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earthtooz · 2 months ago

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x : LUST FOR LIFE *+ﾟ

in which: sunday discovers a new emotion when he's under you.

warnings: 1.5k words, sunday is B(h)ORNY and doesn't know how to deal with it, he wants reader so bad, lowkey implied switch!sunday, gn!reader being sunday's freak awakening, NO SMUT BUT UNDER 16 DNI, not edited

a/n: five likes and i'll write nsfw for sunday

What good is a leader who can’t empathise with the lives of the people he was supposed to be leading?

This thought has plagued Sunday ever since he exiled himself from Penacony, since he joined the Astral Express in a journey of self-discovery and reflection, embracing the Nameless lifestyle so he can broaden the horizons that Penacony had restricted. There, he was so detached from the reality of the people he was trying to help, so trapped in a whirlwind of his own ideals to experience humanity, too buried in official duties to rejoice in the many wonders of the universe, the simple pleasures and the grandiose ones.

Since boarding, the former head of the Oak Family has experienced humiliation, desperation, and many close calls with death. It seems he underestimated how easily trouble found the Trailblazers, and the diary he carries with him has been updated with multiple entries, filled with exasperated recounts that ended with him being grateful that he is still well and unscathed.

Sunday has also experienced laughter, connection, and the bond of humankind- something he did not have before. When he controlled the Oak Family, had everyone under or at his fingertips, the only person he could depend on was himself. When Robin left to travel the cosmos, what was he to do than learn the bitter truth of independence and self-sufficiency?

Yet, he sits on the couches of the Astral Express and there is bound to be another by him, trying to converse with him like an old friend. He is mentioned in the conversations like an individual who they keep around because they want to, not because he is crafty, not because of what he can offer. No, he can’t offer anything right now, and the crew still wants him to stay.

He learns more about humanity with each passing day.

However, perhaps one of the more puzzling feelings Sunday has had to confront was… infatuation.

It’s a tricky feeling. It sends his heart into overdrive and his limbs to become jelly, and at the epicentre of this hurricane of uncharted territory, is you.

“Sunday?” Your voice comes through muffled from the other side of the door. He almost jumps off his mattress at the sound.

“Door is open,” he responds as calmly as possible, heart thrumming alive at the sound of your voice, beating in time with the rapid succession of your knocks.

The door slides open slowly to reveal you on the other side. “Pom Pom just wanted to let everyone know that we will be jumping soon.”

“I see, thank you for letting me know.”

“No problem,” your gaze then flickers to the angels that flock around him and he watches as your eyes gleam with fascination.

Then, without any hesitation or reluctance, you enter his room and approach him, the door sliding closed without your weight to hold it open. You stop before him without a bow, without a formal greeting of ‘Mr. Sunday’- no, you stop before him like an equal, which you most certainly are. In fact, he would even think of himself below you, but Sunday needs to unlearn this assumption of hierarchy, needs to not let it define the relationships he forms, even if he looks up to you and finds you reverent.

“Hey, I’ve never seen these little guys before!” You exclaim, sticking out a hand to act like a perch for the angel-like summons. One of them flits up to you and stays on your outstretched finger. “Well, not this close, at least.”

It keens at your praise. Like owner like summon, Sunday supposes.

“I don’t tend to bring them out. They are for combat purposes,” he explains.

Your eyes widen slightly. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me right now?”

“What? No! That’s not it-”

“-I’m kidding, Sunday,” you snicker. “We’re friends, I wouldn’t want to fight you.”

“Right,” he exhales, “I wouldn’t want to fight you either.”

“Besides, we already did once.”

He freezes at the memory, remembers when he got hit with the exact train he is currently boarding.

You, however, are unphased by the recollection, and even continue to rub salt in the wound. “I remember fighting against these little summons too, your owner was a real meanie, do you guys know that?”

They flock around you, spinning and fluttering like little fireflies. Instinctively, Sunday covers his flustered expression with his wings, and he doesn’t budge, even when he hears your laugh, the sound almost enough for him to melt into a puddle by your feet.

“Hey, hey, I was kidding, sorry if I took the joke too far.”

He uncovers himself with an embarrassed sigh, not meeting your eyes. “It’s okay, I think the memory is just… humiliating, more than anything.”

“There are no more hard feelings. Everyone has accepted you on board and none of us think of you to be the same person you were when we first met, I promise.”

Your words are completely earnest, Sunday knows it, can feel it in the way you tell him so unabashedly. So who is he to deny it?

“Thank you,” he says, finally looking up at you, “it means a lot to hear that.”

“I’ll say it as much as you need. Well, I’ll get out of your hair now, just prepare for the jump-”

Your sentence is interrupted by a shriek when you lose your footing, and Sunday feels it too, the force so strong that even he, while sitting, feels as if is being stretched and pulled into a miniscule hole. What he also feels is your body colliding on top of his, and his hands come to your waist to catch you in an attempt to prevent you from slipping, but it’s not enough and he’s falling with you onto the expanse of his made bed.

The Express is warping to some expanse of the universe, and his stomach drops at the sensation, spreading to the ends of his nerves before disappearing, just replaced by the extremely odd feeling of being pulled through the stars. He just hopes you’re comfortable, standing up whilst warping is tough, he heard the stories of when Stelle first tried to do it and how she fell flat on her face.

When the feeling of normality returns and Sunday doesn’t feel like he has been stretched out, he opens his eyes and tries to take in the sight before him.

You. Your face. Centimetres away from his.

He’s always thought you were pretty, but seeing you this close… perhaps just pretty is an understatement. His gaze unwillingly flicks to your lips and he wished he hadn’t because suddenly the urge to sit up and lick into your mouth is raging; a fire that can’t be contained.

Sunday wants you to push him down by the shoulders, with no gentleness or mercy, and just… devour him whole. His hands want to find you by the hips and pull you into him more than humanly possible, he wants you to indent yourself onto him so he can remember your taste forever, so that, in a way, you couldn’t ever leave him.

Alternatively, he would happily flip around and pin you against the mattress. He would pry you open, explore the cavern of your mouth with his tongue and suck your sacred essence out of you so that it can stay and settle in his bones instead, replacing where marrow should be. He wants to lay you vulnerable so his hands can explore places only you want him to touch, wants to take you so that you stay forever, wants to feel your tongue against his, wants to hold your face and feel how you react when he takes his time cherishing you, revering you.

This feeling is too much, these thoughts are overpowering, yet nothing has ever been more clear. Sunday wants you, lusts for you, even, and he’s never felt so intensely for someone before.

How would the symphonies sound when they learn of the atrocities he wants to perform?

Temptation holds him close and infects him with a desire so strong, he’s practically frozen in place as you recover from the shock, holding yourself up with your arms that were on either side of his head.

“Ow, I’m sorry!” You immediately exclaim, before realising exactly what position you are in, your chests are pressed together, and you’re mortified to think about how close you were before you picked yourself off him, and- his… his hips… are pressed against yours- okay, you needed to leave as soon as possible.

You scramble off him like he had burnt you, frantically shouting apologies whilst doing so, the words clumsy and rushed, but neither of you can deny how you miss the warmth that was suddenly ripped away.

(If he wanted to, you could have stayed in that position with him.)

Then, before you could get anymore thoughts, you turn and practically bolt out of his room without another word, leaving a hot and bothered Sunday behind.

#earthtooz: honkai star rail #sunday x reader #hsr x reader #sunday hsr x reader #sunday fluff #honkai star rail x reader

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strugglekin · 1 year ago

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I am so very dragon shifted right now- i can’t stop shaking my wings and tail heheh

also looking at videos/experiences of other dragons brings me immense joy

#dragon kin #dragonkin #alterhuman #therian #otherkin #astral limbs #kin euphoria

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ckret2 · 9 months ago

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Chapter 51 of human Bill Cipher is once more the Mystery Shack's prisoner: Dipper and Mabel try to figure out what the Axolotl's poem means; Dipper gets the hang of astral projection; and... whatever's going on up there happens.

####

Ford and Dipper came back into the shack through the gift shop; Ford didn't want to risk crossing paths with Bill. While Dipper went into the house, Ford went down—returning to the safety of his subterranean study.

Once Ford had put on the old black trench coat he'd worn during his multiversal travels and gotten comfortable at his desk, he pulled out Journal 5 to document the events of the last few days. In a cheap ballpoint pen, he wrote, I've lost my #1 Grunkle pen (and favorite coat) to the waters of Lake Gravity Falls. And then, deciding this didn't adequately express his feelings, he drew a small frown. That coat had served him well for decades, and he'd really liked that pen. It did write excellently, and it had reminded him of his gniece and gnephew.

He spent three pages documenting the eclipse—what happened, what readings he'd taken, what he and Dipper observed—and then another four pages talking about Bill. What he'd told them, why Ford had dismissed it; his claims about a trans-dimensional axolotl distorting gravity with its migration; the statue, the rescue, the breakdown.

The act of writing always helped Ford clarify his thoughts and untangle mysteries; it wasn't until he was writing that he realized the limbs Bill had said he couldn't feel were the ones that had broken off the statue.

He listed the rules of the chess variants he could remember Bill inventing. He drew Bill huddled in front of the board, grim, tear-streaked, exhausted; and then scratched out his face, embarrassed at the thought of immortalizing such a raw moment for his private viewing.

He wrote, There's still a slim possibility that the entire "eclipse," start to finish, was Bill's masterfully-orchestrated scheme to make us pity and trust him; but it's unlikely. Although Bill is fiendish enough, he isn't currently powerful enough, and his lies certainly aren't elaborate enough. If he could pull off such a byzantine ruse, then he could just as easily escape—and if he can escape, why hasn't he? Bill may be insane, but he's never been THAT irrational.

And so, even as twisted as Bill's idea of "friendship" is... for the very first time, I'm convinced that he was telling the truth all along when he said he wants me as his friend. It's not an act. He risked his life to save someone who's an active threat to him.

And at the end of it all—though I'm grateful to be alive in spite of my own stubbornness—do I like him any better for it?

Ford leaned back and shut his eyes, sifting through the inner tumult of anger and old hurt that defined most of his memories of Bill, looking to see if anything had changed.

There was a sore, tender spot in his emotions, a place beginning to rot with remorse; when he prodded at those emotions, he found that it was shame over his own harsh conduct of the last couple of days. But he was only ashamed of how cruelly he'd acted; he wasn't ashamed that Bill was the one he'd done it to.

Outside of that tender spot—regret over his own behavior—nothing else had changed.

No. I still hate him. I'm grateful to be alive, but I hate him. He hasn't undone anything he did to my family and me, and he never will. Forgiveness can't be purchased with favors.

I'm only relieved at the certainty of it. Bill has committed an act that can't possibly be a lie. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's shown me the truth; and the truth is he'd rather see me alive than dead. Whatever other lies he may tell, I can hold on to that fact.

Bill's miserable eyes peered out at Ford between the scribbles he'd drawn across his face. It was truly a pity that Ford had to hate him. Pity that Bill hadn't been somebody better. He could have been better.

Ford couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed that he'd filled four pages talking about the monster he'd already wasted so many more on. Bill had been right about him: You might hate me to my face, but behind my back you're as obsessed with me as ever. The only thing Bill didn't understand was that hatred and obsession weren't mutually incompatible.

####

"Hey, Dipper," Mabel said, unfolding the living room sofa bed.

"Hey, Mabel," Dipper said, passing through living room on his way to the stairs. He climbed up to the attic.

He came back down from the attic. "Mabel. Why's Bill asleep in your bed."

"He really needed a nap," Mabel said.

"Okay but why on your bed?"

Mabel pouted. "Dipper, do you realize he's never slept on a real bed? Ever?"

Dipper tried to imagine sleeping on a couple couch cushions on the floor every night. "Yeah, okay, that does kinda suck." Even if it was Bill's own fault he wouldn't sleep in the living room.

By unspoken mutual agreement, having a Bill in the bedroom followed the same law as finding a centipede in the bathroom. The law was "that's the centipede's bathroom now." So once the folding bed was set up, they sat on it to serve as their hang-out spot for the evening and caught each other up on what they'd done the last couple of days.

After Dipper & Co. had left, Grenda had come over to take advantage of the low gravity to retrieve the kite that had been stuck in a tree near the Mystery Shack since last summer (it was, tragically, too tattered to salvage), and then they'd gone over to Candy's house to photograph each other performing feats of impossible strength. (Mabel would be sending some pictures to their parents to confuse them, and adding the rest to her summer scrapbook.) She'd spent the next day breaking the trampoline world record until Soos came outside and said gravity was probably too low for it to be safe to be up in the air anymore, if Bill's warnings about being off the ground when gravity hit zero were true; at which point Mabel had hung around inside air-swimming until she suddenly slammed against the ceiling, and then the ground. She was fine. She just had a couple of bruises. She showed Dipper her bruises.

In return, Dipper told Mabel about how their quest had gone: the checks for micro-rips, Bill's increasingly frantic warnings, the lake—

("You got to see a bajillion magical axolotls and I didn't?!")

—the cliff, the Axolotl, Dipper's near-death experience, and what he now knew about his out-of-body dreams.

"Seriously?" Mabel hissed, eyes bugging out. "And he had us looking up lucid dreaming books! What a jerk!"

"I know! He could have just ignored the whole thing, we didn't even think it was anything but dreams."

"And I'd thought he was being so helpful, too! Like he was really trying to make up for giving you 'nightmares'!" Mabel laughed in disbelief and flopped down on the flimsy mattress. "All that because he just didn't want us to know how it was really his fault? Biiill, ugh."

His fault. Dipper hesitated, wondering whether he should tell Mabel what Bill had said about Mabel's Fault; then decided against it. Bill had probably been telling the truth when he'd said he only wanted all the credit for Weirdmageddon.

But—Dipper did tell her about Bill saving their lives. He would have felt like a liar if he hadn't—like he was trying to trick his sister into thinking Bill was worse than he already was. He hoped Ford wouldn't mind; but how could he not tell Mabel?

"He could have just let you die and didn't?" Mabel turned that over in her head, processing this sudden shift in Bill's behavior. "Wow. I'm impressed."

He also told her about their previous encounter with the Axolotl. Considering the other lies Bill had told recently, anything he said about them meeting the Axolotl was dubious at best; but Dipper could remember the Axolotl, so maybe some of it was true, even if Bill had twisted as much as he could. ("The Axolotl said hi, by the way." "Aww. Tell him hi back!" "Yeah, I... don't know how to do that.")

Dipper laid out his journal between them on the folding bed, and Mabel read over the couplet a few times. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches from within birch trees'..."

"It's got to be talking about Bill," Dipper said. "Equilateral triangles have three sixty-degree angles. I just don't know why the Axolotl wanted to talk to us about him."

Mabel frowned at the lines. "I think... I remember meeting him too," she said.

"You do?"

"Kinda. Like in a dream," she said. "We were in some kind of futury space race car. And he had a really comfortable beanbag chair."

"Yes! I remembered the beanbag chair, too!" And he hadn't mentioned it in his journal. "This is great! Talking about it must... must cause us to remember, somehow. Maybe since the universe where we met the Axolotl doesn't exist anymore, our memories of it are... detached or something? Psychically floating around between dimensions until we try to remember them?" He took in Mabel's skeptical frown and shrugged. "I don't know!"

She scrunched up her face. "Ugh. Last summer's first-grader time travel was complicated enough. This is like college-level time travel. Maybe we can ask Bill how it works?"

She said it so easily, like she thought it was actually a good idea. Right after she'd heard about the lucid dreaming thing, too. "I don't think he'd help." Dipper lowered his voice. "He really didn't want Grunkle Ford and me to find out about the Axolotl—and he kept telling me not to think about what the Axolotl told me. He's trying to cover something up."

"Oo-oo-ooh." Voice dropped to a whisper, Mabel said, "Do you think it's some kind of Space Axolotl conspiracy?"

"It could be," Dipper said. "All I know is he was trying to tell us something important about Bill. Some kind of prophecy, or... maybe a warning...?"

He trailed off. Mabel had stopped listening to Dipper. She was rereading the couplet Dipper had written, moving her lips like she was murmuring under her breath—but whatever she was saying, it was much longer than the couplet Dipper had written down. Distractedly, she said, "Do you have a pen?"

"Yeah, here." Dipper quickly handed over the pen he kept in his vest.

Mabel clicked it, went to the bottom of the page, and wrote: A different form, a different time.

Dipper sucked in a sharp breath as the words snapped into place in his mind. "That's it! That was the last line! What else do you remember?"

"That's it," Mabel said. "It was free form poetry with a bunch of rhyme pairs."

"I don't think free form poetry rhymes."

"Pbbbt." Mabel blew a raspberry and shoved Dipper's face. "Whatever! You know what I mean." She pointed at the last line. "Do you think the poem's about why Bill's here? He time traveled to the Mystery Shack in a new body..."

"Exactly! Bill must be back here for a reason. He's got all those powers—or, used to, anyway—and he knows more about the multiverse than anybody on Earth... Maybe there's some kind of big threat coming, and Bill's the only one who can stop it, and—and the Axolotl wanted us to know...?"

"I like the sound of that," Mabel said. "That'd basically make him a hero, right?"

Dipper grimaced. "I mean. I guess? But we're talking about Bill. If he does help us stop a threat, it'd be like if a serial killer picked up a hitchhiker and killed him, and then it turned out the hitchhiker was an even worse serial killer."

"That still sounds kinda heroic to me."

"Pfff, okay." He looked at his journal. "But... what is he here to do?"

Mabel considered what they'd already written. "Maybe we can use him to spy on our enemies through birch trees!"

"Thaaat's probably not it."

"No, I think I'm on to something. I can feel it."

There was a lot of empty space between his couplet and Mabel's line. "There's more we're missing, though. Maybe the rest of the poem describes the threat? Or what we need to get Bill to do?"

"I can't remember anything else, though."

"Me neither."

They stared at the page together, waiting for something to come to their blank minds. Mabel looked at the fish tank. "Hey, Primrose! Do you know anything?"

The pet axolotl in the tank ignored her serenely.

Dipper said, "'Primrose'?"

"Yeah, last summer Grunkle Stan said her name is Freakface, but I thought she deserved a cuter name. She's primrose color!"

"Ford says he originally named him Nikola."

Mabel gasped. "Nikki..."

Dipper twisted around to look at the axolotl. "Do you know anything? Do you... get messages from the Axolotl's heralds, or anything...?"

Nikola slowly opened his mouth, and slowly closed it.

Mabel said, "Hey. The Axolotl's one of those dimension-crossy time-travely guys, right? He probably wouldn't have given us a prophecy in the wrong timeline and then made us forget it unless he knew we'd remember it in time in the rightdimension!"

"I guess," Dipper said uncertainly.

"So we don't need to worry about it! We'll remember it when we need to."

"Unless this timeline's going to branch, and the only one where we survive is the one where we put all our effort into trying to remembering—"

"Shhh!" Mabel put a finger over Dipper's mouth. "Uh-uh. No college time travel. We'll be fine!"

Dipper pushed her over. "Okay, but we should at least try a little to remember what the Axolotl told us."

"What if we work on it separately?" Mabel propped herself up on an elbow. "Instead of just sitting around thinking about it. And whenever we remember a line, we can tell each other and see if it makes anything click."

"That might be faster," Dipper said, stroking his chin. "We're already remembering different lines."

"Yeah! And that lucid dreaming book said something about focusing on a problem before you sleep so you can figure it out in your dreams! We can just work on it in our sleep and we'll remember it all in no time!"

Dipper laughed. "What? No way, I think lucid dreaming is just one of those made up pop psychology things. I didn't get it to work at all." Either it didn't work or Bill had deliberately recommended a terrible book.

"I did! I can remember like... eighty percent more dreams. And I can tell when I'm dreaming a lot more often!"

"Huh." Or, maybe Dipper just wasn't doing it right. "Maybe I need to start over from step one. Do you know where the book we were using went?"

"Over here!" Mabel had set a couple library books on the end table next to the sofa bed; she pulled out the second one, which had a glittery pink bookmark with a cat on it stuck two-thirds of the way through. "Just don't lose my bookmark."

"Thanks." He'd reread the first step before bed. "We should probably be getting ready for bed anyway, huh?"

"Seriously?! It's barely bedtime!" And when the adults weren't watching, official bedtime was an hour and a half before Actual Bedtime.

"I'm exhausted. I just hiked up and down a mountain and faced down death."

Mabel pointed at Nikola. "You faced down a big salamander."

"Close enough."

They went upstairs, brushed their teeth, went to their bedroom...

And stopped in the door. Bill was still asleep. "Oh. Right," Dipper said.

He was curled into a ball on his left side, facing the wall, covered with only the zodiac blanket and his borrowed/stolen top hat sitting on the side of his head. He didn't use a pillow; he'd pushed Mabel's pillows and dolls behind himself to form a squishy makeshift fortress.

"Please don't wake him up," Mabel whispered. (She'd already set up the folding bed for herself; she'd clearly planned on this.) "He's had a really really hard time the last couple of days, and I think he needs as much sleep in a real bed as he can get, and it's just for one night, and I'm sure he'd rather sleep than do anything evil—"

"He said something, didn't he?"

Mabel paused. "Yeah. I think seeing his body really messed him up."

Dipper sighed. "We were trying to keep him away from it." He didn't want Mabel to think they'd forced him to stare his own death in the face. "But he did that... eye thing and looked through the trees, and..."

Mabel nodded.

Well. Dipper couldn't kick him out now. For Mabel's sake.

As children, occasionally when they got hotel rooms with a bed too few, their parents would stick them in one bed with a barrier of pillows in between them. At age thirteen and without two crabby parents trying to get them to just go to bed after a long plane flight, they unanimously vetoed that plan. Dipper decided against asking Stan if he could sleep in Ford's unoccupied bed, both because he suspected Stan would just go upstairs and drag Bill out of the room and because he didn't want Stan to think he was scared of Bill. He wasn't scared of Bill. Not anymore. He could handle one measly night in the same room as him. Anyway, somebody had to make sure he wasn't unsupervised in their bedroom all night, right?

Dipper and Mabel quietly set a floor mirror and old lamp next to Mabel's bed, draped a sheet between them, taped on a pink poster that said "WARNING! TRIANGLE ZONE!" and was covered in stickers of triangular objects, and decided Dipper was adequately shielded. If Bill did get up during the night, he'd probably trip through the sheet and wake half the house before he got anywhere near Dipper.

Dipper went to sleep with a baseball bat in his hands.

####

"Okay," Bill said, hands on his sides, "what am I looking at here?"

The feral band members of Sev'ral Timez turned toward Bill, eyes reflecting in the dim light. They were squatting around Bill's petrified corpse like a pack of apes examining a sleek black monolith.

"Hey girl," Creggy G. said.

"Hey," Bill said. He looked down at himself. His onyx black feet hovered over the ground and the yellow glow from his exoskeleton illuminated the clearing. "Lemme cut to the chase, is this gonna turn into a raunchy dream? My corporeal love life is about as cold and dry as Antarctica, I keep hoping one of my dreams will get a little hotter and wetter—"

"Nah, G," Deep Chris said. "Mr. Bratsman got us fixed."

"Aw."

"We're here to pay you reverence for freeing our minds from the chains of the conventional," Greggy C said, gesturing to Bill's corpse. Leggy P was kneeling and bowing to it and Chubby Z was posing for it. "We want to help free you like you tried to help free humanity."

Bill's eye narrowed. He tapped a finger against the edge of one brick as he considered this offer. Finally, skeptically, he said, "Fine. I'll bite. Why should I think you can help me?"

"Because we can give you the understanding your heart's been missing, girl. You're just like us," Chubby Z said. "A horror never meant to exist, born of a dream to construct the perfect golden idol, forced to dwell within an unnaturally-fabricated human shell."

Bill tilted his head thoughtfully. "I'm with you so far."

"We want you to join us," Deep Chris said. "Cavort with us in the silvan night, G. Shun the harsh light of the spotlight for the healing salve of moonbeams. We'll get drunk on the sweet fermented summer berries, uncaring of how the brambles prick our flesh. We'll dance in a frenzy of ecstasy and only sleep when the morning sun lifts the dew from the flowers and the sweat from our skin. It'll be straight Dionysian, boo."

"We can kiss the hot trees," Creggy G said.

Bill grabbed his shoulder. "Oh, you're the human that keeps making out with birch trees! I knew your face was familiar!" He paused. "So... are there any eligible ones around here?"

"Sure, girl, just downstream."

"If I'd known, I would've polished myself first."

"Say you'll join us, Bill girl," Deep Chris said. The band crowded around Bill to either side, posing around him—the backup dancers for the star singer. "You'd be one of us."

"We're already exactly the same," Creggy G said, holding up a mirror so that it reflected his and Bill's faces beside each other. In Bill's human face were two empty white eyes with pinprick pupils and pale blue irises, exactly the same as the eyes of the Sev'ral Timez boys.

He sat up with a gasp, hands flying to his face. There were still green boughs at the edges of his dreaming vision, blending into the wooden boards of the Mystery Shack's attic. Before sleep had fully fled his mind, he seized up the zodiac blanket draped over his body and stared into his embroidered eye.

The eye stared back at him. Through it, he could see his horrified sleepy face, and his normal slitted yellow eyes. His connection to the blanket's eye disappeared as he finished waking up.

He heaved a sigh of relief and flopped back down. He'd been lucid, but he hadn't been in control of that dream. He still needed practice.

He rolled toward the light of the window, groped around beneath it until he found his journal, grabbed up his crayons, and flipped pages blearily until he found the first blank one. He started writing down his dream, pausing only briefly as he tried to figure out how to translate "Sev'ral Timez" before settling on a sufficiently goofy way to misspell "several times" in Plaintext.

He made it halfway down the page before he stopped. Hold on. This wasn't his beautiful journal. These were not his beautiful crayons. He checked the cover and grimaced in displeasure when he saw a pine tree rather than a hand. Dipper's journal. Bill ripped out the page, ate it, and set the journal and Mabel's crayons back on the table under the bedroom window.

"What was that," Dipper asked, "some kind of Morse code?"

Bill yelped and twisted around. Dipper's soul was hovering above Mabel's headboard, watching over Bill's shoulder.

"Hey! Back, foul ghost!" Bill snatched up Mabel's pillow and swung it at Dipper.

"Ow—Hey! How did you hit me, I'm in the mindscape—"

"I said back!" Bill swung again, chasing Dipper off the bed. "Back into your fleshy tomb!" He climbed off the bed, stumbled into Dipper and Mabel's trap, tripped through the sheet and probably woke up half the house.

He yanked the sheet off and flung the pillow at Dipper by its corner. "Now get back in your body, go to sleep, and leave me alone."

"I don't know how to get back in it. I just wait until it happens by itself," Dipper said, floating irritably over his sleeping body, arms crossed. "Why do you think I just wander around every time I have this dream?" He paused. "Right—it's not a dream, is it."

Bill sighed heavily. "Try putting your body on like..." He almost said like an exoskeleton, remembered his audience, and amended himself: "Like it's clothing. I usually start with the hands. Just like putting on gloves!"

Dipper looked at the cold fingers wrapped tightly around the baseball bat. "How do I put hands on like gloves? There's no opening or—"

"Just try it, would you?" Bill sat tiredly on the edge of Mabel's bed.

Dipper shot him an irritated look, but pressed his ghostly hands against his fleshly ones, passing through the skin until one set of fingers rested inside the other. A fingertip twitched.

Bill gestured with one hand, continue. "Now the sleeves."

"I know how to get dressed." Dipper laid down in his body, forearm into forearm, shoulder into shoulder—until he was wholly back inside. He sat up, awake. "Huh."

"There, see?" Bill said. "And if you want to take it back off, just do the same thing in reverse. Like degloving your body from your soul!"

"Did you have to phrase it like that?" Still, Dipper tried it, peeling out of his body from the fingertips up. He left his body sitting upright as he hovered over it.

Bill chuckled tiredly. "Lookit your face, staring at nothing. Stupid looking."

"Shut up." He slid back into his body, more quickly now that he knew what he was doing.

"Great," Bill said. "Now that you know how to get back in your body, never do that again." He flopped back onto Mabel's bed and rolled over to face the wall. "It's a pain in my base having you wander around all night."

"Then you should've thought of that before you ripped my soul out of my body," Dipper grumbled. "Can you reattach me to my body?"

"Sure, easy." He lifted a hand to point down at his regrettably human form. "Not like this, though. Wanna help reattach me to my body?"

"Never in a million years."

"Then come back in a million years. There's nothing I can do for you until then." Bill dragged Mabel's zodiac blanket back over himself. "So sorry. Go to sleep. Leave me alone."

Dipper bet Bill could do it and was only saying he couldn't to try to trick Dipper into helping him. But he lay back down—clutching his bat again—and shut his eyes.

After a moment, Bill asked, "Where's Mabel? Sleepover?"

"Sofa bed in the living room."

"Right."

And then there was silence.

Several minutes passed. Dipper nearly fell back asleep. He heard Bill climbing out of bed and creeping across the room; but the footsteps didn't approach Dipper's bed, so he didn't open his eyes.

A few minutes after that, Dipper heard him come back, walking more heavily. He cracked open an eye to see what Bill was up to.

He was carrying Mabel, who was still asleep; his arms were trembling from her weight, but even at that Dipper hadn't known Bill was that strong. With a quiet grunt, he set her on her bed, then haphazardly tossed her sheet and zodiac blanket over her. He picked up his top hat from the bed and put it on; and then he wandered off, footsteps quiet as a ghost, and Dipper heard the creak of the door as he left the bedroom.

That was a lot nicer than Dipper had expected from Bill. Maybe he did care about Mabel in his own way.

Mabel rolled over and latched on to one of her dolls. Dipper shut his eye and fell back asleep.

####

(My favorite part of writing this was Bill dreaming about Sev'ral Timez saying the most absurdly flowery things imaginable. Anyway, let me know what y'all think about this week's chapter! And reminder that I MIGHT skip next week or the week after because the next couple chapters need heavier editing than usual.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #sev'ral timez #(a tag i have never used before and will probably never use again.)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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endursent · 4 months ago

Text

- Through the Dark

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , dry humping , a bit of pining , tight spaces , NSFW 】

【 note; i've never written smut/nsfw before, so this is treading new grounds for me, but I need to practice for gss because i want that to be juicy. expect more, lol. it'd also be nice to get requests/suggestions to stir by brain a bit if you'd like.

also, the reader's gender is never mentioned but there are gender-neutral they/them pronouns used twice in the middle to enforce that ambiguity. 】

【 word count; 3.391 | read on ao3 】

“Stop… moving so much,” Sunday strains through grit teeth, he’s trying not to sound annoyed or upset, but it’s an uphill battle.

“You’re moving first, I’m just adjusting,” you whisper back, you can’t tell what expression he’s making in the darkness, but you’re sure it’s on some scale of annoyance or frustration by the sound of his voice.

“You–”

You hear footsteps approaching and slap your right hand over his mouth, your heart beats faster as they approach, quick taps against hardwood floors… you feel Sunday still completely, his jaw moves slightly beneath your palm as he swallows thickly. Neither of you move an inch until distant shouts sound and the footsteps fade. You still keep your hand over his mouth for a moment longer just in case. You can’t see out of the closet you’ve squeezed into… what if there’s someone listening on the other side? Just waiting for either of you to make a noise?

Your heart continues to beat rapidly in your chest, you feel it hammering against your rib cage–and you’re sure Sunday feels it too.

After a while, you take a gamble and lower your hand from his face, surely they’re gone now?

“...” Sunday doesn’t say anything, a tense silence falling between you. His voice is a whisper when he finally does speak. “... is this a usual occurrence?”

You have to take a moment to try and understand what he means. “Ha? Being stuck in a closet?”

“Yes,” he just grumbles, disapproval clear in his tone.

“... no,” you mumble in return. The how and why of the situation was irrelevant—mostly because it’s your fault and you don’t want to think about it—what was much more important is that you are stuffed into a closet with Sunday with barely any wiggle room and you’re not keen on facing a horde of angry guards who could potentially be hostile with only you and Sunday to fend them off.

Your limbs barely have any space, Sunday’s arms are above the both of you, his elbows on either side of your head as the space is so narrow he can’t even lower them—there’s no direction wide enough for his arm to bend. Your chests are pressed together so tightly that the ornament on his scarf has nearly poked you in the eye three times and you felt the tickle of his feathered wings against your cheekbone when you turned your head to the door.

The rest… is the uncomfortable part—not that being pressed like sardines in a can isn’t uncomfortable in general. Sunday is slightly taller than you and has to spread his legs on either side of you so that he can fit—the closet isn’t exactly tall either, so the two of you are slightly hunched as well, thus you have to tuck your legs under him so that he’s practically sitting on them, your knees press against the wall achingly and one of your thighs is pressing very insistently and directly between his legs.

The strain in his voice is probably only half due to the uncomfortable, hunched position, and half because with every slight move you make, you’re essentially grinding your thigh against his crotch. It’s hard not to notice the situation, but for his–and your own–sake you pretend not to.

Unbeknownst to you, Sunday is fighting for his life. He hasn’t been touched by another… ever? Not like this, even if accidental. He feels the tips of his fingers prickle and his jaw clench unconsciously as he tries his best not to react outwardly.

“Okay… they should be gone now,” thankfully your hands were bent downwards, and thus you could push against the closet door with your elbow.

But it doesn’t budge.

You press again, nothing. It’s locked, or blocked by something. No matter how you try and push, the door doesn’t budge.

“What is it?” Sunday frowns, he can’t see what you’re doing and the closet doesn’t have any holes or window on the door to allow light in. “Open it, just…”

“It’s locked,” you interrupt him.

He says nothing… and you can almost sense the mixture of frustration and disappointment in him, but a soft, warm exhale fans over your face, it almost tickles. “Try again,” he urges surprisingly softly. “Perhaps it’s just stiff.”

You do as he asks, but no luck. “… it doesn’t open.”

Sunday clicks his tongue. “Alright—stop pushing, be still,” he nudges your head with his elbow. With every press against the door, your body pushes away from it—and your thigh flexes, pressing against him further.

There’s another beat of silence, but you can’t stand it—thankfully, an idea flashes in your mind and you decide to give him a heads up… this will require some wriggling. “Sunday, my phone is in my pocket, if I can get it and send a message to the Express group chat, someone must be able to come and pry the door open.” Never have you imagined a more useful task for Dan Heng’s spear.

“Can you reach it?” he asks as you shift your arm from being stuck between your stomachs and squeeze it between your bodies. His eyes squint at the feeling.

You bite your lip in concentration. “Probably… but I’ll need to try and stretch my thighs and waist to fish it out…”

“I see…” he understands what that entails, but he’s not sure he likes the idea. “Can you reach my phone instead? It’s in my coat pocket.”

You pat around his side and try to find it, it could be easier… but to reach down you have to try and bend forwards—which means pressing your forehead and face directly into his chest. The scarf wrapped around his collar is soft… and it smells nice, like cinnamon. Though his chest itself isn’t very soft, he’s rather skinny.

But no matter how you reached and even tried to tug his coat up, the pocket was too far down and his phone even deeper inside. There’s no other way.

“I’m sorry,” you truly are, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. “Maybe if we just wait…”

“No,” he shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your nose. “Just do it.”

Deciding to try and just get it over with, you nod and start shimmying your back and ass upwards as much as you can to try and create space for you to be able to tug your phone out of your pocket. And it has the exact effect expected.

Sunday grunts, he tries to bite back any noise and his thighs twitch before he presses them against your hips tightly, as if trying to close his legs… it’s torturous, your thigh drags up and shifts and moves against him as you fish for your phone, he can’t even reach down to still your leg or tug at himself—anything, his arms are at too much of an awkward angle to be able to bend down in the tight space, so he’s stuck just enduring the searing heat that’s pooling dangerously easily between his legs.

Finally, you get a proper hold of it and drag your phone out of your pants pocket, you settle back down which elicits a sound from him that shoots through both of you like an arrow. “Sorry!” you quickly try and apologise, but the soft twitching of his body signals that the apology will do precious little.

Sunday swallows thickly, so much so that you could hear it. His body was warm before, but now it feels like he’s radiating heat against you. He doesn’t want to say anything, worried his voice might not sound right—but the position you realigned into is pressing him almost painfully flat against himself… which also means he feels every small drag or shift you make.

You try to tilt your shoulders in a way that lets you see your phone screen… if you can just text the Express group chat that you’re stuck, surely someone can put off what they’re doing and come let you out.

It’s tricky to turn the phone in your hand with only one to spare and try to unlock it without seeing the screen, where even is the messaging app again? You just try your best to guess… until you try and type, which is when your phone tilts from your fingers and clatters to the ground.

“…”

Fuck.

An exhale leaves Sunday. “You dropped your phone.”

“… yeah,” you sound like a puppy being scolded by its owner. With your phone facing up on the floor, he could just barely see you giving him guilty dog side-eyes.

He couldn’t explain the frustration it brought him that now no one knew of your positions—you had managed to send a … half-message… but it probably didn’t mean much to anyone.

—

[17:42] You: slfep dmgwlsGn f

[17:43] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: Huh?

[17:46] Himeko: Probably put their phone unlocked in their pocket again...

[17:49] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: lol

—

The light from your phone turned off as it was left untouched for too long, and you groaned slightly. Great… now what? Surely you’re not going to be stuck here forever.

He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure much longer, especially not when your damned body is pressed against his like this, the smell of your clothes and the occasional brush of your hands when you move them in the little space they can be moved.

It certainly doesn’t help that he finds you irresistible.

How could he, after his world had been turned—his beliefs, his ideals and his goals all turned from reaching forward, to halting in front of a mirror, forced to confront his reflection and pick out the flaws in his own mind before himself.

And you treated him just as you would any other person, despite what he had done, despite his false sense of benevolence that he still worked to understand how to redirect to something more realistic, how to understand what it is that drives...

His thoughts are interrupted—unfortunately, because it was distracting enough—when you pat his coat again to try and find his phone, but his skin begins to tingle every time you touch him, his poor body highly sensitive from the growing tension in his pants. “S-stop, be still—please,” he breathes, his voice suddenly far closer to your ear than it was before, his soft hair tickling your cheek.

Oh, that was…

You’ve never heard his voice sound like that—not that you’ve known him for long enough to hear many of the pitches of his voice could make, but the way it rose slightly and cut off before pleading with you…

Why do you want to hear it again? “Sorry,” you say again, losing count of how many times you’ve said it already. “Are you okay?”

He wouldn’t admit to his predicament with a gun to his head, but… it’s impossible to ignore, and there’s no way you don’t know either. He takes a deep—shaky—breath. “You can’t… move your leg?”

You don’t want to lie to him and say yes, your knee is aching from being pressed so firmly against the wall of the closet, and your tailbone isn’t faring better against the other wall. You can pretty much only move it side to side unless you try and straighten your knee out—which as he felt earlier, was far worse. “Not really.”

He swallows again, Sunday is glad he’s wearing gloves and that the closet is dark, or else you would have felt his sweaty hands or seen it on his brow by now. “I see.”

He can’t stay like this much longer, his heart thunders against his chest, he hears it clearly as his breath hitches when he tries to provide himself some relief by shifting his hips to one side—but only proceeds to drag against you again, causing maddening friction that makes his thighs flex.

The tension in the air is so thick you’re not sure if it’s just the fact the closet doesn’t exactly have a vent, or that your nose is a hair’s width from Sunday’s neck, but it’s making your head feel lighter and your breaths deepen the more he tries to find more comfortable positions and fail, letting out short breaths or grunts. At this point he might as well just find the relief he’s desperately holding back from chasing. It would be less painful.

“Sunday,” his name falls from your lips quieter than you meant to, and surprisingly, your own name leaves him equally shyly. A simple breath that made your spine straighten instinctively—causing you to poke yourself in the eye on the ornament on his scarf. “Ow—“

“Stop moving,” his tone sharpens and you feel a palm on your head. “… nhh—“ Sunday’s body twitches, you feel a throb against your thigh and he fears he’s going to burst if this continues. “…”

But he can’t in his right mind just ask you if he can use your thigh to satisfy this torturous ache.

Thankfully, your mind is usually not ‘right’. “Hey,” you muster up some courage, it helps that neither of you can’t see anything. “If you need to…”

“No,” he interrupts you, shaking his head—and a wing slaps you in the face, you feel like your face is taking too many swings today. “No, absolutely not.”

“You sound like you’re about to cry.” His voice is tight, but not because he’s about to cry—he might, if this keeps going for too long—but because he’s reigning in every single willpower he has to hold himself still. “Will it be better if I do it?”

He clicks his tongue, this entire situation could have been avoided if someone didn’t trigger the alarm. He could’ve gone about his day and not had to—yet again—confront a side of himself left neglected. “No… fine, let me.”

It was… tentative, shy, as if he thought that short and subtle movements would mean you wouldn’t feel anything or not notice too much. Every shot of warmth from his waist to his fingers and toes made him shudder and his chest tighten, it was a fight on all fronts to both keep quiet and focus on being careful at the same time.

It was hard to watch, or rather listen to, as the dark was still all-encompassing.

Maybe he would feel better if he didn’t have to think about the uncomfortable silence in the darkness.

You can’t reach up, your hands stuck below your chests, otherwise you would have touched his face first. He likely wouldn’t have been as startled as he was when your lips suddenly—yet gently—pressed against his.

“Wh—mm you—doin—m—“ it’s almost comedic how his question is only half communicated, surprised and confused by the kiss that he slowly eases into, accepting your offer and splitting his attention.

His hips grind against your thigh, slow at first and uncertain, but as your mouth takes half his mind off of it, he begins to move more desperately. He’s been held at a precipice for so many minutes, an agonising hour that felt so long that he thought he would surely explode in some form if it were to continue for much longer. Sunday’s lips are surprisingly soft against yours, warm and inviting as he pushes back, his hand above your head that laid on it is now searching for purchase, as if he wants to take hold of you properly.

The two of you pull back to breathe, and Sunday wastes no time to duck his head next to yours, damp lips brushing past your temple and to your ear. He plants wet, open mouthed kisses below it, the sensitive skin tickled by the sensation as his tongue drags against the shell of your ear.

But he doesn’t give up, taken by the heated moment and relaxed barriers, his hips continue to cant against your thigh, his worldview narrowing to the sensation of your warm skin under his lips, to the delicious friction created by both your pants. “Hahh…“ he breathes out, a string of saliva separating his lips from your skin.

You move your leg in tandem to his grinding, you can’t help but feel his pleasure as if it were your own, the way his body trembles with strain, the breathy sounds below your chin and flex of his hips. You feel your own body respond and warmth pool needily, but you ignore it—he’s the one that’s been suffering for an hour in this stuffy space, you can wait… you try to convince yourself at least, ignoring the subtle throb of your own, at least it was just against air and not pressed against something as well—or perhaps that’s worse.

It’s embarrassing, Sunday echoes in the back of his mind, not only that he’s had to resort to this, but also the fact that he wants more. He doesn’t just want to rut against your thigh like this, he wants to touch you with his hands, trapped at an awkward angle over your shoulders. He wants to feel your own heat, the warmth radiating from your clothes against his a tempting tease, a longing of seeing what’s beneath. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your neck, your lips—he wants to feel all of it.

Sunday mumbles your name again before his lips find your ear and the top of your throat once more, a hint of teeth as he captures your earlobe between them, a shiver running through you, you can hear his mouth and tongue so clearly... he kisses a reddened spot left below your ear from his single minded focus and his hips falter and his body twitches together, but he only succeeds in brushing his bangs against your chin and his small wings fluttering outward. The surge of heat emitting from his straining cock was unbearable, he moved faster, a breathy sound of your name on his lips again, Sunday says it for the third time as tension fills his body and all he can focus on is the warmth of your frame against his—a bit too tightly in the cramped closet—the soft warm breaths against his ear and the way your hands unconsciously started grabbing at his coat.

You feel him tense and groan, the choked sound foreign on his lips, you never expected to hear such a bodily sound from him, nor could you stop it from raising every hair on your arms. You hold onto him as he practically falls against you, Sunday’s breaths are heavy and his arms tremble by your head, his mind feels like it’s been tossed around a bit before stuffed back in upside down, he can’t straighten up or lie down and has to practically sit on your thigh.

“Are you okay?” you prod and poke at his stomach worriedly. “Was that okay? Are—“

“Please… j-just… one moment,” he pleads, not ready to answer a barrage of questions just yet. His heart is beating so fast it almost worries him, his throat feels dry and his legs are weak. He did nothing but drag his crotch up and down your thigh and this is the state he’s left in? He can’t imagine how you would leave him if he got a real taste—

He shakes his head and you splutter as you get a mouthful of feathers. “I… might have dirtied your pants,” he says shamefully, the sticky wetness between his legs left behind from the height of pleasure was surely going to stain you too. Though it felt good, certainly, he is having some post-clarity… for you to see him so tense and desperate as this—he always has a careful front, not more so than before, but the habit remains.

“I have more,” you try to assure him… you don’t have them with you, but you do own more. “So…”

He presses his forehead against your shoulder. “… I don’t want to talk about it now.”

A small smile cracks your lips and you stroke his side. “Okay, we‘ll talk later… how about a second grab for your phone? Now that you’re all, eh… spent?”

“… don’t send anything until we’re dry.”

#sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday #sunday hsr #honkai star rail #my writing #fics #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #big time content #yes thats what i usually use for my ns4w tagging

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galedekarios · 5 months ago

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i need to take a moment to talk about one of my favourite details in the astral sea scene because sadly, you can't really see it too well (or at all) from afar / without the camera tool.

remember the very end?

when gale and his partner form that sort of star?

and they're little more than a tangle of limbs?

the original gale has his hand outstretched and the protag's hand slides down his arm:

until they intertwine their fingers and hold hands.

i just wanted you all to know that.

#i know ppl like to make fun of this scene but it's absolute s tier to me #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #tav x gale #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #otp: a soul that steels my own #ch: gale dekarios #ch: altonaufein #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate

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frameacloud · 10 months ago

Text

The purpose of this survey is to collect data about the experiences of people who feel sensations of nonhuman body parts, for example, wings or a tail. Some call these supernumerary phantom limbs, phantom shifts, otherlimbs, or astral limbs, though you may have other preferences for the words you use for your own experiences. If you haven't had those experiences, you can participate in this survey too. This survey was made for people who call themselves otherkin, therianthrope, furry, or any other potentially alterhuman or nonhuman identity. If you don't describe yourself with any of those words, you can participate in this survey too.

The survey will take you about 6 to 15 minutes. Everyone age 18 and up is welcome to fill out the survey at the below link, until it closes on July 6, 2024:

Survey Link

Who is running this survey and why: The person running this survey is Orion Scribner (they/them), an otherkin/therianthrope who has been making projects about these communities since 2005. I will use the results in my panel at an Internet-based convention later this year (OtherCon 2024), and in other future research projects.

#otherkin #nonhuman #alterhuman #therian #phantom limbs #therianthropy #therianthrope #survey #please reblog and tell your friends about it if they don't use Tumblr... it will only be open for a little more than 2 months!#screen reader friendly #rated PG-13

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aventurineswife · 1 month ago

Note

UNDER THE MISTLETOE WITH THE FOLLOWING

Aventurine, Kaveh, Dan Heng, Mortefi, Xiangli Yao, Aalto, Sunday, Boothill

(I say you break it into parts and add more characters you wanna write for for this one)

-Smooch Anon 💋

Under the Mistletoe

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Mortefi x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Aalto x Reader, Xiangli x Reader, Romance, Holiday Season, Mistletoe kiss, Slow Burn, Gentle Intimacy, Slight Angst, Soft Kaveh, Mutual Feelings, Tender Moments, Heartwarming, Sweet Confessions, Comfort, Winter Special!

[Aven c.ai]

The warm glow of the holiday decorations illuminated the cozy room, the soft crackling of the fireplace adding to the festive ambiance. You and Aventurine found yourselves standing near the mistletoe, a playful glimmer in his eyes.

"Ah, it seems we’ve been caught under the mistletoe," he remarked with a smirk, one eyebrow arching. His voice was light, playful, but there was an unmistakable tenderness behind it. He tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "What do you think we should do about that, hmm?"

You glanced up at the mistletoe, a light blush creeping up your cheeks. "Well, tradition says—"

Before you could finish, Aventurine stepped closer, his fingers gently tracing your jawline. His gaze softened, and he leaned down with a playful grin. "A kiss, then." he whispered, before capturing your lips in a gentle, teasing kiss.

The world around you seemed to fade as his warm embrace enveloped you. When he pulled away, his smile was one of both mischief and affection.

"You know," he murmured, eyes gleaming, "sometimes fate plays its hand quite well."

The dim glow of the holiday lights danced around you as the train moved through the vast expanse of space. You stood in the small common room of the Astral Express, your thoughts drifting in peaceful solitude.

That is, until Dan Heng entered, a quiet figure in the doorway. His gaze flickered to the mistletoe hanging in the corner, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he caught sight of you standing there.

"I... didn't expect you to be here." Dan Heng said, his tone as reserved as ever, though you could detect the slight tension in his voice.

You smiled at him. "It seems the mistletoe has decided our fate for the evening," you teased gently, the warm holiday spirit making you bold.

Dan Heng’s usually calm demeanor faltered just slightly, his lips pressing together in a tight line. Slowly, he stepped closer, and the moment stretched out. “I... I don’t usually partake in such traditions,” he admitted, his gaze avoiding yours for a brief moment.

But then, almost as if drawn by some invisible force, he closed the distance between you, his fingers brushing the side of your hand before cupping your cheek. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours softly in a rare moment of vulnerability.

When he pulled away, his eyes met yours, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I suppose it wasn’t so bad."

The cold wind of the galaxy’s outskirts ruffled Boothill’s white hair, and his sharp, shark-like teeth glinted as he scanned the space station’s holiday decorations. His mechanical limbs clicked with each step, a mix of metal and muscle, as he followed you through the crowded halls.

You couldn’t help but laugh at how out of place he seemed among the bright, colorful decorations. "Not exactly the place you'd expect to find a cowboy, huh?"

He shot you a smirk, his eyes glinting under the dim light. "I’m a man of many surprises," he replied gruffly.

As you rounded a corner, you found yourself standing beneath a hanging mistletoe. Boothill raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What now?” he asked, his voice laced with challenge and curiosity.

Before you could say a word, he stepped forward, his hand resting on your shoulder as he leaned in close, his mechanical arm gently grazing your back. "Guess it's tradition, darlin’," he muttered, his voice low as his lips met yours in a quick, fiery kiss.

You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the tension of the moment quickly evaporating as Boothill pulled away, offering a rare, roguish grin. "Wouldn’t want to break tradition, now would we?"

The soft glow of holiday lights twinkled through the windows, casting warm, golden reflections onto the floor. The chill of winter air had made its way into the room as you stood, adjusting the decorations hanging from the ceiling. As you reached for the last sprig of mistletoe, the sound of footsteps behind you made your heart skip a beat.

Turning, you were met with Sunday, his eyes glimmering with an unreadable emotion. He stood tall, his shoulder-length hair flowing like a cloud of silver-blue waves, and his long, dark coat perfectly tailored to his frame. His usual composed demeanor softened, just slightly, in the warmth of the moment.

“I see you’ve been busy.” Sunday remarked, his voice calm yet laced with a subtle amusement.

You smiled, positioning the mistletoe above the doorway with a sense of finality. “It’s almost perfect.” you replied, eyes meeting his.

The silence between you stretched for just a beat too long. Sunday’s eyes flickered to the mistletoe, then back to you, the flickering of his halo shimmering faintly in the soft light. His usual restraint was evident, but there was something different now—something almost inviting.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously, realizing the unspoken rule. “You know what comes next.” you said, the words hanging in the air.

Sunday took a slow step closer, his presence commanding but gentle, his golden earrings catching the light. A soft smile tugged at his lips, though it was still tempered by his usual thoughtful composure.

“Under the mistletoe, is it?” he mused, almost too casually, his golden eyes locking with yours.

You nodded, unsure how this would unfold. There was a subtle tension in the air, the quiet warmth of the room at odds with the thoughts running through your head. His calm nature was always a grounding force, yet you felt something new simmering beneath the surface.

Without a word, Sunday’s gloved hand reached for yours, his fingers warm despite the chill in the air. “I suppose it would be improper to leave you standing here alone...” he said, his voice still quiet, but there was something deeper now, something vulnerable.

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, the soft scent of his coat mingling with the festive air. His lips were a whisper away from yours, the space between filled only with the steady rhythm of your heartbeats.

The moment hung in balance, his breath warm on your skin as he paused, waiting.

You had only a moment to decide. The choice felt monumental, though Sunday’s presence was enough to make you feel safe, even in the most uncertain of moments.

Finally, he closed the distance, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying with it the weight of his quiet affection and complex thoughts. For a fleeting moment, the world outside faded, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of your shared connection.

When you finally pulled away, Sunday’s gaze softened. “You are my dream...” he whispered, the words carrying more meaning than you expected. His voice, usually so detached, now seemed to hold an intimacy that stirred something deep inside you.

“Even if it’s a dream I’ll never wake from?” you teased softly.

His lips curled into a knowing smile, but his eyes held a certain sadness. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice low, “but some dreams are worth living forever.”

And in that moment, under the mistletoe, you understood. His world, with all its complexities, found a kind of softness in you. And for now, that was enough.

The cozy warmth of the holiday season had settled into the lively halls of Sumeru, and the air was filled with the scent of spices and pine. Lanterns glowed softly, their light dancing across the walls of the grand hall where you stood, adjusting the last few decorations on a towering tree. The sound of footsteps approached, and you turned, finding Kaveh leaning casually against the doorway.

His hair, slightly tousled as always, framed his face perfectly. The red hair clips and feather above his ear gave him a distinctly regal air, while the intricate design of his cape—flowed elegantly behind him. His eyes, sharp yet gentle, softened when they met yours.

“You’ve outdone yourself again,” Kaveh remarked, his voice full of admiration. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “I swear, I’ll never get used to how beautiful everything looks when you’re in charge.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, feeling a little warmth in your chest at the sincerity behind his words. Kaveh had always been generous with praise, but this time, it felt especially meaningful.

“Thank you, Kaveh,” you replied, adjusting a few stray branches. “I had to make sure everything looked perfect. You deserve something beautiful for all the hard work you’ve been putting in lately.”

Kaveh chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not the one who deserves all the credit here. My work’s always been more about others than it is about me.” He paused, his eyes flickering to the mistletoe hanging above the doorframe. “Though, I suppose some things are meant to be.”

You followed his gaze, and with a small laugh, you realized the implication. The tradition of the mistletoe, hanging there like an invitation to something more intimate, stirred a sense of anticipation between you.

“Well,” you said, stepping closer, “it seems we’re supposed to follow the tradition, aren’t we?”

Kaveh looked at you for a long moment, his sharp eyes softening in a way that made your heart race. He had always been the kind of person to let his emotions show—open, passionate, sometimes even too much for his own good. It was part of what made him so endearing, but it also left him vulnerable in ways others might not understand.

His lips curled into a small, playful smile. “I suppose we are.”

Kaveh’s presence was calming, yet there was a tension in the air, as though both of you were aware of the quiet, unspoken connection between you. He took a step closer, the scent of his cologne mixing with the festive atmosphere of the room, and for a moment, it felt like time slowed.

His hand reached up, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. The touch was gentle, as if he was savoring the moment, and it sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. His eyes locked with yours, and for a fleeting instant, it felt like everything else disappeared.

Then, without another word, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, almost hesitant kiss. It was tender, careful, as though Kaveh feared pushing too far, but there was also a depth of feeling in it—an unspoken promise of understanding, of connection, of him offering a piece of himself that few ever saw.

When the kiss finally broke, Kaveh lingered, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and steady. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more relieved to follow a tradition,” he murmured, his voice low, the weight of his usual burdens momentarily forgotten in this shared moment.

You smiled softly, a gentle laugh escaping your lips. “I’m glad I could make it worthwhile.”

Kaveh’s hand rested against your cheek, his thumb lightly brushing over your skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who makes me feel like this,” he confessed, his tone full of raw honesty. “I’ve spent so much of my life thinking I had to carry everything on my own. But when I’m with you…” He trailed off, his words faltering for a moment.

You pressed your palm gently against his, your smile tender. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore, Kaveh.”

His smile, soft and genuine, reached his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For this, and for everything.”

Under the mistletoe, amidst the holiday lights, the world seemed to pause just long enough for Kaveh to let down his guard—just enough for both of you to share in something beyond the trials and struggles of everyday life. Something beautiful, something real.

The soft, rhythmic hum of classical music filled the air, mingling with the crisp winter air that crept through the open windows. Snowflakes gently settled on the windowsills of the academy, their icy beauty casting a delicate glow across the room.

You glanced around, taking in the sight of the holiday decorations carefully arranged for the occasion. Huaxu Academy had always maintained an air of strict order, but today, there was an unfamiliar warmth in the air, one that seemed to soften even the hardest edges of the most meticulous minds.

You weren't sure why you had accepted the invitation to the academy's annual winter gathering. But there you were, sipping tea in a corner, admiring the decorations, when a familiar presence made itself known. Mortefi. His crimson hair, combed neatly, caught your eye, glimmering like a flame against the backdrop of winter. He stood, as always, with an air of reserved elegance, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with cool detachment.

You couldn't help but smile at the thought of how effortlessly he stood out—his pristine white robe, the Tacet Mark on his chest hidden beneath bandages, the fiery energy that he radiated despite his careful composure.

As you moved closer, your gaze caught the mistletoe hanging from an archway above, positioned perfectly in the center of the room. You blinked, realizing the perfect opportunity to finally have a moment with Mortefi.

Before you could even make your move, Mortefi seemed to sense something, turning his gaze in your direction. The slightest flicker of annoyance flashed in his eyes before he spoke, his voice sharp, though the tension in his posture was palpable.

"What is it now, [Name]? Are you planning to mock my scientific rigor with another one of your childish antics?" His words, laced with irritation, still held an edge of fondness underneath. It was how he spoke when he was trying to hide his softer side.

You smiled mischievously, stepping toward the archway, ensuring that both of you stood directly under the mistletoe. The moment was impossible to ignore. You had to admit, the suspense was delicious.

"Well, if you insist on being so… rigorous," you teased, the words coming easily. "I suppose this might be the only scientific way to test your… emotional control, Mortefi."

He blinked, his expression shifting to one of confusion, and for a moment, his ever-present pride flickered. His jaw tightened as he glanced up at the mistletoe, then back at you, realizing the game that was unfolding.

"You—" he began, but the words failed him as his usually composed demeanor faltered, just for an instant.

He sighed, his breath visible in the chill of the room. "You are insufferable," he muttered, but his eyes gleamed with something softer now, something closer to resignation—or perhaps curiosity.

The warmth in his gaze caught you off guard. Mortefi, for all his hubris and perfectionism, had a side to him that only a few had seen—and you, it seemed, had become one of those few. A slow smile curved at the corner of his lips, and though his posture remained stiff, there was a palpable change.

Without a word, Mortefi leaned in, his breath warm against your skin as he gently cupped your face with his gloved hand. The moment was brief, but the kiss was soft, almost hesitant, as if the fire that so often burned inside him had been temporarily quelled.

As he pulled away, his crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Don’t think for a second that I’m taking this as a weakness," he warned, though the faint blush staining his cheeks told another story.

You laughed, the sound light and teasing as you stepped back, savoring the rare moment of vulnerability. "Of course not, Mortefi. Who would think that?"

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, the fire in his eyes momentarily dimmed, before he returned to his usual composure.

"Next time, I expect more… suitable behavior, [Name]." His tone was back to its usual sharpness, but the warmth in his voice couldn’t be ignored.

You simply smiled, your heart lighter than it had been before. "Of course, Mortefi. But for now, how about a dance?"

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable for a moment before a smirk tugged at his lips.

"I suppose, if you insist."

Under the mistletoe, surrounded by the glow of the season, Mortefi was still the same brilliant, proud man. But for just a moment, you’d seen a different side—a side he would only let you glimpse.

And that, you realized, was enough.

The winter evening at Huaxu Academy was serene, the snow gently falling outside as lights twinkled from the windows, casting a soft glow on the polished floors inside. The academy, always a place of quiet intellectual pursuit, felt different tonight, alive with the hum of conversations and laughter as students and faculty mingled in celebration.

Xiangli Yao stood near the edge of the gathering, his deep-set eyes scanning the room with the same focused intensity that defined his approach to life. His prosthetic arm, a marvel of Automata Mechanics, gleamed in the ambient light, a stark contrast to his calm, collected demeanor. Despite the festive atmosphere, his mind was always racing, considering the boundaries of human knowledge and the complexities of his ongoing research.

You had noticed him standing alone, as he often did, caught between his devotion to academia and his reluctance to fully immerse in the chaos of social interaction. With a soft smile, you decided to approach, weaving through the crowd with a quiet grace.

"Xiangli," you greeted gently, your voice cutting through the murmurs of the event. His eyes flicked to you, his expression softening ever so slightly.

"[Name]," he replied, his tone polite but tinged with an emotion that was hard to place. "I was just—" He paused, glancing down at his prosthetic arm, his fingers flexing instinctively as if testing its strength. "I was just reflecting on my latest project. There are always new mysteries to solve."

You could see the familiar tension in his shoulders, the weight of his constant drive for discovery evident even in this moment of reprieve. You knew him well enough to recognize that his work often consumed him, and sometimes, a gentle reminder to experience the present was necessary.

"The mysteries of the season, perhaps?" you teased lightly, nodding to the mistletoe hanging above them, a playful invitation that had long been a part of the holiday tradition. Xiangli’s gaze followed your gesture, his brow furrowing slightly, as if the concept of a simple holiday tradition were as foreign to him as the mysteries of his latest inventions.

"You know I have little patience for such trivialities," he remarked, his voice betraying a hint of amusement despite the sharpness of his words. But there was something in his gaze, a glimmer of curiosity or perhaps something deeper, that made your heart skip a beat.

Without waiting for an answer, you stepped closer, positioning yourself beneath the mistletoe with a playful smile. "Perhaps," you mused, "this one mystery is worth solving?"

Xiangli stared at you for a moment, his usual calm demeanor wavering. His mind, as brilliant as it was, must have struggled to reconcile the present with the complexities of his thoughts. You watched as his fingers slowly relaxed, the tension in his form easing just a fraction.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, though his lips quirked upward in a smile that was rare for him. It wasn’t often he allowed himself such moments of frivolity. His eyes held a tenderness that you hadn’t expected from the man whose life was so consumed by the pursuit of knowledge.

Before he could pull away, you reached up, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Just for tonight," you whispered, "leave the questions behind."

For a long moment, Xiangli was still, his gaze deep and contemplative. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek as he met you halfway under the mistletoe.

The kiss was soft, fleeting, yet it carried with it the weight of all the things left unsaid—his unspoken vulnerability, his struggle between intellect and emotion, and the quiet connection you shared that was anything but trivial.

When he pulled back, his gaze lingered on you, the light of contemplation still present in his eyes, but his usual analytical distance was gone, replaced by something warmer, more human.

"Perhaps," he began, his voice lower than usual, "some truths are better discovered when not in a laboratory."

You smiled, your heart lighter than it had been in a long while. "I agree," you said softly, taking a small step back. "And maybe some mysteries are better enjoyed, rather than solved."

Xiangli’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at them. For once, his mind seemed quiet, his curiosity tempered by the warmth of the moment.

And for just a moment, Xiangli Yao—the brilliant, thoughtful, and complex man—was content to simply exist in the here and now, under the mistletoe, with you.

The glow of the city streets outside was softened by a light snowfall, the cold winter air making its way through the cracks in the windows. Inside the bustling café, the warm scent of spiced coffee and freshly baked goods mixed with the sound of laughter and soft music. It was a rare, quiet evening, the type where you could almost forget about the danger that often lurked around every corner in your line of work.

You were enjoying the calm, for once. At least until you felt that familiar presence before you. The air shifted, subtle yet unmistakable.

"Mind if I join you?" Aalto's voice slid through the space between the bustling crowd and your own thoughts, smooth as ever, with a hint of playfulness that never quite left him.

You looked up from your cup to find him standing there, his ever-present sunglasses perched on his face, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He was always dressed impeccably, his usual ensemble of dark, practical clothing reflecting his elusive, mysterious nature.

"Didn't expect you here today," you teased, motioning to the empty chair across from you. "I thought you'd be too busy making deals or causing trouble."

Aalto chuckled lightly, taking the seat with an almost exaggerated nonchalance. "The mist has a way of keeping me occupied... but tonight, I'm in the mood for something more... low-stakes."

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the surface of the table, and as always, you couldn't help but wonder if he was calculating his next move—or if he was simply enjoying the moment. Knowing him, it was probably both.

The conversation drifted between small talk and the occasional, cryptic remark only Aalto could make, leaving you with the sense that he was always hiding something just out of reach. As the evening wore on, the mood in the café began to shift, and soon enough, a soft laugh caught your attention.

Aalto looked up, his eyes twinkling behind those ever-present sunglasses. He raised an eyebrow as he motioned towards the small decoration hanging above you—an innocuous mistletoe, which had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"Looks like we're in a bit of a predicament," he said, his voice smooth as velvet, though there was an unmistakable challenge in his tone. "What are we going to do about that?"

You stared up at the mistletoe, the weight of its tradition suddenly hitting you. Aalto’s smirk grew, and you could see the mischievous glint in his eyes behind his glasses.

"Don’t tell me you're one of those who believes in the magic of mistletoe?" he teased, leaning closer. His breath was warm against your skin, the subtle scent of fog and something else, something uniquely him, filling your senses.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart couldn’t help but race. You knew exactly how unpredictable Aalto was, and in moments like these, when he was this close, there was a tension in the air you couldn't escape.

"You never miss an opportunity, do you?" you said, your voice quieter now, just loud enough to reach his ears.

He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, the two of you just sat there, suspended in the space between the past and the present. He was the type of person who could read every situation like a book, but in this moment, you were the one who had the upper hand.

With a sigh that seemed almost theatrical, Aalto stood up. "I suppose if we’re bound by tradition..." He placed his hand on the top of your head, pulling you gently but decisively toward him.

Before you could react, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your cheek—light, playful, but carrying an underlying sincerity that made your heart skip a beat.

"Consider it a business transaction," he whispered in your ear, his tone laced with a subtle, playful promise. "A deal sealed under the mistletoe."

The moment was fleeting, as elusive as Aalto himself. But as he straightened, giving you one last, lingering look through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something even more unexpected than you'd ever imagined.

He turned to leave, his voice calling back to you softly, "And don't worry, your next piece of information will be on the house."

You smiled to yourself as he disappeared into the mist outside, the echoes of his laughter leaving behind a warmth that stayed with you long after he was gone.

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possessedmen · 1 month ago

Text

The Academic Successor

Professor Harold Whitaker had long surpassed the boundaries of academia, delving into the arcane, forbidden arts that lay hidden in the forgotten tomes of the university’s basement. It was in one such text, a brittle manuscript bound in skin, that he discovered the secrets of astral projection and possession. In his failing years, his once-sharp mind now dulled by age, Harold had grown resentful of his waning physical strength and the relentless march of time that no man could outrun. But knowledge, he realized, offered a loophole.

Andrew was the professor’s favourite student, young, strong, and full of potential. A quiet, disciplined athlete, he excelled in both his studies and in his physical pursuits, the perfect vessel for Harold’s ambitions. The old professor’s plan had taken years to refine, every detail, every nuance of the incantation memorized and practiced in the stillness of his secluded study.

One night, when the moon hung heavy and full in the sky, Harold began the ritual. His ancient, brittle body collapsed on the dusty floor as his spirit tore free from its cage of flesh. The sensation was exhilarating—his soul no longer confined, free to roam the ether. He soared over the city, the dormitories, the sleeping students, until he found Andrew.

The boy slept soundly, oblivious to the force that hovered above him, a darkness that seeped through the walls of his consciousness. Harold waited, savoring the moment before he surged forward, flooding Andrew’s mind, his essence intertwining with the young man’s. There was a brief struggle, Andrew’s subconscious thrashing like a trapped animal, but Harold was relentless, pressing, squeezing, until finally, the resistance ebbed away.

When Andrew opened his eyes, it was Harold who looked out through them. He felt the strength in Andrew’s limbs, the taut muscles beneath smooth skin, the youth and vitality that had been lost to him for decades. He reveled in it, stretching, flexing his fingers, relishing the sensation of power coursing through this new body.

There was a moment of heady triumph, and then Harold—now Andrew—moved to the mirror. He took in the reflection: the boyish, chiseled features, the strong jawline, the eyes still glazed with the residue of sleep, but now with a sharper glint of intellect that was purely Harold’s. The sight filled him with a dark satisfaction.

He smirked at his reflection, flexing his new muscles. The reflection in the mirror was pure, raw potential—his to mold, his to control. The plan had worked. This body was his now, and with it, the promise of a second life, stronger and more virile than the last.

In a moment of vanity, Harold—Andrew—grabbed his phone, feeling the slick, cool glass in his hand, so unlike the heavy tomes and crumbling parchment he had been accustomed to. It was almost too easy, taking this body, this life, and making it his own. He raised the phone, aiming it at the mirror, at the image of youth and masculinity that now belonged to him. With a smirk, he captured the moment—a memento of his triumph over death, over time, over the constraints of his feeble, aging body.

He marveled at the picture on the screen. Andrew’s eyes—now his eyes—glinted with a knowing arrogance, a touch of mockery. The way he stood, arms behind his head, a casual display of power, was all Harold. He admired the sleek blue briefs, the way they hugged the boy’s—his—thighs, the powerful line of his legs, the way they showed off the musculature he had long envied.

Satisfied, he dropped the phone on the bed and stepped back to admire himself in the mirror once more. This was his body now. He ran a hand down his chest, over the tattoo—Andrew’s tattoo—and smiled, knowing the boy was screaming somewhere deep inside, unable to take back what had been so easily taken from him. Harold savored that thought, the helplessness of it all, as he flexed once more, feeling the power of his new flesh.

His gaze drifted down to the bulge in the blue briefs, the outline unmistakable, thick and substantial. A low, almost amused chuckle rumbled in his chest as he traced the outline with his fingers, the sensation both familiar and entirely new.

“Well, well, Andrew,” he murmured, the words dripping with both mockery and admiration. “You’ve been hiding quite the beast, haven’t you?”

He let his fingers linger, tracing the thick curve, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric. The way it responded to his touch was intoxicating, a powerful reminder of the youth, the virility he had reclaimed. Harold’s grin widened, more wicked now, as he watched his reflection, reveling in the mixture of Andrew’s athletic build and his own dark, twisted intellect.

“How did you manage to keep this under wraps?” he teased, his voice a low purr, dripping with false surprise. “I had no idea you were packing such a weapon.”

He gave a soft squeeze, feeling the heft, the undeniable presence. It was exhilarating, this new power, this potent masculinity that was his to command. Harold reveled in the irony, how this shy, disciplined boy had hidden something so primal, so raw, beneath that reserved exterior.

“You’ve been keeping secrets under those books and papers, Andrew,” he whispered to his reflection, his fingers tracing the shape again, more deliberately this time. “But don’t worry, I’ll make sure it gets the attention it deserves.”

Harold’s eyes remained fixed on the reflection, the intensity of his gaze unyielding. The sight of Andrew’s body under his control, every muscle responding to his touch, sent a shiver of dark satisfaction down his spine. He watched the reflection with an almost obsessive focus, the way the chest rose and fell with each breath, how the abs tightened under the press of his hand.

He increased the pressure, his strokes becoming more deliberate, more intense. The fabric of the briefs stretched, outlining every inch of the hardness beneath. The sensation was overwhelming, a heady mix of power and pleasure that surged through him like a current, making his breath hitch.

His other hand roamed upwards, gliding over the sculpted contours of his chest, feeling the solid weight of muscle, the way the pectorals tensed under his fingertips. He traced the line of his abs, each ridge defined, sharp under the skin, the core of an athlete. It was intoxicating, the sheer physicality of it, the realization that this strength, this vitality, was all his now.

His hand slid lower, tracing the tight ridges of the abs, feeling the power coiled in the core, the promise of force and control. The intensity of his strokes increased, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through his new body. His eyes never wavered from the mirror, locked on the sight of his—Andrew’s—body responding to his every whim.

He could see the veins standing out on the forearm, the muscles flexing in response to the movement, the way the chest heaved as the pleasure built. It was all so perfectly aligned, the physical power of youth combined with the ruthless intellect of a man who had mastered the forbidden.

“Look at you,” Harold whispered to the reflection, his voice thick with both admiration and lust. “You were great as a student. But now… now you’re perfect... I’m perfect.”

The hand on his chest traced the sharp lines of his collarbone before sliding back down to meet the other, both hands now working in unison, increasing the intensity, feeding the growing heat that spread through his new body. His breath came faster, more ragged, the anticipation building with each stroke, each touch.

Goddamn, Andrew,” he whispered, his tone dark with both awe and twisted humor. “You’ve been sitting on this and pretending to be the quiet, unassuming student all this time?”

He squeezed again, feeling it throb in response, the fabric straining. There was a surge of triumph in Harold’s chest, a sick pleasure in knowing this was his now—his to explore, his to use. His eyes narrowed as they flicked back to the mirror, catching the incongruity of the reflection.

The thick, strong frame, the athletic build, the powerful presence, all undermined by one glaring detail: Harold’s old glasses perched on Andrew’s nose. It was a clash of identities, the young man’s face paired with the unmistakable mark of an aging scholar.

He snorted, unable to hold back the laugh that bubbled up. “Look at you, Andrew,” he chuckled, shaking his head as he continued to stroke. “A beast between the legs, and you still manage to look like a damn dork with these things on.”

With a deft movement, he pulled the glasses off, tossing them carelessly onto the bed. Without them, the reflection sharpened, Andrew’s features fully realized, leaving only this powerful, youthful body in its wake.

“Much better,” Harold murmured, admiring the image now, his hand still working through the fabric, slow and purposeful. “Now you look like what you really are, Andrew—a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And I’m going to enjoy every second of being inside this skin.”

Harold’s eyes blazed with possession, a dark hunger as he watched the reflection, every muscle in the young body straining, responding to the relentless pace he set. He could feel the power, the potential, the sheer force of what he had claimed, and it thrilled him to his core.

This was what he had worked for, what he had sacrificed for—this body, this life, this control. And as he pushed himself closer to the edge, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he had no intention of ever letting it go.

#male takeover #male possession #astral projection #astral possession #identity theft

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