?”

“Ah,” A chuckle. “No reason really, other than that I like your legs. Also, easier access, if you please,” he says, squeezing your butt. “I might have gotten a better use of it, wasn’t my leg not up to it today.” That’s a quiet admission he hasn’t meant to share yet, but it just happens. And it lands softly in your clever brain that connects the dots quickly.

“Is that why your stomach is bruised?”

“Oh.” He shifts slightly, reaching back toward the nightstand. “Partly. It’s the brace,” he explains, retrieving a small syringe and holding it up for you to see. “These prevent blood clotting under the trapped tissue.”

You frown. “It looks painful.” Another piece of Viktor for your collection.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assures you, setting the syringe aside. His mouth quirks slightly. “But I’m aware it’s not the most aesthetically pleasing sight.”

You scoff. “Your stomach is one of the most aesthetically pleasing sights I’ve had the opportunity to ogle.” You hesitate, then add, softer, “I’m just checking. Just curious.”

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle. “I like your stomach too.”

You snort. “Are you always such a sap after sex?”

“Do you want me to be mean?” he counters, brow quirking.

“No,” you say quickly. “No, please be a sap.”

He hums again, his grip on you tightening briefly. “You are a very strange creature,” he says at last, affection dripping from his tongue, though it seems he hadn’t intended it to. Mercifully, you don’t comment on it. You just nose into his neck, breathing in deeply—the stupid smell of him. —

Translations: Děláš mi to tak dobře – You make me feel so good Podívej se na tebe… tak nádherná s pusou plnou – Look at you… so beautiful with your mouth full Můj chytrý, drzý, krásný děvče – My smart, sassy, beautiful girl Vezmi si mě celého – Take all of me Tak nádherná... tak dokonalá… – So beautiful… so perfect…

[pomefioredove]

If you still take req for the event (if not ignore 🙏), could we pls get "I can't stop thinking about you." With Sebek

RARE SEBEK REQUEST 🙏🙏🙏

summary: "I can't stop thinking about you" type of post: short fic characters: sebek additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

You are a problem.

Not because you're always getting yourself into trouble, not because of your poor temperament, not even because of that direbeast you carry around with you.

No. Sebek couldn't have cared less about all that.

If that's all it was, he could have tolerated you. What's one more bothersome human to him?

You would have been no different from the others.

If not for...

"Ah, young love," Lilia sighs. There's a dreamy current in the stream of his voice that makes Sebek stiffen.

"It is NOT... love,"

The elder fae chuckles. "Yes, I remember what that was like. Denial is the first stage, you know,"

"That's grief, father," Silver mutters, keeping his head down to avoid being dragged into the conversation.

"And what is grief if not love?"

"Again," Sebek is tense. "I am not interested in such things. I have already devoted my life and service to Malleus."

Silver and Lilia give each other a look.

"You know, Sebek, it's okay to have these kinds of thoughts. You're young! You have the rest of your life to guard Malleus. You should have some fun," Lilia says.

"Father is right. Maybe you'll loosen up a bit. You're too stressed,"

"YOU'RE NOT STRESSED ENOUGH!"

Lilia sighs that certain familiar sigh.

"I admire your focus, Sebek. If you really want to rid yourself of these feelings, the fastest way to do so is confessing. That way, you won't spend months toiling over them,"

Sebek's expression flips forthwith, and he beams. "Thank you for your wisdom!"

Silver raises an eyebrow, and Lilia dismisses him with a wave. It doesn't matter, anyway; Sebek takes his words to heart.

It's long past dark when he pounds on Ramshackle's door.

Nonetheless, you answer, bleary-eyed and sluggish, a thumb-sucking Grim tucked in your arms like an infant.

"Sebek?" you ask. "Is... everything alright? Are you okay? Did something happen to Malleus?"

Your words of concern are like an arrow through his heart. Worried for both him and his liege?

But also... worried for him...

He better get this over with fast.

"Malleus is well, do not worry about him. This concerns us,"

You stare in disbelief, as if you hadn't heard him right. "Us?"

"Did you mishear me? I am here because I cannot stop thinking about you!"

"...Oh!"

Oh?

"...Me?"

"Am I not speaking loud enough for you? I said, I CANNO-"

Your eyes widen. "No! No, I heard you! I'm just confused. What exactly does that mean?"

Sebek crosses his arms. Of course. Sigh...

"Lilia said I might overcome my feelings for you if I express them. So? What do you have to say for yourself?"

You blink. You're clearly still tired, he thinks, otherwise you would have understood, accepted his words, and been gone by now.

Right? Nothing more.

"Um... I don't know," you finally say. "Maybe I can come to training tomorrow?"

Hm. A strange response, but not an unwelcome one. Sebek grins.

"Finally taking up the offer? Of course. Anyone who spends time with Malleus should know the basics of combat,"

You hum, looking up at the sky behind him. "I wasn't really thinking about spending time with Malleus, but... okay. Tomorrow,"

"Tomorrow!"

And with that, he's gone, with a warm feeling in his chest that wasn't there before.

Lilia must have been right about confessing- he suddenly feels much better.

[coffee-at-daybreak]

late night reading | martin septim x reader

a/n: i may or may not have been recently engulfed by oblivion remastered and of course like the gooner i am, i fell for babygirl martin. he has no business being that precious. ik i'm going a lil off script seeing as i've only written skyrim pieces so far but i hope there's at least a few other ppl who can indulge in both <3 ty so very much for stopping by!!

You don't know what's making more noise - the forest outside, the raging thoughts in your head, or the obnoxious snoring of someone else in the Weynon house.

You turn for the tenth time in your temporary bed. It's a perfectly good bed, but like everything else right now, it just feels ... wrong. Too warm, too soft, you don't know. But you do know you cannot get comfortable enough to even think of sleeping.

As if it's not difficult enough with your mind still racing. It's been a few hours since you returned to Weynon Priory with Martin, only to walk right into disaster. A messy fight, a monk slain, the Amulet of Kings gone. Every bone in your body wanted to chase after those attackers, but Jauffre was right - it was foolish to pursue them through the woods at night.

So, you must wait. Dawn can't be too far off, but Gods, the hours are dragging by.

Your head hurts. You don't know whether it's the lack of sleep, the aftermath of the battle, the stress pulling your body tight like a bowstring - or a fun combination of everything.

Exasperated, you dart out of the bed and head downstairs. Maybe some fresh air will help.

You don't bother being silent with your footsteps, especially with that snoring upstairs. You hurry down the steps and start to cross the room towards the front door when a hushed call of your name comes from behind you.

You turn around, your body half prepared to draw a weapon. But instead of an enemy, you see Martin seated on a bench in the corner, bathed in the faint light of a lantern propped up next to him. His pale blue eyes, softened with concern, catch your own.

"Are you alright?" He asks. His voice is as hushed and gentle as ever. "What's happened?"

You hesitate, glancing between him and the door. "N-nothing. I was just..." You turn your full attention to him. "Wait, what are you doing down here?"

He offers a small, sheepish smile and lifts his hands briefly to reveal an open book in them. "I'm sure it's no surprise, but ... reading."

It's certainly not a surprise. Almost every stop and moment of respite you'd had on your way back from Kvatch involved him reading some tome or another. The familiarity of it is oddly relaxing, though. The erratic pace of your heart and breathing starts to come down.

"Sort of an odd time to be reading, isn't it?" You ask. You keep your tone light to show you're only teasing, but your voice shakes a little on the last word. And attentive as he is, Martin notices.

"Perhaps. But is it not an odd time to be heading outside?" His eyes dart from you to the window, where it's very obviously pitch black outside.

You purse your lips and shrug. "What are the odds we get attacked again?"

Martin just looks at you with deep concern. "Please, do not test those odds."

You smile. It wasn't the first time you said or did something to give him that little crease in his brow, or that worried frown tugging on his lips. Something about that look causes your heart to stir.

You heave a soft sigh and finally step away from the door, instead moving for the same corner as him. To your relief, he scoots over on the bench, leaving just enough space for you.

"I take it you can't sleep either?" You ask as you take a seat next to him. You're close enough to sense the subtle warmth of his body and to catch that faint smell of clean fabric and mint he always carries. You don't know whether to be comforted or thrilled by it.

"There was a feeble attempt made," he admits. "It seems my mind is not as exhausted as my body is."

You nod to that. You start to voice your agreement when you're interrupted by another loud snore from upstairs. "I suppose it comes easy to some people," you mutter.

Martin gives you a soft chuckle, a rare but delightful sound to your ears. "I am envious of them," he says.

A moment of quiet passes, then he is asking you again with that oh so gentle voice. "Are you alright?"

You stare at your boots, mulling over your response. "I don't know. I feel a little ... overwhelmed."

There's another pause as he gives you a chance to continue. That's when you realize who exactly you're talking to. You fight back a cringe and turn to look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm sure that's nothing compared to how you feel."

His face softens and he shakes his head. "This is no competition, my friend. Your feelings are valid." He casts a glance to the woods visible through the window. "There is a lot ahead of us, and it's natural to be uncertain."

You feel a small jab in your chest. You wonder if he's thinking of his approaching title as Emperor. To go from a simple priest to the next ruler of Cyrodiil... He sure has a lot on his plate.

"But I have faith it will all unfold as we go, and we are on the right path." His eyes flick back to meet yours. "I am glad we are on it together."

Warmth blooms from inside you. Some of it even reaches your skin, your cheeks tingling a little as you smile at him.

He suddenly looks away, averting his gaze. Maybe you're imagining it in the low glow of the lantern, but it actually looks like he might be the flushed one.

"I am sorry you are unable to sleep," he adds. "If there is anything in particular you would like to speak of, I am here to listen."

Your heart swells at the offer, and you do consider it for a second. "Thank you, but it's alright. I'd rather just keep my mind off of it." Your eyes jump to the book in his hands. "Can I ask what you're reading?"

He turns it to show you the cover. "'Incident at Necrom'. I believe it is a fictional work on illusion magic."

You hum curiously. "Sounds fascinating." You are about to ask him for a summary, but a better idea crosses your mind. "Would you be willing to read it to me?"

Martin is obviously caught off guard by that request, and you almost laugh at that surprised little stretch to his eyes. "Forgive me, but ... is that a jest?" He asks with just a hint of nervousness.

"Not at all. I'd love to hear it," you assure him.

He hesitates only a moment longer, but when he realizes you really aren't joking, he relaxes and opens the book. "Then I'd be glad to."

He flips the pages until he's back to the start of the book, and clears his throat quietly before beginning. "'The situation simply is this'..."

It's suddenly easy to ignore everything else - the forest outside, the raging thoughts in your head, the obnoxious snoring upstairs. Instead you are lost in the deep but soft cadence of his voice. It calms you, soothing away the tension both in your mind and body.

Without thinking much of it, you tip your head down until it's leaning ever so lightly on his shoulder. He stutters on the current word for only a second, but continues in spite of the speedy heart rate you just gave him.

[anenbylittlepotato]

Tears of Love

Includes: Zhongli, Furina, Neuvillette, Kaveh, Itto, Ei

Warnings: Furina's is post-Fontaine archon quest bc I doubt she would be in any relationship pre-archon quest. Both Neuvillette and Furina contain vague spoilers

Part 2

How Genshin character would react to you hugging them while crying and then saying "I just love you so muuuucch..."

Also, uhhh hey guys, I know I haven't written anything in 5 million years haha, sorry... I have been died dw about it. To make up for it I'm going crazy go stupid with this one. Gonna try and make a part 2 and maybe part 3 but idk when or if it’ll even happen

Zhongli

When he sees you crying, he is instantly concerned.

And then, when you run up and hug him, he's even more concerned as he hugs back, gently placing his hand on your head and rubbing your back comfortingly.

"My love? What is the matter, dear?

He gently moves his hand from the back of your head to cup your cheek when you look at him with them big ol wet eyes.

"I just love you so muuuuccch!"

He looks taken aback for a moment, surprised by that response.

Then he chuckles warmly and looks at you with all the love and adoration in the world

"My beloved, you and your love mean the world to me. Your brilliant radiance is more than enough to light up even the darkest corners of my mind. I cannot dream of spending my days without you, but if such a day were to ever occur, I would carry your memory with me at all times with all the warmth and love in my soul."

This makes you cry even more

"Aaaaaa I love you so much...."

He gently presses his forehead to yours.

"I love you too, my dearest."

And then he kisses you softly.

Afterward, he sits down with you, holding you gently.

Furina

When you come up to her crying, she's instantly panicking.

Oh no did she do something wrong? Did she say something that upset you??? Has she been neglecting you??? Did she forget something important? Oh no oh no oh no-

And then you hug her and she's like. Okay. Did someone else do something to upset you? She's not sure what she can do now that she's no long on the archon throne, but she'll try whatever she has to! Or maybe something else happened, maybe something that has nothing to do with other people, maybe some horrible thing happened to you like what happened to her.

"S-S/O? Are you okay?? What happened, what's wrong?"

Then you look at her with those big ol wet eyes and she turns to mush inside.

"I just love you muuuuuccccchhh..."

For several moments she just stares at you, not knowing how to respond.

And then she also starts getting emotional

"Oh."

She hugs you back really tightly, burying her face against you.

"I... I love you tooooo...."

And now you're both crying and telling each other how much you love each other.

Neuvillette

The moment he sees you crying, the beginning of rain can be heard outside.

He absolutely hates seeing you upset in any way and he immediately wants to just hold you in his arms and take all your stress and pain.

He immediately walks over and sits next to you.

"S/O? Are you alright? What's happened?"

He is a little surprised when you hug him, but not entirely, and he hugs back, gently rubbing your back.

"It's alright, dear, take your time."

"I just- I just- I love you so muuuuuuuucccchhhh..."

Well he certainly was not expecting that.

It starts raining outside even heavier.

"Ah... Is that... Not a good thing...? I am uncertain as to why this would make you sad..."

You uh... You'll have to explain to him that crying doesn't necessarily only happen when you're sad, but just when you're overwhelmed by An Emotion. Any emotion. Even positive ones.

He won't really understand all that well but he's trying 🥺 He'll definitely be thinking about it for the rest of the week and might even do some research about it if he manages to find the time.

In the moment, though, he just holds you and tells you how much he loves you as well. He is a little confused when this makes you cry more, but he doesn't say anything.

Kaveh

Like Furina, he also panics instantly the moment he sees you crying.

He's much more frantic and open about it though.

"Oh no, darling, sweetheart, are you okay?! What's wrong?! Did I do something wrong, what happened?!"

Then you hug him and he's surprised.

"S/O...?"

"I just- I love you so muuuuccchh!"

Kaveh.exe has stopped working

"Wha- You- I-"

My poor boy instantly melts into a puddle, becoming a complete emotional wreck.

This man is so fragile he just shatters like glass and the dam breaks and out come the tears, and now he's crying harder than you.

He somewhat incoherently babbles about how much he loves you and hugs you so tightly, just completely falling apart.

... He may have also been drinking a bit before this.

Okay, not a bit. A lot.

And now, even though you were the one who was crying initially, you're gonna have to sit down with him and try to calm him down

This poor pathetic little man... he's such a mess... I love him...

Itto

Also one of the panickers. Except he's stupid about it.

He actually has absolutely no idea how to deal with someone who's sad. He doesn't get sad often himself and his gang aren't the type to get sad often either.

So the MOMENT you hug him crying, he is freaking the fuck out

"Oh, nononono, baby, don't cry, don't cry! Hey it's okay, it's alright, don't cry!"

When he can't get you to calm down right away, he's immediately thinking of other solutions.

"Hey, ya wanna go see Granny Oni? She always knows exactly what to do to cheer me up when I'm sad!"

You have to stop him from picking you up and running off with you to take you to Granny Oni.

"No- Itto. I'm not sad, it's just.... I love you so muuuuch..."

He blinks a couple times.

"What"

For once, the man is speechless.

But only for a couple moments.

"Wait, but if you're not sad, then why are you crying???"

You'll have to explain it like with Neuvillette, except Itto's dumb so it'll take a lot longer for him to pick it up.

You end up spending so long trying to explain it that you end up not crying anymore and just laughing at him

And that just makes him more confused

"You were just crying a minute ago why are you laughing???"

Himbo <3

Ei

When she sees you crying she is surprisingly sweet about it.

She walks over and gently cups your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at her.

"What's the matter, dear? Are you alright?"

Her voice is so soft and gentle.

She isn't too surprised when you hug her and she hugs back, gently rubbing your back.

“I just- I love you so muuuucccchhh….”

She’s a little surprised by that response for a moment.

But once she processes it, she is just so endeared by it.

She looks at you with such a lovesick smile.

Like she feels like her heart is about to burst with love omg

She chuckles gently and pats your head.

“I love you too, dear.”

Afterward, she kisses you on the forehead, and then on the lips.

All she wants to do after that is hold you gentle in her arms

And she’s going to do exactly that

She takes you to your bed and gently holds you so that your head is on her chest

Doesn’t matter if you’re bigger than her. Your face? On the booba

I had to tag Neuvillette so many times bc apparently no one knows how to spell it 😭 Two Ls and two Ts people

If you like my writing, consider buying me a coffee! It really helps me out and helps me keep doing this!

[verysium]

PLEASE DO BLUE LOCK ICKS IM BEGGING🙏😭🌹

😏 coming right up anon. gonna channel my inner critic and not hold back on any of these.

RIN

brother complex. not much else to say except that he needs to get a life. not everything is about metaphorically crushing your older brother's dreams and brooding in the dark hate of retribution.

competitive but only because he is a desperate whore for external validation. ignores everyone but craves the attention of a sole person named sae itoshi. was defeated by isagi once and has never let go of it since. has a one-track mind that is impossible to derail. stubborn when he wants to be.

probably a virgin and will continue to be one until his late 30s.

has not known a single day of peace ever since sae ditched him for the popular girlies. as a result, he has developed a very concerning case of social awkwardness. his idea of a conversation involves a brick wall and thirty minutes of you staring at his resting bitch face. constantly looks like that one grumpy cat meme. judges you for your poor decisions but then gets aggressively defensive when you point out his own mistakes.

reeks of so much teen angst that even metallica can't save him. the problem is that he has nothing to back up his emo persona. his insults lack creativity and, unfortunately for him, phrases like "lukewarm" and "half-baked" and "hell" do not make his words carry more weight. uses the f-word but in the most embarrassing context that it makes you facepalm and internally cringe.

SAE

zero social awareness. this boy's head is empty. the lights are not on up there. there are no picture frames or furniture. the curtains are drawn, and there is not a sliver of clouds or sunshine. cannot read body language and does not know what a filter is.

the source of all of rin's stress. he is the original trauma projector, creator of generational cycles. not even subtle about it. "turns out i was wrong. i thought japan was incapable of ever giving birth to decent forwards." sir....with the way you worded that, you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave rin false hope.

swears but it's even worse than his brother. literally called his elders a "fatso and bob cut duo" and "insect turd." i mean....there is a line between what is considered a legitimate burn and what is a first grader making up insults in his coloring book.

has a horrible haircut and no fashion taste. i already talked about this previously, but it was so bad it deserved a second mention.

a freak but tries to justify it rationally. like what do you mean you can tell a person's athletic ability from their buttock size? just admit you have a kinky fetish already.

somewhat of a coward but i'm gonna give him some leniency due to his tragic child genius backstory. tbh he's just an eighteen-year-old boy who needs a goddamn break.

KAISER

alexa please play clown music. this man sets himself for failure and then wallows in self-pity when he actually fails. like what did you expect? you knew what was going to happen the moment you challenged isagi like that. it was most definitely your fault you got violently humbled.

has a borderline god complex (currently calls himself an emperor but has not evolved into a deity yet.) unfortunately, he does not stand on business. cue the dramatic meltdowns when he realizes there is an actual gap between his ability and his reputation. if you're going to lie, at least make it believable.

insecure and mentally unstable. he probably cuts and re-dyes his hair every single time shit happens. no wonder his locks get shorter every time.

lazy when it comes to anything that is not football and expects others to do it for him. demands princess treatment wherever he goes. unfortunately, not all of us have servants with no self-respect like ness.

"it is not enough that i should succeed, others should fail" type of person.

does not wear shoes and even if he does, it's sandals. put them grippers away.

NAGI

a literal sloth who has so much potential but uses none of it. has no intrinsic motivation of his own, so if he's going to do anything, it has to be you behind the wheel, making sure he gets put to work.

does not have a close relationship with his parents, and so he has no sense of community, holidays, or traditions. no fun at all if you want him to do things like christmas shopping or birthday celebrations.

rots in bed all day and then has to nerve to ask you to carry him around. your back better be strong because his 190 cm body is not going to be light.

not loyal (need i say more.)

REO

second male lead syndrome. also known as that one popular guy who's always picked last.

acts like a victim but then when you realistically tell him to how to change his situation he refuses to do so. you cannot ask for advice and then take none of it to heart. no wonder you're still not over your ex.

"i can fix him" mentality. no, you can't. you are a seventeen-year-old child, not a licensed therapist and nagi isn't even all that.

NESS

touch-starved to the point he will stay in a toxic and abusive relationship in order to gain some scrap of affection. just because you were the black sheep of your family does not mean you can lose all sense of personal dignity.

probably stalks all the people he hates. has a burn book like regina george from mean girls. cuts out and glues little pictures of kaiser all over his bedroom. doodles hearts all over it with glittery gel pen. isagi's face and name are scratched out of every team photo.

delusional and prone to mood swings. medicated but at this point, he is beyond saving.

ISAGI

a home wrecker. has ruined more relationships than he can count on ten fingers yet still manages to smile like he's some angelic saint.

solves jigsaw puzzles for a living (not very cool if you ask me.)

has some unresolved anger management issues. probably repressed all his negative feelings when he was younger, so it all comes out when he's on the field. unfortunately, his twilight-sparkle-friendship-is-magic agenda is not going to work if he keeps cussing out his teammates like that. but then again, he is the main character, so i guess his plot armor makes up for his pitfalls.

says that he's a good guy but then holds personal vendettas against rivals he doesn't like. boy was so ready to throw hands when #kaisagi was trending on the internet. but when you actually think about, he's similar to kaiser in more ways than he'd like to admit.

BAROU

has the worst case of high and mighty "holier-than-thou" attitude. isagi put his ego in check, but it still peeks out from time to time.

he was the ugliest baby when he was born. i am not going to hold back on the child barou slander because it is true. no, he was not a cute and lovable bundle of joy. he looked like a demonic gremlin.

he needs to take more risks in life and try cross-dressing. simply imagining him in a maid uniform will not suffice. it needs to be made into a reality.

with how nit-picky he is, i doubt people can realistically stay within a 1-meter radius around him. unless you are a clean freak yourself, his constant complaints will start to get annoying after a time. even if he does have good intentions, he needs to let people have a little breathing room sometimes. a messy room is not going to kill you.

BACHIRA

this boy's brain is smooth. no folds. no gray matter. no intelligence either. his pencil and eraser have been left untouched since day one. if he wasn't crazily good at football, he would be unemployed and homeless in the future. not even a mcdonald's wants him.

one of those people who will do the literal opposite of whatever you say. you want him to stop talking? well, now he's never going to shut up. you tell him not to step on a pile of dog shit? well, now he's going to walk right into it. you want him to quit running around and act normal? well, now it's his life's mission to make you as annoyed as possible. please pray for your hair follicles because at the end of the day, you're not going to have many left with how much he makes you want to tear your hair out.

has the cerebral capacity of a toddler. if he thinks monsters are real, he's going to think anything is real. super gullible when it comes to any form of scam, ploy, or trickery. the only way he would not be fooled is if he's also played the same prank before.

SHIDOU

a brazen pervert. says the most out-of-pocket things and refuses to apologize for them. sometimes it comes out a little too sleazy for your liking.

"to me a goal is fertilization! a shot is the seed and the goal is the egg!! and the birth of that joy i call an explosion!! my genes are gonna knock you up!" let us give ourselves a moment of silence to digest this quote. only shidou ryusei would come up with a sperm and egg metaphor to describe football. (i guess protection means nothing to him.)

has no empathy. if you dislike him or cannot keep up with him, you're a literal nobody in his books. no sportsmanship. no compassion. no self-awareness.

you cannot say "balls" to him in a serious tone without him misinterpreting it as something dirty. that alone should tell you enough. stay the hell away from him.

where do men get the audacity? right here. from this little bastard. he invented the term "shameless slut." boy was getting off during the u-20 arc and on live TV too. no wonder sae said he was disgusting.

and finally, he comes from a long line of cockroaches. he's even got the antennae to prove it.

i think this might have been a little excessive, but i have no regrets about it. you're welcome anon ♡

[the-knife-consumer]

Do you have any more ideas for the Stanley & Ford game?

I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently

Hmmm not much (don't like thinking of things that ik I can't make. At least not rn) buuut

*while passing the cursed (?) Vending machine, Ford's reflection is missing

*there's a hiding spot and qte mechanic where you have to control Stanley's breathing/adrenaline. If you fail the qte, depending on what the hiding spot is, it can fail (hiding behind curtains or blankets, or spots where things echo a bit like a locker or stall will blow your cover upon failing) (obviously there'd be an option to turn qtes off)

*there's also a sound mechanic for stealth sections in certain areas, and this sound mechanic is always active at night. Normally you have to gauge the risk of how much noise you think an action would make, but ideally I'd like there to be an accessibility audio visualizer feature you could toggle so if you want you can know exactly how much noise you're making.

* there'd be an option for color coded fortune telling if you wanted. It wouldn't tell you exactly what was going to happen, but I'd help clue you in more than just vague words from Caryn.

Green: downtime/planning day, nothing out of your control will happen. If something does go wrong, it's a mistake on your part (actions from previous days can carry over and affect this. You can get a green reading, but if you failed to cover up your tracks well enough yesterday, you can still end up having a bad day)

Yellow: something bad will happen, but there is a chance you can avoid it. If you are able to decipher what event the fortune is referring to, you may be able to avoid it altogether, and not have to go through the stress of having to lie/cheat/steal your way out of trouble (examples: avoiding a certain hallway at school, staying away from a certain table at lunch time, wearing a long sleeve shirt so you can keep test answers on your arm)

Red: unavoidable bad event. Meant to test your abilities. Certain "tasks" will be unavoidable, you will either lose control of Stanley to watch a cutscene play out, or there will be some required tasks and time will not advance until it is completed or failed.

Unavoidable task example: you were denied dinner and sent to bed. You feel sick and cannot sleep on an empty stomach. You must sneak into the kitchen and find something to eat.

Unavoidable event example: you hear the crash of something hitting a locker and books hitting the floor. Ford has been cornered by a group of bullies, and it looks like his nose is bleeding. You lose control of Stanley and are forced to watch as he charges the bully and knocks him out despite ford telling him not to, then gets sent to detention. (Afterwards, the task is: stop the counselor from calling your parents)

[luveline]

what about reader being stressed and feeling really bad due the amount of blood and how wild the murder happened in a mission and hotch comforts her?? i really love your work and i hope you write but of course it's okay if you are not comfortable with it!! though i crave some hurt/comfort right now 🥹 take care, we love you 🫶🏻🫶🏻

ty for requesting, i love u! fem!reader

You're used to depravity, but the body cannot truly desensitise itself from carnage. You shouldn't know the inside of a person like that, shouldn't be able to pinpoint gore with the accuracy of a mortician. You feel sick knowing what was supposed to be where. Enough blood to kick down the door and have it flood the hallway, stain your shoes with a permanent rust. 

You turn away from the scene, sirens and shouting white noise, and leave blood footsteps like a breadcrumb trail down the paving stones, huge slabs of white grey printed by wet soles. You're just past the red flash of the ambulances when you freeze, your legs won't carry you. You've no choice but to sit down hard in the road. 

There's just blood everywhere. No metaphor to soften the blow, no explanation. There was blood everywhere in the crime scene and it took less than ten minutes inside of it to be plastered with it too. 

Blood and cold floor. The road is cold, maybe wet, seeping into your trousers. You put your hand down and feel the dirty bite of it pressing into your palm.

Considering his duties, Hotch finds you quickly. You'd know him from presence alone, but hiding hand is familiar on your back. He crouches down behind you. 

"What's wrong?" he asks, second hand curling around your shirt. "You can't sit here. Can I help you up?" 

You manage to get to your feet by yourself. Hotch walks you to a car like you're injured, leaning you against the hood. "What's wrong?" he asks. 

You shake your head. This isn't some slasher flick where the blood is sugar syrup and everyone goes home, this is your life, that was somebody's life, and to be killed in such a violent way… nobody deserves that. Your arms twist around your stomach as your stomach twists into itself, churning. 

Hotch watches you severely. Anyone might think he was pissed with your behaviour, but he isn't like that. He's probably pissed he can't immediately fix the problem, arms crossed against his chest, the font of his SWAT vest glaringly white. He's neat and official as always, but there's blood on his shoes. 

You try to talk and it's like your lips are gummed shut, a hum with nothing intelligible as you lean forward. 

Hotch gives in. He breathes out, the barest ghost of his cologne distracting you from the smell of rust as he wraps his arms around your shoulders. You curl your fingers into the strap of his vest, quick to press your face into his side, wherever you can that's softest. 

"I know," he says quietly, his arms tightening around you. The slide of his sleeves against your shirt, the sound that it makes, feels loud as a bell. 

You hadn't realised you were shaking. Hotch tries to wring it out of you one steady stroke of his hand at a time. You can imagine his viewpoint, your feeble position on the car and the white washed crime scene behind you. They'll be setting up the flood lights and taking photographs soon enough, no bodies to lay to rest, only gore to wash away. 

"I didn't think we could save them," you confess into his shirt, ashamed.

When he replies, it's measured, as though he's thought about his response carefully in little time. "That's realistic. This case has been… heavy from the beginning." 

Heavy isn't the word he would usually choose. He's talking to you, he knows exactly how you're feeling because he knows you well, and cares about you more, if his cheek pressed to your temple is anything to go off of. "I have to go coordinate," he says, his thumb rubbing with pressure into your shoulder blade, "I'm sorry. I'll get Reid to come sit with you in the SUV… Y/N, listen to me…" Hotch leans back, meeting your eyes. "There was nothing more we could do. I'm confident that you performed to the best of your ability. This outcome– this isn't what anyone wanted, and I'm sorry we couldn't fix it this time." 

"I just don't get how you can do that to another person," you say. Why you'd want to. You're a profiler, and you know a wealth of information about what makes certain people act as they do, but you still can't empathise with the killer. It's too much; it's beyond explanation.

"That's a good thing." His hands squeeze the tops of your arms. "It is." 

You look down at his shirt collar, thinking you probably don't deserve his comforting. This is your job, and tonight you couldn't do it. "Sorry I– I freaked out. I shouldn't have walked away." 

"That's a good thing, too, in a way."

He offers you a small smile. You can't smile back, but Hotch doesn't mind, his hands falling down the lengths of your arms. His fingers tangle momentarily with yours. 

Reid comes around to sit with you when Hotch leaves. He probably wouldn't have needed telling, your friend's hand curling over your shoulder protectively.

"You okay?" he asks. 

You watch Hotch lead his jurisdiction of operations. Things aren't okay, you're far from it, but you trust that it'll get better with Hotch at the helm. Still, a bitter taste lingers. 

"They won't be," you say, nodding to the crowd of people behind the rapidly erected barricade. At the very front is someone's mom. 

"Not for a while." Spencer tries to lighten the mood, throwing you a life jacket. "You're his favourite, you know?" 

You recall the subtle strength of Hotch's arms around you, the lean length of his torso and the warmth of his breath as he'd spoken in your ear. Without trying for it, your pulse calms. Your despair dulls to an ache. 

"You think so?" you ask. 

Hotch looks in your direction, checking on you. Spencer nods. "Definitely." He has a list of interrelated BAU statistics to prove it.

[lavenderprose]

The thing about Izzy's death is that it just doesn't exist for me. I've been involved in fandom for almost twenty years, two thirds of my life, and I'm definitely a product of that period of fandom where we just straight up ignored shit we didn't like. Like okay he died in the SHOW. The creators are allowed to do that. I'm allowed to ignore it and carry on as always. I suppose if pressed I do have my own opinions about how I feel vis a vis that particular decision but it's nothing I feel strongly enough to argue with people. This is because, and I cannot stress this enough, he is not dead TO ME. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, the final two episodes of S2 never happened. Unless I say they did. And if I do it's because I'm erasing the parts about them that I don't like. I've interacted with fandom this way my whole life and I am not planning on stopping any time soon.

[sundays-d0v3]

Hear me out

A yandere! Wriothesley

I had a dream where he accuses us of a crime we didn't commit, so that he can lock us up in the prison he runs. The oretrice decides we are guilty and so he drags us below water with him, and we are stuck forever. No matter what we cannot escape. We hate Wriothesley and make it very visible, but he's too lovesick to notice.

Can be smut, angst, whatever you feel like.

Take care, and make sure to get enough sleep!

UIFSNINUIEN YES YES!! i will gladly write for this sexy mf. also credits to whoever made this!

i also had a thought with this, and pictured it with neuvi himself included, but since this is your request i wont tamper with it :3

pick up the phone! ,falling in reverse.

yandere! wriothesley x reader

cw: yandere themes & swearing

you don't remember how you got here but you did. you didn't remember how long it has already been since the oratrice mecanique d'analyse cardinale had declared you guilty for a murder you didn't commit nor help in, didn't remember how you even got dragged into the case itself. and you don't want to remember that you got sentenced to life in the fortress of meropide. but what you did remember it had something to do with wriothesley, the man you despised, the man who insisted you were the culprit to this case, the man who told neuvillette to sentence you to life because "a murderer like them shouldn't get a second chance in life", and last of all, the man who was obsessed and utterly in love with you and also happens to be your stalker.

"get the fuck off of me wriothesley!!" you screamed and kicked, your voice rang through the fortress of meropide yet wriotheley's only thought was "they'll come around sooner or later". as he carried you by your arms and nothing more as his guards open his big doors before he drags you up the stairs to his office, even as you kept screaming at him to let you go before placing you on his chair and leaning down to cover your mouth with his hand.

"are you going to quiet down? I suggest you do.", wriothesley says in his usual cold tone, but alas you quickly nod, and as soon as he uncovers your mouth you try to scream swears at him, which was dumb of you but people do dumb things under stressful situations, wriothesley told himself as he was just as quick to cover your mouth again.

wriothesley let out a long sigh before letting go of your mouth and quickly grabbing your neck and squeezing, your throat letting out a wheeze before giving out. "i really didn't want to do this but you're really leaving me no choice here." he says while getting closer to your ear before saying, "if you keep screaming, im going to choke you until you pass out.", before letting go of your throat, his eyes glaring at you daring you to try to scream again.

"good. now i kn-" "why are you doing this to me?" you're quick to cut him off in a low tone, not wanting to call his bluff of his recent threat knowing he will most definitely go through with his threat. you've heard stories of the duke of the fortress of meropide and those stories are more than enough to know to not test his bluff. but that doesn't mean you won't fight back now does it?

"straight to it huh? im doing this because i love you." ...what? are you hearing things?? did your trial fuck your head up that bad that your hearing things?

"..i beg your pardon?", you ask in utter shock and disgust. how could someone who loves you do this to you? make you spend the rest of your life in prison? this isn't love, love is supposed to be warm, safe.. not whatever the fuck this is, not what he claims is love.

"you don't love me, you don't even know me!" surely, he was just joking? yes it was a bad time to joke, but it would be better than him stalking you. afterall, you barely met the man yourself!

"you may not know me, but i know you", words have never caught you off guard until now, but it would explain everyone talking about how the duke was seen above ground, you thought everyone was lying, making rumors, but it turns out you were the sole reason of him being above the waters.. "it was quite the hassle actually. inmates have been acting out all because of you, because i kept going out, trying to capture you, because i kept trying to make sure no more innocent lives would get taken by you."

"what?.. no- you can't be serious! i didn't do it" what the fuck? this surely has to be a dream right? ..right? "then why does all the evidence point to you?"

"what are you- no it doesn't!" what the fuck is he talking about? what evidence? no one showed you anything!! "your fingerprints were on the knife" what? what knife you don't have a knife?? you don't even trust yourself with kitchen knife- "what? kni-" "the knife you used to kill. you know, your hair was also found at the scene."

those were the last moments you remember of your first day of being in the fortress of meropide, even now as you were curled up on wriothesley's lap you still have the same feeling since the first day that you came to the fortress, you just learned how to keep it in, and hide it.

a/n: i think i lowk cooked.

[soft-boi-eli]

PolyVessles x reader

Reader just needs to cry so you try to hide it in a secluded room of the mansion. But it was no use when they all could hear your thoughts. You end up with one at a time they enter the room. Each brining a comfort item. Weighted Blanket, stuffed animals, their clothes. And most importantly water and themselves.

Tw: not proof read crying. Comfort.

This is a comfort for me right now my mental has be up and down and i cannot tell how im feeling at this point.

It was confusing. Bouncing between happy and sad. Feeling okay to feeling like shit. It was so exhausting. You wanted to relax. You wanted to feel content. But everything felt wrong. Until you just sat in the room claimed as your own space, alone. Tired. Just done. Done with feeling on the brink of crying but never actually letting it happen. You didnt even know what you were holding back tears for.

Yet as you sat alone. Mind running through all the stress and anger in your body you let the tears well up. You let them fall. Letting your body work out all the emotions in liquid. You didnt know how ling ago you started to cry but it felt oddly amazing. Each tear drop was a drop of anger. A drop of sadness.

You didnt hear the door open. But you did see through the blurry tears vessel. His six eyed 6'3 form made its way through the door. Your water bottle filled and fresh in his hands and you could barely smell it but he had put on that cologne you loved and it had always calmed you.

"Love. You look like you've been throught alot." You couldnt even speak with how thick you throat felt. You could only hold you hands out and grip at the air for him. You felt the need for weight over you. You needed it bad and this behemoth of a man was perfect. Doubt iii would be the best he was still perfect. Wouldnt kill you if he put all his body weight on you.

Your thoughts seemed to be enough as he had aced your bottle to the side, you could hear the ice, and pulled you to his chest slowly making you lay back into the bed. His body pressed deeper into you and the matress. His fingers trailing up your scalp before leaving gentle trails. Letting you silently cry into his chest. The others were already gathing everything. Getting ready for a big old cuddle pile in your room. It was iii that came in next.

He carried the offering of his massive and heavy weighted blanket. It reeked of him, in a good way trust me, and when he cam up right next to you, covering both you and vessel in it. He let it land over his body too watching as you relaxed slightly more. His face nuzzling into you neck and shoulder.

He stayed silent deciding to just stay there, it was rare but he knew it was needed. The tears has slowed and you were left with soft little hiccups and stray tears.

When ii came in he was calm, one of his hoodies in hand as he wandered closer. You saw how worn in it was, no doubt his favorite one that he rarely let anyone touch. And when he got in they all started to move letting ii strip off the constricting shirt that you hated right now. There was nothing sexual about it. His hands were gentle as he trailed them over your side, his hoodie was over your head but he hadnt helped you put your arms in. It hasnt even gotten over your shoulder. Your skin completely bare and exposed to them. Yet you felt at ease.

You found the tears and hiccups more embarrassing. Yet soft hands trailed over your face. They werent telling you to stop. Vessel was drying your cheeks so that they didnt dry and pull at your skin, iii had somehow snuck in tissues and he softly wiped at your nose.

You hadnt even gotten the hoodie on when iv came in. He was carrying your weighted plush along with the other three you left in his room. He had gotten to the bed and slid behind you helping ii pull the hoodie over you fully before he pulled you to his chest.

Vessel landed back on your chest fingers swiping slowly at your cheeks in unmeasured intervals. But just enough to keep your skin from going raw. You felt iii lean back into iv and your chest using the weighted plush as a pillow.

The blanket was barely covering all of you, but it was over you and thats what mattered to most to the. Except for ii who was carefully helping you drink. He didnt want you to get worse because you were dehydrated.

It was iii who broke the silence. "You wanna talk about it?" You hummed, the words thick in your mouth as you spoke, "just needed to cry. Dont even know why." The way ii carefully rubbed at your chest, soothing away most of the thick feeling. "Sometimes you need to cry." He kept rubbing at your chest watching you burry you face into vessels head holding him tightly. You felt safe. At ease. Everything was perfect.