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1800titz · 1 year ago

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HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic.

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second.

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night.

It’s a cute shop.

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort.

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery.

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him.

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue.

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote.

“Oh, I’m just looking.”

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge.

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples.

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.”

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.”

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there.

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.”

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?”

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.”

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?”

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.”

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment.

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.”

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.”

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence.

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.”

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels.

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink.

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.”

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space.

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy.

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.”

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate.

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.”

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin.

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.”

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s.

Yeah.

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay.

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.”

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work.

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue.

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs.

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length.

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt.

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.”

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me.

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows.

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off.

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up.

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again.

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders.

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more.

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones.

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior.

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child.

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.”

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs.

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together.

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider.

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it.

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert.

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top.

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.”

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together.

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.”

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.”

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic.

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.”

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes.

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things.

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.”

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?”

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.”

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece.

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.”

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?”

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.”

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin.

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?”

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.”

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.”

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.”

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.”

This is The Turning Point.

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked.

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.”

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both.

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash.

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from.

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.”

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?”

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?”

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.”

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling.

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting.

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.”

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed.

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.”

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.”

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.”

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her.

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it.

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?”

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.”

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights.

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.”

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time.

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres.

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay.

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with.

Christ.

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands.

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face.

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.”

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again.

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.”

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features.

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.”

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.”

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation.

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.”

“Thank you. What now?”

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.”

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse.

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?”

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.”

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet.

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging.

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?”

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.”

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

#harry styles #harry styles smut #(ish)? there’s a lot of innuendos in this one #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles valentine’s day fic #valentine’s day fic

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yandere-sins · 2 years ago

Note

Do you still write for yandere omega? That piece was soooo good oml, can you write an aftermath or just a snippet of day to day life with them? Yan omegas are so rare and they are rarely explored and tours really set a tone on what they could do. Its the ultimate ploy, nobody can suspect an omega desiring a simple beta, simply too outrageous to think

I never really stop writing for anything (that might be the actual problem, lol). Thanks for your request!

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content!!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Tap, tap, tap.

Their fingers swept over the keyboard on their lap, restless and excited, generating countless words per minute. A smile played on the omega's lips, giddy and amused as they scrolled and replied to endless comments, the flood of new notifications never-ending. The success of their latest video—a video showing you and them immersed in heat and rut for hours to no end—was something that not even they could have expected. Still, they kept their online banking up, watching donations and premium membership fees roll in by the second, putting a wide grin on their face.

Humming in satisfaction, they halted their fanservice, glancing up from the blinding laptop screen to you, sitting on the chair next to them, still dazed as you ate your cereals. You two had been holed up for days in your nest, the whole production of your very first video having ruthlessly dragged you through all emotions known to mankind and leaving you exhausted. Not exhausted enough to refuse the food your omega procured for you, but enough so that you didn't argued or cried anymore while shoveling colorful, animal-shaped cereals and milk into your mouth.

Even like this—disheveled, still a little crusty (since you didn't want to get out of your curled position and shower with them after they stopped the recording), and sore—you were no less their beautiful beta than you were down in the love nest, ravaging your omega like a goddamn beast.

You had visibly turned off reality around you, sitting there completely out of it as you ate, heading your omega no mind. What you must be thinking about was as puzzling as it was unconcerning to them, their own thoughts had always been louder in their head. However, as they watched you, they grew antsy, missing your full attention on them like when you two were buried in sheets and in the spotlight of their production, even though it had been painful at times. But even pain was beautiful to some, and your pain was a gift to them, just like your love was. They missed your hands all over them, spit and sweat mixing as your bodies moved in perfect harmony with each other. Now, despite sitting close enough to you that they could easily reach out and hold your hand, it was not close enough.

They hadn't brought you here for you to be away from them. All the money and time that went into building, securing, and completely erasing the location of this mansion had not been so you two would be apart from each other. Not for you to have that kind of freedom, one that the omega didn't want for you or for them.

It was bittersweet to abandon their beloved fans for you, the very same people who made it possible for you two to be together. Who supported and encouraged the omega, no matter what, as they worked their butt off for more and more of their attention. And yet, the omega announced their farewells for the day, promising more exciting content to come tomorrow before logging off and closing the laptop.

It was your attention they wanted. Only yours.

It had only ever been you they desired, from kindergarten well into adulthood. They had always clung to you and pleaded for you to claim them long before your diagnosis. It was such a shame that you didn't present as an alpha when the time came; otherwise, their place at your side would have been surely secured. This way, they had to go to drastic lengths to be with you, even though the effort hadn't been in vain. Now they had you right where they wanted.

Their hand sliding up your arm, you halted your movements, spoon hanging in mid-air with milk dripping from its rim. There was a slight shake in your hand, growing more and more intense the higher the omega's hand traveled. Until they gripped your shoulder, the spoon clattering on the designer table, milk and cereals going everywhere as you winced in pain.

Their grip was merciless, considering the many, many marks and bruises they left on your body, the pain only now registering that you were out of the drug-induced rut. Your whole body was practically mauled by your omega's teeth and sharp nails, fists they used to get you in position when you were too high to listen to their demands. Everything hurt, and when they climbed on your lap, tears shot back into your eyes, their hands freely roaming your chest and arms without remorse about what they did to you.

In fact, they were proud feeling the indents through your t-shirt. A shirt they rubbed all over themselves before helping you into, marking you with their scent. Had you been an alpha, it would have been so easy to make sure you smelled like your omega. But you weren't. So they needed to use more drastic methods to mark you. The omega could think about a good handful more ways but decided to keep those for the next time they'd put you in front of a camera. Until then, a shirt and their body rubbing against yours had to suffice.

"You did so well," they cooed, longing for nothing more than to hear you praise them as well. But perhaps they had to show you first how to take care of an omega, so, once again, they took the lead, just like they always had in this relationship. "Fucked me so good, made me feel so full ~ My pretty little beta. You enjoyed it, too, right? We made such a lovely video; now my fans love you too."

"Ah- No more..." you gasped weakly, gripping the omega's waist and trying to push them off you. They grinned at your little, helpless defiance, the bite you had after arriving in your new home now muzzled after days of fucking. You had so many more beautiful sounds to give them than your screaming and crying—moaning, whimpering, begging. Their hips were grinding over your legs and into yours, the pain etched into your face of no concern to the omega as they kept disturbing all the sore and wounded parts of your body.

God, you were beautiful.

Day, night, evening, morning, you were always fucking stunning. Happy, smiling, angry, crying, needy, drooling, hurt, and despairing. There was no moment they didn't love you. You were only made for them, your beauty belonged all to the omega. Even god must have meant for you two to be together.

"Hush, it's okay. There, there..." your omega muttered, leaning forward to kiss your tears away, licking up the salty trails they left behind while their hips picked up speed on top of you, causing some blissful moans from the omega's lips. Nothing in this world turned them on like you did, even sitting at the table, crying pathetically over the pleasure they gave you. You were so seductive, even when you were hurting. Anything they gave you, pain or pleasure, you had to accept it just like the omega did. Pain, acceptance, being close to each other no matter what—all these feelings you harbored for them, you had to accept the same way they did. That's what love meant.

Sliding their hand down your chest, they dug under your waistband, sliding further and further. You let out a beautiful gasp, followed by your body shifting and hands trying to stop the passionate grind of the omega's hips. But latest when they had their hand on your sex, making you flinch at the touch, you slowly stilled, merely trembling as your breath turned ragged.

"That's it, baby!" the omega cheered, your pleasure becoming their own as they used their hand to get both of you off by grinding against it. "Come for me, Darling! You'll do it, right? Come for me? Come like a good beta from your omega's hand?"

They'd turn all this hurt into more and more love. Your pain would soon cease when you realized they were doing what was right for you. Their hand was slick with your juices, confirming that the omega was right—they were the best and only option for you to thrive in this life, just like the thought of you had driven them to success. It would turn you into an alpha despite your genes, at least one in mind. Now that they had you, they would never let you go. They'd never abandon you and take a real alpha; there was no need for it anymore when they could shape you into what they wanted.

Slipping their hand out of your shorts again, they licked off the remnants of your orgasm, watching as your body collapsed beneath them. That's right, they thought, just let yourself fall. Once you'd learn to leave behind all the bad thoughts and drown in the pleasure and love they'd give you, everything would get better. You could live your life with them, secluded and confined in your togetherness, in peace and harmony.

Your omega would do what you needed to realize this.

"I love you," they murmured against your lips, licking over the bloody marks of your own teeth that had bitten into them, kissing away the pain. Soon, there would be no need to hold back like this. No need for hostility against them. Everything would go back to how it was before your diagnosis. You two would finally be happy.

"I love you so much," they sighed, ignoring the jolt in your body as they began to grind again, not yet done with you. Mouths mixing in a one-sided kiss, the omega moaned into it, ignoring every flinch and your whining when they bit into your lips as well, combining your mark with theirs and tasting what belonged to them.

They knew they might have to ruin you some more to achieve their goals. Break in the old belief that you two could never be together, and let it crumble like a house of cards by showing you how they could take care of you. Bring out your real potential as their partner. Claim you until you were too weak to refuse them as your bonded partner.

It was a rocky road until then, littered with more arguments, nights of silence, tears, and them getting what they wanted no matter how much you suffered. But they had gone through much worse to get to where they were now. The extra effort would not stand in the way of your happiness. After all, that's what devotion was.

And your omega would always be the one and only for you.

#omegaverse #yandere omegaverse #yandere!omegaverse #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

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dee-writes-anime · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter 5: A Test of Worth

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY You face the most grueling challenge yet as Sukuna’s labyrinth tests your wit, strength, and resolve. Confronting illusions, traps, and your deepest fears, you prove your worth with ruthless determination. As the night ends, Sukuna’s growing intrigue leads to a charged, intimate encounter, leaving you to question not only your place at his side but also the dangerous pull between you.

CONTENT WARNINGS Scenes of magical combat, branding, and physical harm inflicted on a character, exploration of fear, identity, and mental resilience, including a confrontation with deep-seated insecurities, explicitly described moments of mounting intimacy, including non-explicit physical contact and suggestive dialogue, power imbalances and themes of dominance that reflect the reader’s precarious position in Sukuna’s court.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The days leading up to the test blurred together, each one steeped in a stillness so profound it felt as though the estate itself held its breath. The air, always heavy with power, carried an edge now, sharp and bristling, as though it had grown impatient with the passing time. Shadows stretched longer, whispers lingered in the corners, and the faint hum of energy beneath the surface seemed to pulse with a rhythm that mirrored my own.

Each morning, the choker waited for me on the table beside my bed. Its crimson gemstone pulsed faintly, the light flickering like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding. I had yet to touch it, yet I couldn’t escape its presence. Its energy threaded through the room, subtle but inescapable.

It wasn’t a gift.

It was a command. A tether.

Sukuna’s sharp, mocking words echoed in my mind—cryptic promises of a test I couldn’t yet define. Whatever he had planned, I knew it wouldn’t be fair. Fairness had no place in his court, and I had no illusions that this was anything less than a challenge designed to break me.

The concubines, once eager to claw at me with their words, now avoided me altogether. Their sharp tongues had given way to wary silence, and even Kaede, whose barbs had once been constant, offered only fleeting glances before slipping into the shadows. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but a reluctant acknowledgment of something they couldn’t name.

Uraume, however, remained constant.

They shadowed me as always, escorting me to meals or delivering bundles of fresh herbs for my rituals. But something had shifted between us in the weeks since my arrival. Their presence, once distant and impassive, carried a quiet weight now—a steadiness I hadn’t realized I’d come to appreciate. They said little, but their silences were no longer cold. They lingered longer than before, their gaze more searching, as though trying to decipher the shape of what I was becoming.

When the knock came that morning, shattering the quiet of my quarters, I knew the time had come.

I opened the door to find Uraume waiting, their expression as composed as ever. But I had learned to read them better now, to see the subtle tension in the line of their shoulders, the faint crease at the edge of their brow.

“It is time,” they said, their voice quieter than usual.

The words sent a ripple through me, sharp and undeniable. For a moment, I lingered in the doorway, the weight of the moment pressing down like the first drop of rain before a storm.

“I suppose it is,” I said softly, stepping back into the room to prepare.

Uraume didn’t follow, but they didn’t leave either. They stood just outside the door, their presence a steadying anchor as I turned to face the bed.

The dress waited for me there, its crimson fabric catching the pale light of dawn that spilled through the narrow window. The color was deep, almost black at the edges, and the gold thread that traced intricate patterns across its surface gleamed like fire. Beside it, the choker rested atop its velvet cushion, its gemstone pulsing faintly as though it had been waiting all along.

I picked up the dress first, letting the smooth, heavy fabric flow through my fingers. It was finely crafted, its surface cool against my skin. The bodice was structured, designed to cling tightly, while the skirt flowed in ripples that moved like water. The slit ran high, baring more than I would have chosen.

It wasn’t just a garment—it was a declaration.

Sukuna’s declaration.

I dressed with care, each movement deliberate. The bodice fit snugly, molding to my frame in a way that felt equal parts empowering and suffocating. The fabric whispered against my skin as I adjusted the skirt, the slit exposing my leg with every step.

The choker was the last piece.

Its gold band gleamed faintly in the dim light, smooth and flawless, while the gemstone glowed with an inner fire. I hesitated, my fingers brushing the cool metal before lifting it from its cushion.

The moment I fastened it around my neck, the world shifted.

A wave of energy rippled through me, sharp and electric, sinking deep into my chest. It wasn’t painful, but it was startling—a visceral reminder that the choker wasn’t just an accessory. It was alive, and it had claimed me as much as I had claimed it.

I turned toward the mirror in the corner of the room and froze.

The crimson and gold of the dress gleamed in the pale light, the gemstone at my throat glowing like a caged flame. My hair, loose and wild, framed a face that was both familiar and foreign—sharp eyes, set jaw, and the faintest flicker of defiance.

The person staring back at me looked as though they belonged in Sukuna’s court.

“Are you ready?”

I turned to find Uraume standing in the doorway, their pale eyes scanning me with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. But there was something else there, too��something warmer, more human.

“Do I look ready?” I asked, a faint edge of dry humor in my voice.

Their lips quirked faintly, almost imperceptibly. “You look... prepared,” they said after a pause, their tone as even as ever.

The faintest flicker of amusement warmed my chest. “That will have to be enough.”

Uraume inclined their head, stepping aside to let me pass. “Then let us proceed.”

We walked in silence through the twisting halls, the air heavier with each step. But as we turned a corner, Uraume spoke again, their voice low and deliberate.

“You’ve endured much to come this far,” they said, their gaze fixed ahead. “Do not falter now.”

I glanced at them, surprised by the quiet conviction in their tone. “Do you doubt that I will succeed?”

“No,” they replied, meeting my gaze briefly. “But it is not the test alone that concerns me.”

“What, then?”

Uraume was silent for a moment, their expression unreadable. “What comes after.”

The words lingered between us as we approached the final chamber, their weight pressing against my chest even as the doors loomed ahead.

Before I could respond, Uraume stopped, turning to face me fully. “Whatever happens,” they said, their voice quieter now, “remember: this test is not only of power. He watches everything—how you act, how you think, how you endure.”

I held their gaze, the weight of their words settling deep. “And if I fail?”

Their lips quirked faintly, almost a smile. “Then you won’t need to worry about what comes next.”

The carved doors began to open, the air shifting as the choker’s pulse quickened. Uraume stepped back, their presence steady and grounding as they gestured for me to enter.

“Good luck,” they said simply, their voice softer than I had ever heard it.

I nodded once, my fingers brushing the gemstone at my throat as I stepped forward. The doors closed behind me with a low, resounding thud, sealing me inside.

The doors closed behind me with a low, resonant thud that seemed to echo endlessly, as if the stone itself were reluctant to let the sound fade. The air beyond the threshold was stifling, a dense and unrelenting weight that clung to my skin like the damp heat of midsummer rain. Each breath felt laborious, the space pressing down on my chest as though the labyrinth itself sought to remind me of its dominion.

The choker at my throat pulsed steadily, its crimson gemstone glowing faintly in the oppressive darkness. The light fractured against the walls, casting jagged patterns that moved like living veins filled with molten fire. The polished stone beneath my feet shimmered faintly, its cracks and etched lines writhing at the edges of my vision, forming patterns too deliberate to be natural.

The air wasn’t still. It shifted subtly, carrying with it a low, vibrating hum that was felt more than heard. It threaded through my bones, a resonance that was too steady to be random and too faint to pinpoint. It wasn’t silent, either—far from it. The whispers returned, distant at first, their fragmented voices drifting on a wind that didn’t exist.

They were soft, indistinct murmurs, just enough to brush the edges of awareness. As I moved forward, their guttural tones grew sharper, each wordless syllable laced with something primal, something old. They weren’t human—no. These voices carried a weight that transcended mortality, a purpose I couldn’t yet discern but felt instinctively.

The floor was unnaturally smooth beneath my feet, its polished surface gleaming as though freshly lacquered. The jagged cracks that marred it ran in intricate patterns, their sharp edges illuminated faintly by the choker’s light. I let my gaze follow them, tracing their twisting paths as they coiled like veins feeding into the labyrinth’s heart. It wasn’t random. It was too precise, too deliberate.

Ahead, the corridor opened into a wider space, where the path splintered into three. Each new path was darker than the last, their arched entrances yawning wide like the mouths of beasts poised to devour intruders. The shadows within were absolute, a blackness so dense it seemed to ripple outward, swallowing even the faint crimson glow of the choker.

The whispers grew louder here, their tones shifting into something harsher. It was no longer an indistinct hum but a discordant symphony of guttural sounds, layered and grating, clawing at the edges of my thoughts. They moved around me like threads of smoke, wrapping themselves tighter with every step. I couldn’t tell where they began or ended, but they felt alive, insistent.

I stopped at the crossroads, my hand instinctively brushing against the choker. Its pulse quickened, its energy a steady thrum that resonated through my skin. Closing my eyes, I drew a deep breath, forcing the tension in my chest to ease as I sought the core of my magic.

The labyrinth didn’t welcome my power. It resisted, the oppressive atmosphere dulling its edges, making each thread of energy harder to grasp. It was like reaching into water for something just out of reach, the currents pulling it away the moment my fingers came close. But I didn’t stop. I let the whispers fade to the background, their claws scratching but not sinking, and pushed harder, weaving the familiar threads of magic into something steady.

When I opened my eyes, the corridors stretched before me, silent and waiting. The oppressive air lightened—barely—but the whispers didn’t retreat. They lingered just at the edge of perception, a constant reminder that the labyrinth was not a place of comfort.

I scanned the three paths. The leftmost felt restless, the whispers clawing harder when I looked in its direction. The rightmost path was too still, its silence like the coiled body of a predator waiting to strike. It was the middle path that drew me—its shadows deeper, its air colder. There was something deliberate about it, as though it had been chosen for me before I even arrived.

I stepped forward, my voice a quiet murmur in the stillness. “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve planned.”

The air shifted immediately, sharper now, like the first breath of winter stealing into an autumn night. The whispers grew louder, their tones brimming with anticipation as though the labyrinth itself leaned in to watch.

The first steps were deceptively uneventful, but that only made the tension worse. Each footfall was swallowed by the polished floor, the sound too soft, too unnatural. The walls pressed closer as I moved, their jagged patterns pulsing faintly with crimson light. The energy within them rippled like the skin of a disturbed pond, alive and waiting.

I reached out to brush my fingers along one of the carvings, curiosity overriding caution. A sharp jolt of cold energy shot up my arm, snapping like static before retreating. I pulled my hand back, my breath hitching at the sensation. The labyrinth wasn’t just alive—it was watching.

Whatever magic held this place together was old, raw, and unyielding.

I paused, my gaze sweeping the shifting lines that ran along the walls. It felt like they were guiding me, leading me forward into the belly of the beast. Each step carried the weight of inevitability, as though the labyrinth itself had already decided where I belonged.

The whispers clawed harder, their voices rising into a crescendo of guttural tones. They were incomprehensible but filled with intent, their weight pressing against my thoughts like a heavy hand on the back of my neck.

I reached the first turn, and the corridor split again into three. The same choice. The same shadows.

But this time, I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped into the middle path, the cold air wrapping around me like the embrace of a ghost. The choker pulsed once, its light flaring faintly before settling back into its steady rhythm.

The labyrinth didn’t just want me here.

It needed me to follow.

Each step resonated unnaturally, the sharp sound of my footfalls too loud in the smothering silence, as though the stone beneath me were mimicking my movements, mocking my presence. The walls, smooth and dark like obsidian lacquer, seemed to narrow, pressing closer with each breath I drew. The jagged patterns etched into their surface writhed faintly, their crimson glow flickering like embers that refused to extinguish.

The air grew heavier, clinging to my skin like damp silk. The faint hum of the choker at my throat became sharper, its pulse thrumming in rhythm with the tension coiling in my chest. It was warning me, though of what, I couldn’t yet tell.

The change came suddenly, a shift as sharp as the crack of a blade through still air. My breath hitched as the sound followed: a high-pitched hiss that sent every nerve alight.

I turned just in time. Black spikes of jagged stone erupted from the ground ahead of me, their edges gleaming like the polished teeth of a predator. They shot upward with deadly precision, the force of their movement stirring the stale air into a gust that swept past my face.

I moved instinctively, my steps quick and controlled, the hem of my robe whispering against the stone as I retreated. My pulse thundered, but I kept my breathing measured as the spikes shuddered and began to retract, grinding against the floor as if reluctant to yield.

The faint, grating sound lingered in the air, a bitter reminder of how close I had come.

“Predictable,” I murmured, my voice low but steady. A faint smirk curled the corner of my lips, a deliberate act of defiance against the labyrinth’s clumsy attempts to rattle me.

The corridor stretched ahead, darker now, the oppressive shadows curling like smoke at the edges of my vision. The air grew colder with each step, each breath forming faint clouds that lingered for only a moment before fading into the void.

The first glyph emerged.

It began as a faint impression on the wall, its jagged lines barely discernible against the dark stone. But as I approached, its crimson glow flared to life, cutting through the darkness with a brilliance that seemed to sear the air itself.

I stopped short, the hum of the choker quickening against my throat as the glyph’s energy coiled outward. Tendrils of crimson light unfurled from its edges, twisting like the limbs of an ancient tree, their movements deliberate and predatory. The air vibrated faintly, a low resonance that rose from the floor beneath my feet and traveled upward, pressing against my chest like the steady beat of a war drum.

The glyph wasn’t static—it was alive, its lines shifting and reforming as though testing my resolve.

I extended a hand, summoning a faint glow of magic to my palm. The light spilled outward, soft but steady, pressing against the encroaching tendrils. For a moment, they recoiled, their movements faltering. But the glyph flared brighter in response, its energy lashing out like a whip, striking against the edges of my magic with a sharp crack that vibrated through my arm.

I stepped back, my fingers curling tighter as I steadied my breath. The air around me felt sharper now, alive with intent.

“Alright,” I murmured, my voice calm despite the tension winding tight in my chest. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

I extended my magic again, threading the faint glow from my hand into the glyph’s jagged lines. Its energy resisted immediately, sharp and cold, sending a biting sting up my arm. The sensation was as precise as a blade’s edge, but I didn’t pull back.

Instead, I whispered the first incantation.

The words slipped from my lips in a steady cadence, each syllable weaving into the glyph’s restless energy. The resistance was immediate and fierce, the tendrils snapping outward in renewed aggression. They clawed at the edges of my magic, trying to unravel it, but I held firm, layering the spell with the precision of a calligrapher’s brushstroke.

The glyph faltered. Its jagged edges softened, the tendrils retreating slightly as the crimson light dimmed. The hum in the air lessened, the oppressive pressure lifting as the glyph settled into place with a faint, pulsing glow.

“One down,” I murmured, the faintest edge of a smile tugging at my lips.

The second glyph was different.

Its glow was darker, almost bloodied, and its tendrils coiled thicker, their movements slower but deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. The energy radiating from it was heavier, denser, wrapping around the corridor like a silken snare.

It struck before I could reach it.

The tendrils lashed out, faster than I expected, slicing through the air with a sound like a blade drawn across a whetstone. I barely had time to summon a barrier of light, the arc flaring to life as the tendrils collided with it. The impact was fierce, reverberating through the corridor in a resonant crack that echoed like thunder.

“Impatient,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes as I studied the shifting lines.

The incantation I spoke this time was sharper, cutting through the glyph’s resistance with a precision born of necessity. My words wove into the coiled energy, slicing through its defenses as the tendrils writhed and twisted. They lashed out again, but this time I met them with a surge of raw power, pushing them back with deliberate force.

The glyph shuddered, its edges fracturing before collapsing inward. Its crimson light dimmed, fading into the stone as its energy dissolved completely.

The final glyph loomed ahead, its presence heavier than the first two combined. The air around it vibrated faintly, a low hum that resonated through the corridor like the tolling of a distant bell.

Its tendrils were darker, slower, their movements deliberate as they reached outward. This wasn’t desperation—this was malice, controlled and calculating.

I stepped closer, the glow from my magic brightening as I extended it toward the glyph. The tendrils recoiled slightly, their sharp edges flickering like the glint of a dagger.

“You’re not going to win,” I said, my voice low, deliberate.

The first incantation slipped from my lips in a steady rhythm, the words sharper now, their cadence slicing through the oppressive energy. The glyph flared violently, its tendrils snapping toward me with enough force to crack against my magic. The collision sent a jolt up my arm, but I held firm, the rhythm of my spell quickening as I pressed harder.

The tendrils fractured under the force of my magic, their edges splintering into shards of light that dissolved into the air. The glyph shuddered once, its crimson light flaring before collapsing entirely.

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the remnants of what had been.

I exhaled slowly, the glow from the choker at my throat softening as the tension in the air finally eased. The whispers returned, softer now, their tones less insistent as they urged me forward into the waiting darkness.

“Not bad,” I muttered, the faint smirk returning as I stepped forward. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

The corridor narrowed the deeper I went, the jagged walls pressing closer like the ribs of a beast intent on swallowing me whole. The oppressive darkness was heavy, alive, and clung to my skin like wet silk. Each breath felt laden with the weight of something unseen, the air sharp and cold as though drawn straight from the depths of a winter storm.

The whispers had grown quieter, but their absence was no comfort. Silence in this place was never empty—it was full of malice, a quiet promise of what was to come. The faint crimson glow of the choker at my throat cast restless shadows on the walls, its rhythmic pulsing the only sound beyond the blood pounding in my ears.

When I reached the chamber, the shift in the air was immediate. The stillness here was absolute, so profound that my own presence felt intrusive. The floor beneath me was smooth, polished like lacquered wood, but cold enough that I could feel its bite through the thin soles of my shoes.

At the center of the room stood a mirror.

It was an impossible thing, its jagged obsidian frame rising like the bones of some ancient creature. The glass shimmered faintly, its surface rippling as though it were a pool disturbed by an unseen wind. The pale light it emitted was cold and ghostly, casting a faint glow that barely reached the edges of the chamber.

I approached cautiously, my steps slow and deliberate. The closer I came, the heavier the air grew, pressing down on my shoulders like the weight of a sword left too long in its scabbard. My breath was shallow, each exhale curling faintly in the icy air before dissipating like smoke.

The choker hummed louder, its pulse quickening as though warning me.

The whispers returned, faint and insidious, their guttural tones threading through my thoughts. But they no longer clawed at the edges of my mind—they spoke directly, their words incomprehensible but laced with venom.

I stopped a few paces from the mirror, my hand brushing the edge of the choker as if to steady its rising energy. The glass rippled once, the pale glow intensifying until it filled the chamber with blinding light.

When the light faded, I was no longer alone.

The figure in the mirror was me.

But it wasn’t.

Her features were mine—her sharp cheekbones, her narrowed eyes, the curve of her lips—but twisted. Her skin was pale, too pale, as though the blood had long since drained from her veins. Her lips, once neutral, curved into a wicked smile that was as foreign as it was cruel. But it was her eyes that sent a chill racing down my spine.

They burned a deep, unholy red, the light seeping out like cracks in lacquer, spreading through her face in jagged veins that pulsed in time with the choker.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she moved first, stepping forward as though the mirror’s surface was no barrier at all. The glass rippled like water as she emerged, her movements smooth and deliberate, her presence overwhelming.

"Who are you?" I demanded, though my voice felt weaker than it should have, thin against the weight of her aura.

Her smile widened, exposing teeth too sharp, too predatory. “I am you,” she said, her voice low and edged with malice. “Or the part of you you’ve tried so hard to bury.”

I stiffened, the words sinking into me like barbs.

She tilted her head, studying me like a predator might a wounded animal. “You’ve built walls, haven’t you? High ones. Strong ones. But you know as well as I do that no wall holds forever.”

Her words struck with precision, but I forced my spine to straighten, my chin lifting as I glared at her. “I am not afraid of you.”

She laughed then, the sound low and hollow, echoing in the chamber like the tolling of a temple bell. “No, you’re not afraid of me,” she said, stepping closer, her red eyes gleaming with something too knowing. “You’re afraid of becoming me.”

The room darkened, the pale glow of the mirror snuffed out like the last breath of a dying fire. The shadows on the walls stretched and twisted, forming shapes that writhed and clawed at the edges of the chamber. Her words cut deeper than I wanted to admit, each one dragging me closer to the edge of something I couldn’t name.

“I’m nothing like you,” I said, my voice firmer now, though my hands trembled at my sides.

Her smile sharpened. “Aren’t you? Or do you just tell yourself that to keep the truth at bay?”

The darkness closed in, the chamber disappearing entirely as the ground beneath me fell away. I stood alone in an endless void, her form the only constant, her red eyes burning brighter as she stepped closer.

“You like control,” she continued, her voice soft now, like a serpent’s hiss. “You cling to it like a drowning man to driftwood. But control slips. Power corrupts. And when the time comes…” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You will fall.”

The words were colder than the air around me, a blade pressed against the most vulnerable part of myself. My magic stirred violently within me, surging to the surface like a storm desperate to break free.

“No,” I said, my voice sharper, louder. “You’re wrong.”

She tilted her head, her smile unwavering. “Prove it.”

The tendrils of my magic coiled outward, a glowing storm of raw energy that rippled through the void, aimed directly at her. But she didn’t move. She raised her hand, her red eyes narrowing as her own power mirrored mine, the two forces colliding with a deafening crack.

The void shuddered, the energy around us surging violently as the impact sent me stumbling back. She laughed again, the sound cruel and mocking, as though she had already won.

“You’ll never escape me,” she said, her form rippling as though the shadows themselves were holding her together. “I am the part of you that always lingers. The part you cannot destroy.”

Her form flickered, unstable now as I summoned the full weight of my magic. The choker pulsed in time with my power, its crimson light flaring so brightly it eclipsed her entirely.

“You don’t own me,” I said, my voice low and unyielding. “And you never will.”

The magic surged outward in a final, blinding wave, swallowing her scream as her form shattered into shards of light. The void collapsed, the weight of the chamber returning as I fell to my knees, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

The mirror was gone, its jagged frame reduced to ash. The chamber was silent again, the oppressive weight lifting as the choker’s hum quieted into a steady pulse.

I pressed a hand to the ground, steadying myself as I forced my breathing to slow. My hands still trembled, the echo of her words clawing at the edges of my mind.

But I was still here. And she wasn’t.

Not yet.

Not ever.

The oppressive quiet lingered as I rose from the ground, the weight of the shattered vision still clinging to my skin like cold ash. The chamber around me felt hollow, emptied of the malicious energy that had filled it moments before, but the air remained heavy, charged with anticipation.

The choker pulsed faintly, its crimson glow flickering like a guttering flame. Its rhythm steadied as I stepped forward, the faint sound of my footsteps swallowed by the smooth stone beneath me.

Ahead, the chamber opened into a corridor, its walls darker than ink, etched with faint lines that pulsed faintly as I passed. The symbols were ancient, jagged, their shapes writhing as though alive, yet they carried a resonance that settled uncomfortably against my chest.

The corridor stretched endlessly, its shadows shifting like restless waves. My own shadow flickered and danced alongside them, but it was longer, deeper, as though something unseen walked with me.

The air grew colder, sharper, until it felt as though I were breathing ice. Each step felt heavier, as though the floor itself were dragging me back, resisting my forward momentum. The choker’s hum grew louder, its energy thrumming against my skin, as though it too could sense what lay ahead.

Then the corridor ended, and the world opened up.

I stepped into a vast arena, the space impossibly large, its edges vanishing into a horizon shrouded in shadow. The ground beneath my feet was smooth black stone, polished like obsidian, its surface reflecting faint ripples of crimson light that stretched across the floor like veins. The sky above was a void, darker than the deepest night, broken only by faint cracks of red lightning that tore through the darkness without warning.

At the center of it all, Sukuna waited.

He stood atop a raised platform of jagged stone, its edges sharp and uneven, as though the earth itself had been wrenched upward to serve as his throne. His crimson robes pooled around him like blood spilled across the rock, the intricate gold stitching glinting faintly in the light of the arena.

He looked at me as I entered, his four eyes gleaming with a predatory light. Two were half-lidded, almost bored, while the other two burned with sharp intensity, tracking my every movement.

“You made it,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade. The sound reverberated through the arena, low and mocking, carrying with it a weight that settled heavily in my chest.

I stopped a few paces from the platform, my chin lifting as I met his gaze. “Disappointed?”

His grin widened, sharp and humorless. “Not yet.”

The arena was alive with his power.

The cursed energy coiled and surged, stretching outward like claws seeking to claim everything in its path. It was raw, untamed, and impossibly vast, yet he stood at its center as though it bent to his will alone. Sukuna’s form was sharp and commanding, his four eyes gleaming with an intensity that made the air around him vibrate.

The jagged edges of his platform crumbled under the weight of his presence, shards of stone dissolving into the swirling mass of cursed energy that pulsed like a second heart. It wasn’t just power—it was dominion, an absolute command over the forces that shaped the world around him.

I had faced countless dangers, had stared down curses, traps, and illusions without flinching. But this was different.

This was Sukuna.

He wasn’t merely strong. He was something more—something that transcended the boundaries of mortal and monstrous, a force that could not be ignored, could not be denied.

My chest tightened, the air around me sharp and electric as his crimson eyes locked onto mine. Two half-lidded, almost dismissive, while the other two burned with a focus so sharp it felt like a blade pressed against my throat.

“You’ve held your ground,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “But that alone won’t save you.”

The cursed energy around him surged, thickening into a storm that rippled outward in jagged waves. The ground beneath my feet trembled as the tendrils lashed out, their edges gleaming with a deadly light.

I moved instinctively, my magic coiling outward in a burst of light that met the tendrils mid-air. The impact sent a shockwave through the arena, the force reverberating through my bones as the energy dissipated into smoke.

But Sukuna didn’t stop.

Another tendril formed, larger and sharper than the last, its edges slicing through the air with a high-pitched wail as it surged toward me. I raised both hands, summoning a barrier of light that flared to life in a blinding arc. The cursed energy collided with it, the impact so strong that cracks spidered across the barrier’s surface.

I gritted my teeth, the strain burning through my arms as I held the barrier steady. His power was relentless, pressing against mine with a force that felt insurmountable.

But as I stood there, the choker pulsing steadily against my throat, I couldn’t ignore the realization creeping into the edges of my mind.

I wasn’t just fighting him—I was watching him.

The raw intensity of his power was undeniable, a force so immense that it seemed to reshape the air itself, bending the world around him to his will. There was no hesitation in his movements, no faltering in his control. He wielded his strength with the ease of a master craftsman shaping steel, each strike deliberate, each surge of energy perfectly timed.

It was terrifying.

And yet, I couldn’t look away.

A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in my chest—not fear, not entirely, but something close to awe. He was unlike anything I had ever faced, his presence overwhelming yet impossibly commanding.

The cracks in my barrier deepened, the cursed energy pressing harder as Sukuna stepped forward, his grin widening. “Is that all you have?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery.

The words sent a jolt of anger through me, snapping me back into focus. I pushed harder, the light from my barrier flaring brighter as I forced his energy back.

“You talk too much,” I said, my voice sharp as a blade.

His laughter rang out, low and resonant, echoing through the arena like a tolling bell. “And you’re still holding back,” he said, his crimson eyes narrowing. “Don’t insult me with half measures.”

The cursed energy surged again, twisting into a monstrous form that loomed above me, its jagged edges bristling with lethal intent. I braced myself, the choker’s pulse quickening as I summoned the full weight of my magic.

The light coiled around me, sharp and electric, as I released it in a burst that tore through the cursed energy. The arena trembled, the force of the collision sending shards of light and darkness scattering like shattered glass.

Sukuna’s platform cracked further, the edges crumbling as he stepped forward, his grin sharper now. His power had receded slightly, coiling tightly around him like a predator waiting to strike, but his presence remained just as overwhelming.

For a moment, we simply stood there, the air between us heavy with unspoken tension.

His gaze held mine, sharp and searching, and I felt the weight of his scrutiny as though he were peeling back the layers of my defenses. But instead of faltering, I stood taller, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I met his gaze head-on.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” he said, his voice quieter now, though no less commanding. “But strength means nothing if you don’t know how to wield it.”

The words stung, but there was no cruelty in them—only truth.

And for the first time, I felt something shift within me. A flicker of respect, grudging and reluctant, but undeniable. He wasn’t just testing me—he was shaping me, forcing me to rise to the challenge.

And I hated that I was impressed.

The air between us crackled with tension, the silence heavy and expectant as his grin softened into something colder, more calculating.

The air was still, the oppressive hum of the cursed energy fading as the arena fell into an uneasy silence. My chest heaved, each breath sharp and deliberate as the last traces of my magic coiled back into me, steadying beneath the faint pulse of the choker at my throat.

The obsidian floor was scorched and fractured, the remnants of our clash etched into the stone like the scars of a battle neither of us would forget. I stood at its center, the weight of Sukuna’s gaze pressing against my shoulders as he stepped closer, his cursed energy trailing behind him like the ghost of a storm.

He stopped just a pace away, his towering form casting a long shadow that swallowed the fractured ground between us. His crimson eyes gleamed, two half-lidded with a lazy satisfaction while the others burned with something sharper—something almost like respect.

“You’ve done well,” he said, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of a command even when it wasn’t one.

I straightened, refusing to let the exhaustion creeping into my limbs show. “Did you expect me to fail?”

His grin widened, sharp and predatory. “Failure would’ve been disappointing. But you didn’t just succeed. You... entertained me.”

The words sent a ripple of unease through me, though I masked it with a slight tilt of my chin. “I didn’t come here to entertain you.”

“And yet you did.” His gaze lingered on me, his grin softening into something colder, more deliberate. “You’ve proven your worth. You’re stronger than most. Smarter. And you’re still standing, which is more than I can say for anyone else who’s faced me in this arena.”

There was no mockery in his tone now, only a quiet intensity that made the air between us feel heavier. He wasn’t taunting me. He was measuring me.

“I have no need for weaklings,” he continued, his voice soft but sharp, like the edge of a blade drawn close to the skin. “But you’re not weak. You’ve earned my protection.”

The words hung in the air like a verdict, heavy and immutable.

I met his gaze, my chest tightening at the weight of his declaration. Protection. It wasn’t a gift—it was a claim. A mark that would set me apart, that would bind me to him in ways I wasn’t certain I wanted to explore.

“I didn’t ask for your protection,” I said, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my chest.

His grin sharpened, his crimson eyes narrowing. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

The heat of his cursed energy flared briefly, a sharp reminder of the force he wielded with effortless precision. And yet, even as his presence pressed against me, I felt no fear. Only the faintest flicker of something dangerous and unfamiliar—a grudging respect for the man who had tested me and found me worthy.

“Tonight,” he said, his tone shifting into something more deliberate. “You will join me in the great hall. There will be a feast to mark your survival—and to introduce you to the lords of my lands.”

I stiffened, my mind racing at the implications. This wasn’t just an acknowledgment of my strength. This was a proclamation, a public display that would tie me to him in the eyes of his court.

“Is that a command?” I asked, the faintest edge creeping into my voice.

He stepped closer, the grin on his face widening until it was all teeth and sharp intent. “It is,” he said simply.

The weight of his words pressed against me, heavy and unyielding, but I didn’t falter. I met his gaze head-on, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I inclined my head slightly.

“As you wish,” I said, my tone smooth but edged with defiance.

His laughter rumbled through the arena, low and sharp, echoing off the fractured stone like a storm rolling through the hills. “Good,” he said, his voice carrying a note of approval that sent a faint shiver down my spine. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

With that, he turned, his crimson robes trailing behind him as he strode away, his presence retreating but never truly gone.

I stood there for a moment, the adrenaline in my veins giving way to the steady thrum of exhaustion. The choker pulsed faintly, its energy quiet but constant, as though echoing the weight of his claim.

The feast wasn’t a choice. It was another test. And I would meet it head-on.

I always did.

The corridor leading back to my chambers felt impossibly long. My limbs were heavier than they should have been, the aftermath of the arena’s trials pressing against my bones like the weight of an unseen hand. The faint hum of the choker at my throat was steady now, a rhythmic pulse that mirrored the lingering tension in my chest.

When I reached my door, I expected silence—the familiar emptiness of a room that had become my sanctuary. Instead, Uraume was waiting for me, their pale, frost-colored eyes sharp and unreadable as they stood just inside, their hands folded neatly in front of them.

“You’ve returned,” they said, their tone even but carrying an edge of something I couldn’t quite place—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction.

I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment to steady myself. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

They tilted their head slightly, a faint quirk of their lips suggesting the barest hint of a smile. “Lord Sukuna does not test those he expects to fail,” they said simply. “But even so, it’s… good to see you in one piece.”

The admission caught me off guard. Uraume was always precise, deliberate, their words carefully chosen. But there was a softness to their tone now, a quiet acknowledgment of something unspoken between us.

“Was there ever a question?” I asked, my voice lighter than I felt.

They glanced at me, their expression shifting briefly before settling into their usual calm. “Perhaps not. But you’re not finished yet.”

I straightened, the tension in my chest tightening again. “What now?”

Uraume stepped forward, their gaze steady as they studied me. “Your chambers have been moved,” they said, their voice measured. “Lord Sukuna has decided that you will reside in his domain of the estate.”

The words landed heavily, their weight sinking into me before I could fully process them. Sukuna’s domain. The part of the estate I had only glimpsed in the labyrinth—the space where even the air felt alive with power, and where only Uraume had ever been allowed.

I stiffened, my mind racing as I searched their face for some hint of explanation. “Why?”

Uraume inclined their head slightly, their expression betraying nothing. “He did not offer one. But it is a privilege few would dare question.”

A privilege. The word tasted strange, unfamiliar. Being moved closer to Sukuna wasn’t just a shift in status—it was a statement, one that would echo through his court like a tolling bell.

“Come,” Uraume said, their tone softening slightly. “I’ll take you there.”

I hesitated for only a moment before nodding, the weight of the choker against my throat steadying me as I followed them into the corridor.

“You’ve impressed him,” Uraume said after a long silence, their voice quiet but deliberate.

I glanced at them, my brow furrowing. “I didn’t think he was the type to be impressed.”

“He isn’t,” they replied, their lips quirking faintly. “Not easily. But you’ve earned his protection. That is no small thing.”

I studied them as we walked, their expression calm but carrying an edge of something warmer, something I hadn’t seen before. Respect.

“And you?” I asked, my tone lighter than I felt. “Have I earned yours?”

Uraume’s lips twitched again, the faintest suggestion of amusement. “Let’s just say I’m not displeased with the outcome.”

The corners of my mouth lifted despite myself, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” they said smoothly, though their tone carried a warmth that hadn’t been there before.

The corridor twisted and narrowed as Uraume led me deeper into the heart of the estate. The walls here were darker, smoother, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim crimson light that spilled from the flickering braziers. The faint hum of power that always lingered in the estate sharpened in this space, the air heavier, colder, and more alive.

Uraume walked a step ahead, their movements fluid and precise as always, but their presence felt warmer, less guarded. They had said little since delivering the news of my chambers being moved, but their gaze lingered on me more often now, as though they were measuring my reaction.

When we reached the doors, I faltered.

The wood was rich and dark, polished to a gleaming finish that reflected the faint crimson glow of the sigils carved into its surface. They were unmistakable—Sukuna’s mark, etched with sharp precision, their edges gilded with gold that shimmered like fire. The handles were sculpted from smooth bronze, their shapes curling like the tendrils of a twisting vine.

Uraume turned, their pale eyes meeting mine with an unreadable expression. “These are yours now,” they said simply, their voice carrying a faint edge of something almost like approval.

With a fluid motion, they pushed the doors open, revealing a space that left me momentarily breathless.

The room beyond was vast and open, its design a deliberate blend of opulence and serenity. The polished wood floors gleamed like lacquer, their dark surface reflecting the warm glow of the lanterns that hung from the ceiling. Their frames were crafted from fine silk, painted with delicate scenes of blooming wisteria and cranes in flight, their soft light casting shifting patterns across the room.

The walls were panels of smooth, dark wood interspersed with delicate shoji screens, their translucent paper faintly illuminated by the flickering light outside. The screens were painted with intricate scenes—crimson dragons twisting through storm clouds, golden peonies blooming amidst sharp black thorns.

The ceiling was high and vaulted, its beams carved with intricate designs of curling vines and blooming chrysanthemums. Gilded accents caught the light, their delicate details shimmering faintly in the low light of the room.

At the center of the space stood a low platform bed, its frame carved from dark wood and lacquered to a mirror-like finish. The mattress was thick and plush, covered in silk bedding dyed deep crimson, with intricate gold embroidery tracing patterns of curling flames and jagged sigils. A heavy fur throw was draped across the foot of the bed, its texture soft and inviting against the sharp elegance of the room.

To one side, a tokonoma alcove displayed a single scroll, its fine calligraphy drawn in bold black strokes that flowed like water. Beneath it, a simple yet elegant arrangement of seasonal flowers rested in a lacquered vase, their delicate petals adding a faint, fresh scent to the room.

On the far side, an area had been prepared for my craft. Low shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of rare herbs, bottles of tinctures, and neatly bound scrolls bearing unfamiliar sigils. A finely carved wooden chest rested nearby, its surface painted with swirling dragons and phoenixes, containing tools I recognized immediately—mortars, pestles, and other implements of alchemy.

A lacquered table sat beside the shelves, its surface inlaid with gold leaf in the shape of curling vines. A thick candle rested at its center, its pale flame flickering faintly, surrounded by small bowls of polished obsidian and ivory.

Opposite the crafting area was a wardrobe larger than anything I had ever owned. Its sliding doors were made of lacquered wood painted with scenes of a night sky, the stars rendered in glimmering gold. Inside, rows of silk gowns hung neatly, their vibrant colors ranging from deep crimson to shimmering gold and midnight black. Each garment was adorned with intricate embroidery—golden peonies, silver cranes, curling dragons—that spoke of wealth and power.

A small vanity stood near the wardrobe, its surface adorned with gilded brushes, carved combs, and polished bronze mirrors. Bottles of perfume rested beside them, their glass delicate and painted with fine floral designs.

Every detail was deliberate, each piece carefully chosen to create an atmosphere of refined elegance. This was no longer a room for survival—it was a space for someone meant to be seen.

I stood at the center of the room, my gaze sweeping over the space as the weight of Sukuna’s decision settled heavily on my chest. This wasn’t just a gesture—it was a declaration, one that tied me closer to him in ways I wasn’t yet ready to name.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Uraume’s voice broke the silence, carrying a faint edge of amusement.

I turned to find them watching me, their pale eyes sharper now, though their expression remained calm.

“It’s excessive,” I said finally, though the words lacked conviction.

Uraume’s lips quirked faintly, almost a smile. “Excessive is his way.” They gestured toward the wardrobe. “You’ll need to choose something fitting for tonight.”

“Tonight?” I asked, the tension in my chest tightening again.

“The feast,” Uraume said smoothly. “Lord Sukuna has summoned the lords of his lands to witness his newest... acquisition.”

The word sent a ripple of unease through me, but I forced myself to meet their gaze. “And you’re here to help me prepare?”

They inclined their head slightly, their expression softening. “He has tasked me with ensuring you’re ready.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

Their pale eyes narrowed slightly, though their tone remained even. “I respect strength. And you’ve proven yours. That’s more than I can say for most in his court.”

Their words carried a quiet weight, an unspoken acknowledgment of something that had shifted between us. Whatever tensions had existed before, they were gone now, replaced by a growing camaraderie rooted in mutual respect.

“Let’s begin,” Uraume said, gesturing toward the vanity. “We have much to do before tonight.”

The gown Uraume had chosen for me shimmered like molten fire under the soft light of the room. The fabric was a deep crimson, darker than blood, with subtle patterns of curling dragons embroidered in gold thread that glinted faintly with every movement. The long, trailing sleeves fell gracefully past my wrists, their edges lined with intricate black and gold designs that mirrored the jagged sigils of Sukuna’s domain. The skirt flared slightly as it reached the floor, pooling like liquid silk around my feet.

The high collar was structured, drawing attention to the line of my neck where the choker rested. Its crimson gemstone pulsed faintly, the color so perfectly matched to the gown that it seemed deliberate—a part of the ensemble rather than an artifact of power.

Uraume had styled my hair into a series of elegant loops and coils, held in place with gilded pins adorned with delicate designs of peonies and flames. The style was intricate, yet it left a few strands loose to frame my face, softening the overall effect. The final touch was a golden hairpiece shaped like a dragon coiled around a glowing red stone—a subtle echo of Sukuna’s sigil and a reminder of whose domain I now inhabited.

When I caught my reflection in the polished bronze mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back. The outfit, the adornments, even the confident tilt of my chin—it was all deliberate, calculated. A statement of power, control, and defiance wrapped in silk and gold.

“You look… fitting,” Uraume said as they adjusted the drape of the sleeves.

“Fitting for what?” I asked, my tone sharper than intended.

They met my gaze in the mirror, their pale eyes calm but knowing. “For someone meant to stand at his side.”

The path to the dining hall was different from the winding corridors I had grown accustomed to. This section of the estate was wider, grander, the walls lined with golden screens painted with intricate scenes of mythical beasts and blooming gardens. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their soft glow casting shifting patterns across the polished wood floors. The faint hum of energy that filled the estate was sharper here, heavier, as though the very air recognized the weight of what was to come.

Uraume led the way, their footsteps silent against the gleaming floors. I followed, the choker’s pulse steady against my throat as we reached a massive set of lacquered doors. The black and crimson wood gleamed in the low light, their surface adorned with jagged gold patterns that mirrored Sukuna’s sigil.

And there he was.

Sukuna stood just outside the doors, his crimson robes pooling around him like the embers of a dying fire. The gold embroidery along the edges of his sleeves caught the light, glinting faintly as he turned his head toward me. His four eyes studied me, two half-lidded and bored, while the other two burned with sharp, predatory focus.

“You’re late,” he said, though his tone carried no real accusation.

I stopped a few paces from him, my chin lifting as I met his gaze. “I wasn’t aware there was a schedule to keep.”

His grin widened, sharp and dangerous. “There’s always a schedule. You simply don’t know it yet.”

His eyes drifted over my gown, the faintest flicker of amusement curling his lips. “You clean up well,” he said, his tone laced with mockery.

“Is that your idea of a compliment?” I shot back, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly.

“Take it however you like,” he replied, his grin sharpening.

The air between us crackled faintly, the tension unspoken but tangible as he stepped closer, his cursed energy brushing against my senses like a claw trailing over silk. He extended an arm, his movements deliberate, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Shall we?”

I hesitated, my chest tightening as I glanced at his offered arm. The gesture was calculated, a public display that would tie me to him in the eyes of everyone beyond those doors. To take his arm was to step fully into his world, to acknowledge the claim he had made on me.

His grin widened as though he could read the thoughts flickering through my mind. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”

“Of you?” I said, my voice steady as I met his gaze. “Hardly.”

With a deliberate motion, I slid my hand through his arm, the fabric of his robes cool and smooth beneath my fingers. His cursed energy flared faintly at the contact, a pulse of power that rippled through the air around us.

“Good,” he said softly, his tone carrying a quiet approval that sent a shiver down my spine.

The doors opened before us, their movement silent but commanding as the dining hall came into view.

The space was immense, far larger than I had expected. The polished wood floors stretched endlessly, their surface inlaid with golden patterns of dragons and phoenixes that seemed to twist and writhe in the flickering light. The walls were lined with ornate panels painted with vibrant scenes of battles and celebrations, their colors rich and deep, each detail a testament to Sukuna’s dominion.

The ceiling was vaulted, its beams carved with intricate designs of clouds and flames, their edges gilded to catch the light of the massive chandeliers that hung above. Each chandelier was a masterpiece, its frame sculpted from blackened bronze and adorned with hundreds of glowing orbs that floated within their embrace like captive stars.

A long table stretched down the center of the room, its dark surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Golden trays and dishes were arranged with precision, their contents a feast of unimaginable variety—roasted meats glistening with glaze, bowls of fragrant rice, platters of fresh fish adorned with delicate garnishes, and desserts crafted with such detail they looked like works of art.

The lords of Sukuna’s lands were already seated, their finely tailored robes a riot of colors and patterns, each one vying for dominance in their display of wealth and power. Their conversations faltered as we entered, all eyes turning to us as the weight of Sukuna’s presence swept through the room.

He didn’t stop, his steps slow and deliberate as he led me forward, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as the whispers began.

And I, with his arm beneath my hand and the choker pulsing faintly at my throat, held my head high.

The whispers followed us as Sukuna led me to the head of the table, his steps unhurried and deliberate. Each lord seated at the grand table turned their gaze toward us, their conversations stilled, their faces a mix of forced neutrality and barely concealed discomfort.

The air grew heavier as we reached the raised dais at the far end of the hall. A pair of high-backed chairs awaited us, their frames carved from dark wood that gleamed faintly under the golden light of the chandeliers. The intricate patterns etched into the chairs’ surfaces mirrored Sukuna’s sigil—jagged lines curling in chaotic yet deliberate designs.

Sukuna gestured smoothly to the seat at his right, his crimson eyes flicking to me with an unspoken command.

I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking my place, the weight of his presence settling beside me as he lowered himself into his chair. His cursed energy radiated outward like a tide, brushing against the edges of the room and pressing down on the gathered lords with a force that left no doubt as to who ruled here.

The lords sat stiffly in their places, their brightly colored robes and polished ornaments doing little to mask the unease that rippled through their ranks. They didn’t look at him directly, their gazes dipping respectfully whenever his eyes swept across the table. But when their attention turned to me, the tension in the room sharpened.

“Lords,” Sukuna said, his voice low and commanding, carrying effortlessly across the vast hall. “Tonight, we feast not only to honor your service but to welcome someone... new.”

His words were simple, but the weight they carried pressed against my chest like an iron hand.

A lord seated halfway down the table cleared his throat nervously, his jeweled fingers gripping his cup tightly. “A... new arrival, my lord?” he asked, his voice strained with forced politeness.

Sukuna’s grin widened, sharp and deliberate. “Indeed.” He turned his gaze to me, the sharp intensity of his crimson eyes settling on my face. “Allow me to introduce her. The one who survived my labyrinth. The one who stood before me and did not fall.”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort tangible.

A woman seated near the far end of the table leaned forward slightly, her elaborate hair ornaments swaying as she studied me with a frown. “A witch,” she said, the word sharp and dripping with disdain. “You’ve brought a witch to your side.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sukuna’s eyes flicked to her, the lazy amusement in his expression hardening into something sharper, colder. “Careful,” he said, his tone soft but laced with menace. “You’re not seated here to question my choices.”

The woman paled visibly, her gaze dropping to her plate as she murmured an apology.

But the damage had been done.

The other lords’ discomfort grew thicker, their whispers returning in hushed tones as they exchanged glances, their expressions tight with a mixture of fear and repulsion.

“A witch,” another lord muttered, his voice barely audible but carrying just enough for me to hear. “What does he see in one so... low?”

The words struck like a blade, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I lifted my chin, my gaze sweeping across the table to meet theirs.

Sukuna laughed then, the sound low and sharp, cutting through the tension like the stroke of a blade. “You question my choice?” he said, his grin widening as he leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, which of you would have survived what she has? Which of you could stand before me and not crumble?”

The lords averted their gazes, their discomfort turning to outright fear as his cursed energy flared briefly, a warning that rippled through the room.

“I thought so,” Sukuna said, his voice dripping with mockery. “You may not understand my reasons, but you will respect them.”

His eyes flicked to me again, his grin softening slightly as he inclined his head. “And if you doubt her worth, feel free to test it. I’m sure she would enjoy the opportunity to remind you why she’s here.”

A faint murmur swept through the table, the lords exchanging wary glances but saying nothing more.

“Good,” Sukuna said, his tone light but carrying the finality of a command. He reached for the golden cup in front of him, raising it in a smooth, deliberate motion. “Let the feast begin.”

The lords followed suit, their movements stiff as they raised their cups and murmured their assent.

As the first course was brought to the table, Sukuna leaned closer to me, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “They fear me, but they fear you now too,” he said, his tone laced with satisfaction. “Let them choke on it.”

I glanced at him, my chest tightening as I caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. There was no kindness in his words, no attempt to soften the tension in the room. But there was approval, grudging and sharp, like a blade honed to perfection.

And for the first time, I realized that I wasn’t just surviving this feast.

I was winning it.

The night had dragged on, a slow parade of courses and cautious conversation. The lords and ladies of Sukuna’s lands were masters of veiled words and subtle glances, but the tension in the room hung thick, heavier than the richest dish placed before them.

Despite their attempts at decorum, the undercurrent of discontent was clear. It was in the stiffness of their movements, the too-careful placement of their words, and the sidelong glances they cast in my direction when they thought I wasn’t watching.

Sukuna, for his part, seemed to revel in it. He sat at the head of the table like a king surveying his domain, his grin sharp and his four eyes gleaming with amusement as he observed their discomfort.

I matched their stares when they dared to linger, my spine straight, my chin high. I had no intention of faltering beneath their scrutiny. Let them watch. Let them judge. Their opinions meant nothing to me.

The meal was nearly over when it happened.

A lady seated near the far end of the table rose suddenly, her silk robes pooling around her feet as her jeweled ornaments caught the light. Her face was painted to perfection, her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she addressed Sukuna.

“My lord,” she began, her voice honeyed but carrying a sharp edge. “We have followed you without question. Served you faithfully, even when the cost was great. But this…” Her gaze flicked to me, her smile curdling into something sour. “This decision to place a witch at your side—surely you see how it demeans your station?”

The room froze.

The other lords stiffened in their seats, their gazes darting nervously between Sukuna and the woman who had dared to speak. The air grew heavier, charged with the faint crackle of cursed energy that rippled outward from Sukuna as he turned his gaze toward her.

It wasn’t a sudden burst of rage—it was slow, deliberate, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

But I didn’t give him the chance to respond.

I rose from my seat, the smooth fabric of my gown whispering softly against the polished floor as I turned to face her. My movements were slow, deliberate, the pulse of the choker at my throat steady as I let the weight of my presence fill the space.

“You dare to speak of demeaning him?” I asked, my voice low but razor-sharp. The faint pulse of my magic rippled through the air, coiling outward like the hiss of an unsheathed blade.

The lady stiffened, her painted smile faltering as she took a small step back. “I meant no offense, only to—”

“To what?” I interrupted, my tone colder now. “To question his choice? To question me?”

Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. The lords seated nearby averted their gazes, their discomfort now replaced with outright fear.

“You think your station protects you,” I continued, my voice soft but dripping with venom. “You think your pretty words and painted face give you power.” I took another step closer, my magic curling around me like smoke. “Allow me to disabuse you of that notion.”

The choker pulsed sharply, its crimson glow flaring as I extended my hand. The air between us shifted violently, the magic coiling outward in jagged tendrils of light that lashed against the woman’s skin. She gasped, stumbling back as the energy struck her, sharp and unrelenting.

“Do not mistake my restraint for weakness,” I said, my voice low and deadly. “I could destroy you where you stand. But that would be too kind.”

The tendrils of magic shifted, tightening around her arms as the crimson light seared against her skin. She screamed, the sound sharp and shrill, as the sigil of Sukuna burned into the flesh of her forearm—a permanent mark, jagged and cruel, glowing faintly with the remnants of my power.

The room was silent, the weight of my magic pressing down on the gathered lords like an iron hand.

The woman fell to her knees, clutching her arm as tears streaked the paint on her face. “P-please,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I meant no harm—”

“Silence,” I snapped, the magic still coiling faintly in the air around me. “Remember this pain. Remember your place. And do not ever question him again.”

I released the tendrils of magic with a flick of my wrist, the glow dissipating as the air grew still once more. The woman remained kneeling, her head bowed, her trembling hands cradling the mark on her arm as though it might burn through her entirely.

The other lords sat frozen, their faces pale, their gazes avoiding mine as though meeting my eyes would summon the same fate upon them.

I turned to Sukuna, my chest tight as I forced my breath to steady. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite place—amusement, certainly, but there was something else in his gaze, something sharper.

“Are you satisfied?” I asked, my voice calm despite the lingering hum of energy in the air.

His grin widened, slow and deliberate. “More than you know.”

Sukuna leaned back in his chair, his crimson eyes sweeping over the stunned lords and ladies before returning to me. “Well done,” he said, his voice low and approving. “It seems you’ve finally made yourself understood.”

The tension in the room remained thick, but no one dared to speak. The lords sat in their places, their gazes fixed firmly on their plates, their earlier discontent now replaced with silent, trembling compliance.

I sat down slowly, smoothing the folds of my gown as I reclaimed my place at Sukuna’s side. The choker pulsed faintly against my throat, its rhythm steady, as though echoing the quiet triumph that lingered in the air.

For the rest of the night, no one spoke out of turn.

The grand dining hall faded into silence behind us as Sukuna and I stepped into the shadowed corridors of the estate. The faint hum of cursed energy lingered in the air, sharper here, as though the labyrinth itself stirred at his presence. His stride was unhurried, confident, each step echoing faintly against the polished floors. I walked beside him, acutely aware of the space between us—or rather, the lack of it.

“You didn’t have to escort me,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended.

He glanced at me, his grin widening just enough to send a ripple of unease down my spine. “No, I didn’t,” he replied smoothly. “But I wanted to.”

“Why?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Why not?” he countered, his tone carrying that maddening edge of mockery. “Surely you’re not afraid to be alone with me.”

“Afraid?” I scoffed, lifting my chin. “Hardly.”

The low chuckle that followed sent a faint shiver through me, its sound reverberating in the quiet space between us. “Good,” he said softly, his crimson eyes gleaming as they flicked to mine. “Because if I wanted to harm you, little witch, I wouldn’t waste my time walking you to your door.”

My chest tightened at the words, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I met his gaze head-on, forcing the tension in my body to steady. “You speak as though your intentions are so much better.”

His grin sharpened, his voice dropping into a near-growl. “Better? No. But more interesting, perhaps.”

The air between us grew heavier, the charged tension thickening as his cursed energy brushed against me like a claw trailing over silk. I refused to falter, though the pulse of the choker at my throat quickened in response.

“You enjoy this,” I said finally, breaking the silence that had stretched between us. “This game of intimidation.”

“Of course I do,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “But tonight, I’m not trying to intimidate you.”

“No?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He slowed his pace slightly, his grin softening into something more deliberate, more dangerous. “No,” he said, his tone quiet but charged. “I’m trying to see what lies beneath all that fire of yours.”

The words sent a ripple of heat through me, but I forced my voice to remain steady. “And what do you think you’ll find?”

He stopped then, his towering frame casting a shadow over me as he turned fully to face me. The air grew colder, heavier, as his crimson eyes locked onto mine. “Power,” he said simply, his voice low and sharp. “Strength. Defiance. But there’s more, isn’t there?”

I clenched my hands at my sides, the weight of his gaze pressing against me like an iron hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, stepping closer. His cursed energy coiled around us like smoke, its weight suffocating and intoxicating all at once. “You may fool the lords with your bravado, but you don’t fool me.”

My breath hitched, though I refused to let it show. “What is it you think you see, Sukuna?”

His grin widened, his eyes gleaming with something sharper than amusement. “A spark,” he said, his voice softening into a near-whisper. “One that could burn the whole world down if you let it.”

The words hung heavily between us, charged with an intensity that made the corridor feel smaller, the air thicker. My chest tightened, the pulse of the choker quickening as I held his gaze, unwilling to look away.

“And what if I don’t want to burn the world down?” I asked, my voice quieter now, but no less steady.

“Then you’re lying to yourself,” he said simply, his tone carrying a dark certainty. “Because the fire in you won’t be contained forever. It’s only a matter of time.”

The gilded doors to my chambers loomed ahead, but I barely registered them. Sukuna’s presence beside me was all-consuming, his cursed energy wrapping around us like smoke, brushing against my skin with a heat that sent shivers racing down my spine. The soft pulse of the choker at my throat quickened, matching the tempo of my heart as the space between us grew thicker, heavier, with each step.

When we reached the doors, I stopped abruptly, turning to face him with a defiance that felt more like instinct than thought. “This is where I leave you,” I said, my voice steady despite the tension simmering in the air.

He tilted his head, his crimson eyes narrowing with something darker, more deliberate. “Is it?” he asked softly, the corner of his mouth curling into that maddening, predatory grin.

Before I could respond, he moved.

His hand slammed against the door beside my head, the force rattling the gilded wood as his other arm snaked around my waist. The movement was smooth, practiced, leaving me pinned between the cool surface of the door and the searing heat of his body. The scent of him—smoke and something sharp, like scorched steel—filled my lungs, intoxicating and impossible to ignore.

I gasped, the sound barely escaping before his crimson eyes locked onto mine, their sharp intensity stealing the breath from my chest. His cursed energy coiled around me, pressing against my senses like a physical weight, making the space between us feel impossibly small.

“You think you can dismiss me so easily?” he growled, his voice low and rough, a dangerous edge lacing every word. “I don’t think so, little witch.”

The heat radiating from him was almost unbearable, his frame towering over mine, his presence swallowing the air around us. The hand braced beside my head curled slightly, his clawed fingers dragging faintly against the gilded wood as though testing the strength of the barrier between us.

“Let me go,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended, though the sharpness in my tone refused to waver.

“Let you go?” he repeated, his grin widening as his other hand tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against him. “Is that what you want?”

The air between us crackled with tension, the pulse of the choker against my throat steady and insistent as his cursed energy pressed harder, wrapping around me like a vice. My hands twitched at my sides, caught between the instinct to push him away and the maddening pull that drew me closer to him.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” I said, my breath hitching as his nose brushed against my temple, his movements slow and deliberate, his lips hovering just beside my ear.

“You don’t?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “Then allow me to enlighten you.”

His teeth grazed the shell of my ear, a sharp nip that sent a jolt of heat coursing through my veins. I sucked in a breath, my pulse racing as his grip on my waist tightened, his thumb brushing deliberately against the curve of my hip.

“You belong here,” he said, his voice rough and thick with want. “With me. At my side. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That pull?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat as his lips ghosted along the edge of my jaw, his breath warm and searing against my skin. My hands moved instinctively, bracing against his chest, but the heat of him burned through the fabric of his robes, sending another shiver racing down my spine.

“I’ll make it simple for you,” he growled, the sound vibrating against my skin as he leaned closer, his lips barely brushing the corner of my mouth. “Say yes. Accept your place at my side.”

The words were a command, dark and demanding, but there was something deeper in them—a hunger that matched the fire burning in my chest. My breath hitched as his crimson eyes bore into mine, the sharp intensity in his gaze making the world around us blur, fade, until there was only him.

“And if I don’t?” I asked, my voice quieter now, though the defiance in my tone refused to falter.

His grin sharpened, the hand braced against the door curling into a fist as his cursed energy surged, pressing harder against my senses until I was drowning in it. “You will,” he said simply, his voice low and certain. “Because you know as well as I do that this is where you belong.”

The tension between us was suffocating, the heat of his breath brushing against my lips as his gaze flicked down, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. My chest tightened, the pull between us maddeningly irresistible, the pulse of the choker pounding like a second heartbeat.

“I’ll consider it,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widened, sharp and triumphant, as his hand slid from the door to my chin, tilting my face upward. “Do that,” he murmured, his tone dripping with dark amusement.

Then, without warning, his teeth found my ear again, a sharp, deliberate nip that sent a jolt of fire racing through me. My breath hitched, my hands curling into fists against his chest as his tongue flicked over the spot, soothing the sting before he pulled back, his gaze gleaming with satisfaction.

“Goodnight, little witch,” he said, his voice a velvety growl as he stepped away, the absence of his heat leaving the air cold and empty. His cursed energy lingered, brushing faintly against my senses as he turned and disappeared down the corridor.

I stood there for a moment, my back pressed against the door, my chest heaving as I fought to steady the wild thrum of my pulse. The choker at my throat pulsed faintly, its rhythm slower now but steady, as though echoing the weight of his words.

And for the first time, I felt the faintest flicker of something dangerous.

Not fear. Not defiance.

But want.

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE This is my first time really delving into an action heavy chapter, so please show me some grace T-T though I really hope you enjoy it regardless

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings @numbuh666 @tejan-sunny @lavenderandoranges @after-laughter-comes-tears @maomimii @theplacetoputfics

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comicaurora · 1 year ago

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Out of curiosity, how far ahead are you on the comic? I mean, you must have it all planned and written out, but I imagine that you are drawing the future of Aurora even while we're reading it.

So is Arc 2 already illustrated and ready for upload while you're on like Arc 5 or something? I'm by no means undermining your need for a break; I'm shocked that you've been uploading continuously for over 4 years at this point. I'm just interested to know how long it takes a person to make something this great. And also if you change any details in the final edit?

Basically: what's the workflow like?

Also I think you low-key inspired me to pick up painting as a hobby. I'm ready to pour so much money into creating things that I know I'll hate. :)

God, arc 5? That's a very generous assessment of how fast I can draw!

Typically, when the comic is updating regularly, I keep a buffer of 10 to 20 completed pages. Right now, in the interest of taking a break, the buffer is 0 completed pages.

Chapter 1 of Arc 2 is completely storyboarded, meaning it's sketched out, the dialog is all mostly finalized barring last-minute rephrasements, etc. It can be read in its current form, it just looks unpretty. In fact, just for fun, here's a sneak peek!

In the next month I'll go through and finalize as many pages from this chapter as possible - which means locking down the panel borders, fleshing out the backgrounds, lining, shading, coloring, polish, etc. - which will be the process of building up a new buffer for when the comic starts back up again in January. During that time, I'll also be storyboarding Chapter 2 and as much of the following parts as I can manage.

I have the next several chapters and sub-arcs planned out in loose timelines - event A happens at location B leading to consequences C and D, stuff like that. Chapter 2, being the closest, is a little more fleshed-out, with a more detailed bullet-pointed timeline and various character ideas I've had that might or might not make it into the final version.

What exactly the chapter breakdown is going to look like is a little more complicated. Initially I'd planned for Chapter 1 to be low-stakes downtime and Chapter 2 to quickly kick off the high-octane adventure again, but when I started bullet-pointing out the stuff I wanted to do in Chapter 2, I ended up with a big pile of slower-paced character moments I thought were well worth exploring, so the runtimes might stretch a little.

Translating those brainstormed notes into storyboards and dialog is what I would classify as the "writing" part of this process. It happens at an erratic pace largely determined by the whims of whatever muse decides to get me in a headlock that day; sometimes I go weeks with no storyboarding progress, sometimes I hammer out fifteen pages in one day.

It's kinda like weaving, to me. The soon-to-be-arriving parts of the story are the most finalized, the most densely woven. A little ways beyond that, things get looser - some patterns may be locked down, but the actual work that'll hold it together hasn't been done yet. And in the far-flung future arcs, it's just the basic bones of the story and a pile of the threads I've planned to use. I know the shape of it, but in order for it to be fun and engaging for me to make it, I need to give myself room to be creative when I'm putting the whole thing together.

I actually have a file called the "Toolbox" that contains every random character or subplot idea I've had, and sometimes when I'm debating where to go with a chunk of story, I'll crack it open and scan through to see if anything jumps out begging to be used. Lotta fun stuff in there that may or may not ever see the light of day. Dropping stuff in the Toolbox is one of the most fun and freeing parts of the process for me!

#asks #behind the curtain #writing stuff

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noideabutsims · 5 months ago

Text

Donut Co.'s Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Edition

🚨 Calling All Simmers! The Wait is OVER! 🎉 Donut Co.'s Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Pack is FINALLY HERE! 🚨

Dust off those creative hats and prepare for a playtime EXPLOSION because the Dream-Build-Play Blocks are back and better than ever! We've crammed a whopping 80 new items into this expansion pack, guaranteed to transform your Sims' homes into vibrant, block-tastic wonderlands.

🚀 Blast Off to Imagination Station:

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👶 14 Nesting Blocks: Tiny hands, meet big fun! These soft, colorful blocks are perfect for your littlest Sims. Watch them giggle with glee as they stack, nest, and explore a world of shapes and textures. Learning and development have never been so adorable!

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We're celebrating creativity in all its forms with two vibrant color options for EVERY block item. Choose from classic brights for a burst of energy, or soft pastels for a touch of dreamy sweetness.

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Endless Fun: This set is PACKED with play value, guaranteeing hours of entertainment for Sims of all ages.

Sparks Creativity: Encourage your Sims to think outside the block with open-ended building and imaginative play.

Kid-Approved: We designed this set with little ones in mind, ensuring safety, durability, and maximum fun!

So What Are You Waiting For?

The Dream-Build-Play Blocks: Expansion Pack is available NOW! Let the building bonanza begin! Don't forget to share your Sims' amazing creations with us – we can't wait to see what you build! ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Downloading: If you download the zip, pick EITHER the merged file, or the unmerged packages in the folders - you cant have both, they're the same. The merged file has EVERYTHING! For other refrence images, and to see all 80 items laid out - you can check the preview here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/760676067863412736/simmers-get-ready-to-unleash-a-world-of?source=share There are 2 functional playhouses (Dream home decorator required), a playhouse base, 20 functional dollhouses, 43 décor items, and 14 nesting blocks. All ages can play with the dollhouses, toddlers and up can play with the playhouses. Dream home decorator is REQUIRED to use the playhouses, the merged file includes them automatically so if you do not have it - please use the unmerged files HUGE thank you goes out to@TaurusDesigns because they have continuously helped me out with my meshing/making of objects, and they're a wonderful CC creator! Make sure to check em out! <3 (All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar!) All 80 items are New meshes, and have all shadows and LODs. There is a slight glitch in the shadows on a few objects, but it only occurs BEFORE placing them down in game. Once they are placed, they are perfectly fine! Same as the last set! <3 If you wanna check out our other block sets, you can find them here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754033695218909184/8-new-fun-toys-for-sims-4-infantstoddlers?source=share https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/754032309525774336/tons-of-functional-new-items-for-sims-4-toys?source=share

Infants that can sit up can play with all dollhouse block items, toddlers and kids can play too! Most of my images have my reshade on - it changes the color minimally, so white may look a little off in photos, but in game it will look white/normal!! In images you can find the non-reshade example! <3 You can size them up and down using the bracket keys. [ ] <- these ones. I personally, use the tool mod to size my items up and down, and specifically with these if you are wanting them to be "perfectly sized" i would recommend you grab the tool mod by twistedmexi! If you would like to use it in build-buy mode, you'll need BBB!) Re-colors, and using this item as a mesh/base is fully allowed! you can include the mesh, and do what you please with the item, as long as you link back to the original. There are posts for all of our cc on our main 3 platforms (Tumblr, curseforge, patreon. ), So there is no reason not to link back!

Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC! ) DOWNLOAD: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CurseForge: curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-s-dream-build-play-blocks-expansion Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1E2ELomt_YIWhofi4wC4niJHzvkKNlMpx/view?usp=sharing

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/111578246?pr=true ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**** Small tidbit about support, we really appreciate the read if you don't mind!**** We would love to be able to do this full time, but sadly without it bringing in an income, we can only do so part time. We LOVE making CC, but we NEVER want to force our supporters to pay us - just to access some items we made. Due to our items NEVER being paywalled, we have to now ask that if any of you could, we hoped you would consider downloading on Curseforge - if you do, you can help us be able to afford to keep making CC! If all or even a majority of the people who always download our items were to download on curseforge or sub to our $1 teir on Patreon - we could afford to turn this into a job. I know not everyone can, and that's ok, but if its possible it really really does help us out. It funds fixing our computers to be able to continue making cc, helps pay our bills, and even helps us fix our car and bike, and just in general when things happen. It really does mean alot to us, so supporting our patreon, or downloading via curseforge are amazing ways that you guys can help us! Thanks so much for all of your support!

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lokorum · 4 months ago

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Your art so surreal, did you take inspiration from African masks it’s amazing. You have probably gotten this question before but what’s your process and how do plan these beautiful pieces out. I am a beginner artist and would like some advice on how start doing digital painting.

thank you for bringing me back from the dead with your kindness, (i was so sad today ughhhh i think watching vampire diaries starting to affect me hjkhjk), i really, really deeply thankful that you spend your time to write something so sweet (also sorry it took me literally ages to reply phphp THE USUAL)

yeah, in buryatia shamanism like the big thing, so when i went to search what's out there in the masks department - google's mess of the results for once was helpful and showed this massive collection of beautiful african masks. the one that was inspo for tiisha lived in my head rent free for weeks before the character was even born phphph now i cant even imagine her without it

(here is little tiisha for you before i'll proceed to be not helpfull phphphph)

oof advices are not my strong side , like..........my process mostly is just sleep through the whole thing i guess..........................i very rarely do sketches, i hate study anatomy and perspective, drawing cubes makes me physically sick etc etc my approach to drawing were "fuck around and find out", always about chill and fun and barely ever about learning. imho thats why im so shitty at drawing simple things but not bad at coloring. so yeah, my biggest advice always and forever will be - be gentle to yourself, please

digital or traditional or whatever else is out there, dont forget you make it for yourself and for yourself only okay? it supposed to be fun, not sad tiring and competitive

advices for digital specifically tho - very objective, apply with caution

learn all the keyboard shortcuts, ideally to press them without thinking

explore more instruments than just brush. it will be tedious and sometimes feel like a chore so mb pick one victim once a month and browse youtube for a stuff like SECRET ULTIMATE TIPS ABOUT MAGIC WAND TOOL THAT WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE (they indeed will save your life)

check if your drawing program has artboards - turning it on will give you more freedom over canvas positioning and your refs will always be there and not in the separate window

idk about others but using auto tone, auto contrast and auto color often gives me well needed perspective on what im doing

in 99% cases be sure that you can reanimate even the most messiest artpiece you ever did. working in digital gives you the chance to mess with shapes, colors and perspective at any time so if you dont want to gave up on something - you absolutely didnt have to

from time to time while you are still learning - go out there in the wilds and search for the new brushes. tweak with them if you want. i have like ~500 and i use 6 max, but those 6 i found by at some point trying to draw with all of the 500

MADE. BACK UPS. and i mean not like save layers just in case before merging them (tho that's too will help) no, i mean click SAVE AS once an hour and create A NEW FILE. PLEASE. i lost so much stuff to sudden power outage. its never pretty and you loosing will to work for days

watch at least one tutorial about the whole rgb srgb and cmyk thing - i did, understood not a thing, but at least im not playing dora the explorer with my colors after the export now

uh idk think thats it? tried to think about those that id hope i knew when i started so hopefully something will help

have fun with your drawings!!

#mmm talking

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old-daemon-farts · 1 year ago

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Is daemonism safe?

Daemonism, when broken down to the bare minimum, is a mental and imaginative exercise. It's not meant to push yourself into anything potentially unhealthy. You are not forcing hallucinations and there shouldn't be any dissociation of identity or losing control of yourself.

Let's Start With Projection

Projection is applying mental images overlaid on your surroundings. It is using your imagination and relying on your ability to visualize outward what is being produced by your mind's eye. With practice, you can make your projections quite vivid, and after a while you may not even register that you are still seeing right through them. The apple exercise is a good example. Lets say you picture an apple on a plate in front of you, but the apple is fleeting and inconsistent. Its shape, colors, and size flickers rapidly or fizzles out entirely. You *know* it's not there. There's little presence or weight to it. If this was glass, it would be described as crystal clear. But, with practice, it becomes more consistent. You can now see one shade of red and the size remains the same. Perhaps you have even added details like a shadow. Now, if this was to be compared to glass it would be glass with a light tint added. You can still see right through it, but you also know something is there. You don't have to be a daemian to be able to project. Concept designers, artists, architects, althetes... projection is a type of visualization. It's a creative tool. It's not a hallucination, nor is it intended to be one.

Extreme vividness can be from hyperphantasia, but if you worry projecting may trigger or influence hallucinations then you are welcome to avoid it! Projection is fun, but not a requirement, and you should do what is most comfortable, healthy, and safest for you. Daemians who experience projection as hallucinations already have a history of them from what I have seen within the community.

Fronting and Dissociation

These are experiences usually seen within DID and other plural spaces. Daemonism doesn't focus on switching with your daemon, and you likely won't find resources specifically about it. Of course, you can switch who's in front, and some plural daemians may have advice for how to accomplish that, but again, that's not the point or focus of daemonism at large. They are usually hands off within our lives. We are the ones in the driver's seat while they are the backseat drivers giving us direction. They aren't expected to take the wheel from us. There isn't anything wrong with wanting to or being able to switch with your daemon, just to be clear. I'm only pointing out that getting daemons to front is not a priority like it is in other plural spaces. This is another reason daemonism is very easy to get into and something I consider much safer and easier to manage for the average Joe.

Dissociation isn't something that is associated with the daemon experience either. Dissociation *can* occur, but there are likely other reasons you would be experiencing these things and not just because you have a daemon. Dissociation from ADHD, stress, illness, or DID are just a few examples. Switching with your daemon could just be masking, or perhaps your mind is already comfortable sliding your daemon into front because you have DID. Again, if you are worried having a daemon could trigger dissociation or a loss of control then please do what is in the best interest for you. You know your health and history best. But, there a *many* daemians who are systems and quite happy and comfortable having daemons. Daemons have even been known to help with dissociation and sense of identity!

Talking to Yourself

Is 100% a normal, human experience. There's been a surge of exploration in self-talk and how it affects us, and talking to yourself in 2nd person even has proven benefits. You also don't *have* to talk out loud to your daemon; you can keep it all internal. Just know that splitting your own mental monologue into a dialogue isn't unhealthy and it's something many of you already do even without a daemon.

TLDR

You do only what you are comfortable with here. If something sounds risky, then don't do it. Daemonism is meant to be a healthy and fun activity.

You want to form find but not separate your daemon from yourself? Awesome.

You want to only talk to your daemon and avoid projection? Neato.

You want to project but not talk to your daemon? Perfect.

You want to learn how to switch with your daemon? We ain't really the community for that but you are free to if you are comfortable!

You do what's best for you. It's meant to fill whatever you need. Healthy mindset, growth, or just straight-up something fun to do.

Topic spawned from a question on Discord over the difference of imposition and projection as well as some differences between us and other techniques out there for headmate creation. Cleaned up and formatted better for Tumblr.

#daemonism #actually plural #endo safe #multiplicity #thoughtforms #dæmonism

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trashogram · 27 days ago

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Randall Boggs/Fem!Reader idea where you move into a new apartment and based on weird activity around the area, you think there’s a ghost in your closet. Except it’s actually a giant monster lizard bastard that can blend in with his surroundings that’s haunting you. NSFW under the cut:

You try to assert your dominance and wordlessly reclaim your territory with the ‘ghost’ when It refuses to live with you peacefully. But your way of fighting back is mainly ignoring It’s irritating behavior as much as you can and living your life — of course living your life includes masturbating in your room after a hard day of work at your shitty customer service job.

You try to ignore it when the ‘ghost’ acts up here and there during bc god help anyone or anything that gets between you and your sorely needed O. You’re adamant in continuing until you get a little satisfaction, but your heart jumps into your throat when it feels like multiple hands that are not your own are suddenly touching you.

Control is quickly taken away from you as you’re immobilized by a heavy weight that you can’t see. The hands push yours to the side, and another keeps your legs apart. You try to swallow past the feeling of a hand squeezing your throat lightly, and another exploring your torso.

It’s so hard to tell without the gift of sight but you feel like the overlong body on yours is covered in smooth scales. They brush over your body in a way that chills you, just as the hand that busied itself with groping your tits slides down to right between your thighs. Your ‘ghost’ has oddly-shaped, inhuman digits but you gasp as they rub and circle your clit in exactly the same way you were just doing.

Had you been in your right mind, you could’ve tampered your surprise. What do ghosts really do but observe? It’s just that the way this particular one had to have been watching you closely to know exactly what you enjoyed while playing with your pussy. Before you know it you’re cumming past the shock, and your hands have been let go, allowing you to reach up and wrap them around the invisible sinuous body.

Coming down from the high, you slowly realize that the body on yours is tangible with a quick-beating heart and shifting muscles. Your eyes flutter as those fingers delve down and start to stretch your opening apart, making way for something much thicker, heavier, and… viscous? The shape is familiar enough in spite of it definitely not being human. You’re too in awe of what’s going on to even think of getting away, so the creature that isn’t actually a ghost sinks its cock inside you until it can go no further.

You groan at the intrusion, and one of the hands covers your mouth.

“Sh sh sh sh shhhhh...” It appears, revealing itself for the first time without warning, and you see the glare of beady eyes and score of acicular teeth.

“Relax.”

You stutter against the hand still held against your lips, blinking at shutter speed as the lower half of this eminence-colored lizard starts moving. His upper body remains still as a gargoyle, narrowed eyes darting over your face - your throat still in his hold - the way your breasts bounce in time with his movements. He’s cataloging your reactions, but you’ve quickly succumbed to another building climax and can’t think straight again.

Another moan is stifled as Randall lays even lower, maw pressed against the dip of your throat so he can trail over it with his tongue.

“Good girl. It’s much better when you humans obey, isn’t it?”

#Randall Boggs x reader #randall boggs #monsters inc #monsterfucking #disney villains x reader #nsft #smut #dubcon?#this ran away from me

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faretheeoscar · 2 months ago

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The Therapy Droid

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Content: grief, discussions of parent death, angst , comfort, fluff, mentions of panic/anxiety. Art is happy, but the fic is not really. Let me know if I missed any!

I got inspired by this reddit post I read a while ago about how BB-8 was once a therapy droid for Poe.

A/N: English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there’s any mistakes.

Word Count: 4.2k~

The jungle of Yavin 4 hummed with life as the sun dipped low, bathing the sky in hues of orange and violet. From the top step of their modest home, Poe Dameron sat hunched over, a model starfighter clutched loosely in his hands. His fingers traced its sleek wings and sharp edges, but his eyes were distant, fixed on nothing in particular.

It had been two months since his mother, Shara Bey, died.

For a boy of nine, grief was an incomprehensible thing. It wasn’t just sadness—it was a hollow, consuming ache that dulled every sound, every color. Poe barely touched the toys and star charts he once obsessed over. The jungle no longer called to him, nor did the excitement of exploring the Rebel base ruins nearby. Everything felt wrong without her.

His father, Kes Dameron, watched from the doorway. The death of Shara had left a hole in both their lives, but Kes had always been better at hiding his pain. He was a soldier, after all. He knew how to keep marching, even when the weight felt unbearable. But Poe? Poe was still a boy, one who had lost not just his mother, but his light.

Kes had tried everything to help—encouraging words, distractions, he had stayed on Yavin to try to spend time together with his son—but nothing seemed to break through. That’s until he spoke to some officers on Shara’s old team that contacted him with a New Republic doctor, a sympathetic Mon Calamari, who had suggested something new.

“Hey Flyboy,” Kes said gently, stepping out onto the porch. The boy didn’t move.

"Poe..."Kes crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. You’ve been through a lot... and I know that lately I haven’t been here for you, that you’ve stayed with your grandpa but… I think you need someone who can really be there for you, to help you.”

“I don’t need anyone,” Poe muttered, his voice sounding a little bit more sharp than it intended. His grip on the model starfighter tightened.

Kes hesitated, then pressed a button on the remote he’d been holding. From inside the house came a soft whirring sound, followed by the distinct chime of a droid powering on. A moment later, a small spherical astromech droid rolled into view, white and orange plating recently polished. Its head, a dome balanced impossibly above its ball-shaped body, swiveled with curiosity.

Poe’s brow furrowed. “Who… is this?”

“This,” Kes said with a small smile, “is BB-8. He’s a therapy droid. The New Republic’s been rolling them out for people who’ve had... a hard time.”

BB-8 beeped softly, his head tilting as if studying the boy. Poe’s brows knit together, suspicion tinged with annoyance.

“I don’t need a droid” Poe said flatly.

“You might not think so,” Kes said, his voice steady, “but sometimes, having someone—something—to talk to helps. BB-8’s not just a machine. He’s designed to listen, to keep you company. To be your friend.”

BB-8 trolled softly, rolling a little closer. Poe eyed him warily, but the droid didn’t press further.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Kes said, standing. “But BB-8’s here for you. Give him a chance.”

BB-8 didn’t leave Poe’s side.

At first, Poe ignored him. When the droid tried to engage him with cheerful beeps or small tricks, Poe would turn away. But BB-8 wasn’t discouraged. The little droid had been programmed with patience and persistence, and he used both.

One evening, BB-8 followed Poe into the jungle as the boy wandered aimlessly, his head bowed. The droid rolled beside him silently, only chirping softly when Poe stumbled on a root.

Poe paused his walk. “Why are you following me?” He demanded, spinning around to glare at the droid trailing behind him.

BB-8 let out a sequence of beeps that translated roughly to, Because you need me.

Poe’s scowl deepened. “I don’t. Go back to the garage or something. Leave me alone!”

BB-8 let out a sarcastic whistle, a sound that practically oozed droid sass, before speeding up and deliberately rolling into Poe’s shin with a firm thud. He then spun in a tiny circle around him, this kid clearly needed some tough love to get the message. BB-8’s stance made it clear: You’re stuck with me, kid.

Poe stumbled back, staring at the droid with wide eyes. “Ow! What the—are you serious? You’re lucky my dad insists on keeping you around. If it were up to me, I’d leave you out here to rust!”

BB-8 responded with a smug, elongated chirp, leaning back slightly on his spherical body.

Go ahead. You’d miss me within an hour.

Poe groaned, running his hands over his face in frustration. “You’re the most annoying droid I’ve ever met. And I’ve met Chopper.”

BB-8 let out a dramatic warble of protest, offended by the comparison. His head swiveled: Take that back.

“I’m not taking it back! You’re annoying,” Poe shot back, his voice rising in exasperation.

BB-8 emitted a sequence of defiant beeps, the droid equivalent of, Fine. Say whatever you want, I’m staying. Without missing a beat, he continued rolling alongside Poe, as persistent as ever.

Poe groaned again, throwing his hands in the air as he resumed walking. “Unbelievable. You’re impossible.”

BB-8 chirped brightly, almost cheerfully, Glad you noticed.

BB-8’s beeps followed Poe as he wandered deeper into the forest, the droid a persistent presence just behind him. Poe sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused at how the little droid refused to leave him alone.

As they pushed through the dense underbrush, Poe’s eyes caught a flash of metal glinting through the green. A moment later, they came to a clearing where the remnants of an old X-wing cockpit lay half-buried in the dirt, vines creeping over its edges like a tangled web.

“Stars, this is amazing!” he whispered, a grin spreading across his face as he clambered inside. The seat was weathered, moss-covered, and the controls were worn, but to Poe, it was perfect. His small hands traced the familiar layout of the console, fingers brushing over switches and dials as if they might come alive at his touch. He sat down, imagining what it would feel like to fly—like his mom did in her own ship, racing among the stars, the hum of the engines beneath him. For a moment he felt at peace, in that cockpit, and something urged him to start talking, mostly to himself, but still aware of the fact that the droid could hear him.

“My mom taught me how to fly,” he said almost absentmindedly. His voice wavered, the words carried a weight too heavy for his little heart. “She used to say the sky, space was freedom.”

Poe’s lips curved into a faint smile as he brushed his fingers across the throttle. “She was amazing, you know? She’d let me sit in her lap while she flew. I could feel every little turn, every little bump. It was like the ship was alive. Like it was... part of her.”

BB-8 tilted his head and let out a soft beep, as if urging Poe to continue when he saw him struggling to speak again. Poe took a deep breath deciding that maybe he could trust the little round droid with his mom’s precious memories.

“She’d tell me stories about her missions—like this one time she out-flew three TIEs through an asteroid field. Dad always said she was crazy for trying it, but I thought she was the coolest.” Poe chuckled lightly. “She wasn’t scared of anything.”

The smile slipped from his face as his gaze drifted to the canopy of the cockpit, now cracked and clouded with age. “When she died...” His voice faltered. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the seat. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. One day she was here, and then... she wasn’t.”

His mind drifted to the memory of her funeral, a simple ceremony held around a fire on the jungle floor of Yavin IV. The night was warm, the fire crackling softly as the gathered pilots of Green Squadron shared stories of Shara Bey. It wasn’t the first time Poe had heard about her final mission, but hearing it from Captain L’ulo brought a sharp pain to his heart.

L’ulo had spoken hesitantly at first, his voice weighed down by the memory. He recounted the chaos of the mission, the near impossibility of holding their ground against the Empire’s relentless assault. “She wouldn’t leave until she’d done what she came for,” L’ulo had said, his hands tightening on the flight gloves he held. “She said the navigational data in the droids couldn’t fall into Imperial hands. We all tried to get her back to the ship, but then…” He trailed off, his gaze distant, fixed on the flames.

“We begged her to let us stay, to fight for her, but Shara... She was Shara. She wouldn’t let us risk ourselves for her. Told us to go. Ordered us to go.” The words came slower after that, his voice trembling. “And then... she told me something else. She said to tell Kes that she loved him. That he should kiss Poe for her the next time he saw him.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fire. L’ulo shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I have delivered a lot of messages, but I think this is the hardest I’ve ever done… I’m–sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Kes had turned away from the fire, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold himself together. Poe had felt frozen in place, the weight of his mother’s final message settled over him like a weight, heavy and suffocating, pulling at the edges of his heart. Even as L’ulo had finished speaking, and the others had started to share their own stories of Shara– with tales of laughter that could cheer up the mood, all Poe could think was how much he wished he could have been there, to hug her one last time, to tell her that he loved her too.

“Poe, come here.” Kes called for his son, his voice breaking. Poe came close to his father, shoulders slouching and his head tilted down.

Kes’s hands trembled as he reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, pulling out a small, silver ring that gleamed shinner than the stars that night. He cupped it in his palm, holding it out to Poe to take.

“This ring,” Kes said, “this was your mother’s. She wore it when she married me, and she always kept it on when she flew. She said it reminded her of what she was fighting for—us, the family she loved more than anything.” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat, eyes searching Poe’s face. “It’s yours now. To remember her by.”

Poe’s eyes widened as he took the ring, turning it over in his fingers, tracing the cool metal soft surface of it. Tears welled up, blurring the firelight before him as he slipped the ring around his neck, letting it rest against his chest where it felt right—close to his heart.

“Thank you, Dad,” he whispered, three words, it was the most Poe had spoken ever since the news of Shara’s passing had come to their ears. Kes’s eyes also glistened with tears as he pulled Poe into a tight embrace that felt like it lasted forever. After a moment, he pulled back just enough to press a kiss to Poe’s forehead, then stood, watching as his son remained at the fire, fingers clutching the ring against his chest.

The jungle seemed to hold its breath, the sounds of creatures and insects fading into the background. Poe’s face crumpled as tears welled up in his eyes. He buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. "I feel like... like there’s this big hole in me, and nothing fills it. I try to remember her face, her voice, but... it’s getting harder.” His words grew quieter, as if speaking them out loud might make the memories fade faster, anxiety making it harder for him to breathe. “I don’t want to forget her.”

BB-8 chirped softly, rolling closer until he was right beside the cockpit. He extended his small manipulator arm and poked gently at Poe’s arm. When Poe didn’t respond, BB-8 let out a deliberate sequence of exaggerated beeps.

Poe sniffled, lifting his head just enough to shoot BB-8 a questioning glance. “What now?”

BB-8 repeated the beeps, slower this time, and Poe blinked. “Wait... what? Did you just say... ‘Why did the droid cross the road?’”

BB-8 let out a series of triumphant whistles, delivering the punchline: Because it rolled with it!

A laugh burst out of Poe, sudden but cutting back his tears. “That’s so bad, BB-8. Like, terrible.”

BB-8 trilled proudly, And yet you’re laughing. He spun in place and bumped his dome against Poe’s arm playfully, making the boy laugh harder.

Poe wiped at his face with his sleeve, “You’re impossible” His tears mingled with a reluctant grin. “But... thanks.”

BB-8 gave a gentle chirp, a comforting sound that filled the silence like a warm hug. Poe reached out to rub the droid’s head, his heart a little lighter despite the ache that still lingered.

“You’d like her, you know,” Poe said quietly. “And Mom. She’d love you.”

From that moment, something shifted. Poe still didn’t talk much, but he stopped pushing BB-8 away. Slowly as their conversations grew more natural, filled with sarcasm and teasing, but also an unspoken warmth. Poe found himself trusting BB-8 in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone since losing his mother.

Weeks turned into months, and BB-8 became more than a companion—he became Poe’s anchor. The droid’s gentle persistence pulled him out of his shell, coaxing him to engage with the world again.

When Poe felt lost, BB-8 would roll ahead, guiding him through the jungle paths as if to remind him to keep moving. When Poe was restless, the droid would engage him in small tasks—repairing gadgets, organizing tools, or tinkering with scrap—quietly keeping his hands and mind busy.

On difficult nights, BB-8 would activate his tiny light projector, filling the room with soft, shifting patterns of starlight to create a sense of calm. When Poe woke from nightmares, gasping for air, BB-8 would roll to his bedside, nudge him gently, and Poe, still trembling, would place a hand on BB-8’s dome. And when sleep reclaimed him, BB-8 remained there—a constant, steady presence, guarding his peace through the night.

By the time Poe turned ten, he and BB-8 were inseparable. Together, they explored the galaxy of Poe’s imagination, flying pretend missions in the abandoned ship, building little trinkets at home or mapping out constellations on the jungle floor. BB-8’s programming evolved to meet Poe’s needs, adapting to the boy’s growing confidence and rekindled spark.

Kes often found them in the garage, a small, cluttered space attached to their home. It was a place Shara had once used to tinker with her A-wing’s auxiliary systems, and now it had become Poe’s workshop. The smell of lubricant and metal filled the air as Poe crouched beside BB-8, giving the droid an oil bath.

“Hold still,” Poe said, his voice animated. He held a rag as he worked a polishing cloth over BB-8’s rounded body. “You know, if we ever get into real trouble on a mission, you’re gonna need to be faster. We could mod your servos—make you the quickest droid in the Galaxy!”

BB-8 gave a hesitant chirp, tilting his head.

“Oh, come on, it’s not dangerous,” Poe insisted with a grin, not pausing in his work. “I mean, probably not. I’d test it first, of course.” He leaned back, squinting at a particularly stubborn smudge before rubbing it away.

“And speaking of missions, wait until you hear this new plan I have,” he continued, his excitement bubbling over. “Remember that old ship that’s buried? What if we start bringing the parts here? We could totally try to do some of the repairs ourselves. Grandpa can probably help us get replacements—or better yet, we could just borrow Dad’s ship now that he’s back. Do a quick trip to a scrap yard, grab a new computer, hyperdrive, everything we could need. I’ll make a list! We could sneak out at night—nobody would even notice. It’s totally safe, foolproof, and we get to build our own ship. What do you think?”

BB-8 trilled a skeptical response, his dome tilting dramatically ready to deliver a lecture You’re ridiculous. You’re ten. You cannot fly a ship by yourself. We are not going to a scrapyard. I’m not playing nanny. It’s not foolproof. It’s not doable. It’s hothead thinking.

Poe laughed, scrubbing at a streak of grease on BB-8’s dome. “What, you don’t think I could pull it off? I bet Mom would’ve let me try. She always said we’d build a ship together for me to fly—and that she’d let me do the testing, too.”

His voice softened, and his hands slowed, the cloth resting against BB-8’s dome. “And with all the stuff she taught me when she let me take laps? I think I’m ready to fly on my own, BB. Really.”

The playful banter faded, leaving behind a quiet stillness. Poe’s words lingered in the air, and with them came memories—flashes of Shara Bey’s face, radiant as she smiled down at him in the cockpit of her A-wing. He could almost hear her voice, warm and steady, guiding him as his small hands gripped the controls for the first time. “Feel the ship, Poe. Let it become part of you. Trust yourself.”

The ache inside of Poe returned, sharp and raw. No matter how many days passed, no matter how many distractions he found, that hollow place in his chest never fully healed. His heart? It would always belong to her, bound by every moment she’d spent teaching him, loving him, being everything to him.

Poe’s breath hitched as his hand slipped from BB-8’s dome to the small ring hanging from a metal cord around his neck. His fingers closed tightly around it, the cool metal grounding him. He stared at it, his vision blurred by unshed tears.

It had been hers—her wedding band, worn through countless battles, always a part of her even when she was far away. Now it was all he had left, a fragile connection to the warmth and love that once felt unbreakable.

His chest constricted, and a wave of dizziness swept over him. The memories came rushing back—her laughter, her steady voice, the comforting touch of her hand as it guided him. They swirled in his mind, overwhelming him, dragging him into the ache of her absence, his hands started shaking, the weight of feeling alone in a galaxy that suddenly felt too big, too quiet, threatening to drag him down.

BB-8 let out a soft, worried chirp, rolling closer to nudge him gently, a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone. The sound broke through the haze, Poe blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in his throat. BB-8 chirped again, this time a quick, deliberate sequence, trying to lift up the mood.

Poe froze, blinking. “Wait... what? Did you just say—‘What do you call a Wookiee with bad manners?’”

BB-8 let out a series of exaggerated beeps and whirs that were unmistakably the punchline: A Chew-bad-a.

Poe stared at him for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the room, shaking his head as the pain in his chest eased—just a little. “You’re ridiculous,” he said with a grin, rubbing at BB-8’s dome again. “But thanks, buddy. I needed that.”

BB-8 gave a proud whistle, spinning his dome. Poe wiped at his eyes, his laughter filling the garage.

“You’re impossible,” Poe said, shaking his head but smiling brightly. “Seriously, buddy, if you had ears, they’d fall off with all the junk I tell you. But you win in the dumb department, because you come up with things like that.”

Kes appeared in the doorway just in time to catch the tail end of the laughter. Arms crossed, he leaned against the frame, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched them. The boy who had once been so silent, his grief a heavy shadow, now talked nonstop to a droid who somehow understood exactly what he needed.

“You two throwing a party in here, and I didn’t get an invite?”

Poe turned, grinning as he wiped a smear of grease from his cheek. “Nah, no party, Dad. Just me and BB-8, talking about missions, but yeah, we’re just hanging out.”

BB-8 let out a small chirp, swiveling his head. He was trying to ask me to go to—

Poe cut him off before he announced his not so innocent plan “Shut it! You metal Batuuan clementine”

BB-8 emitted a sharp, offended beep at being compared to an orange fruit. He quickly extended his manipulator arm and poked Poe in the side.

“Stop! Stop!” Poe burst into laughter, trying to fend off the pokes as BB-8 persisted. But in his attempt to evade them, Poe accidentally knocked over a can of oil, spilling it onto the floor. “See what you did? Stop, BB!” he chuckled, wiping his hands on his grease-streaked pants.

Kes chuckled as he stepped forward. “I remember when you two didn't get along, now he’s got you wrapped around his circuits, kid.” He ruffled Poe’s hair, earning a half hearted groan of protest.

“Yeah, yeah, he is the best or whatever” Poe muttered with a grin as he headed towards the workbench and grabbed a rag to clean up the spill, leaving Kes alone with BB-8.

Kes knelt beside BB-8, placing a hand gently on the droid’s polished dome. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. “For taking care of him. For bringing him back to us.”

BB-8 chirped softly in response, tilting his dome slightly. It’s my job. And for Poe? I’ll do it anytime.

Kes smiled, patting the droid gently. “Well, you’re part of the family now. Don’t let him boss you around too much, though.”

BB-8 emitted a smug, drawn out beep, I’d like to see him try.

Kes laughed quietly, glancing toward his son, who was now diligently scrubbing the floor with a rag while muttering under his breath. For the first time in a long while, Kes felt a small, genuine warmth in his chest. They weren’t whole—but maybe, just maybe, they were starting to heal.

Years later, as Poe stood on the bridge of a Resistance cruiser with BB-8 by his side, they were moments away from taking off. They had just abandoned the Yavin 4 base after a First Order bombing, and Poe could see the planet shrinking in the distance, unsure if he would ever return home.

He thought back to all his time there—his home, his childhood, his family. Through all the stress and chaos that surrounded him, every battle, every loss, one constant remained: BB-8. had been there—a steadfast friend that reminded him of the resilience inside him, the one that his mother had instilled in him.

BB-8 rolled forward and bumped Poe’s shin, urging him toward the main platform where his X-wing awaited, ready to launch and join his squadron’s defense.

“Ow—do you always have to do that?” Poe groaned, rubbing his shin. BB-8 chirped urgently, insistent. “Rude? Don’t say that, and yes! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Poe strapped himself in and started running the preflight checks as fast as he could, trying to really focus on the task at hand. But there was still that nagging feeling of hopelessness that followed him around sometimes when things got tough. With the First Order on their heels, the pressure threatened to push him into a full-blown panic

BB-8, ever perceptive, sensed the shift in Poe’s demeanor. The droid beeped from the back of the ship, his sounds coming through the comms on Poe’s helmet. BB-8’s voice crackled through the comms, full of concern, Poe, you okay?

Poe blinked, the sudden question snapping him out of his reverie. He looked down at the controllers and switched some of them, swallowing the unease pooling in his chest. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, voice wavering just a little. “I’m fine, fine, go ahead with pre takeoff.”

Don’t you dare go back to that dark place. BB-8 insisted, not being convinced by his owner’s tone.

Poe took a deep breath, one that caught and held like it was the last one he’d have for a while. The weight in his chest lightened, if only for a moment, by the simple, unwavering presence of his droid. His shoulders rose and fell as he steadied himself, a tightness in his jaw relaxing. “No, I’m not going back there,” he said, more to himself than to BB-8.“I’m not.”

BB-8 let out a dramatic whistle, the kind that would have made Poe laugh if the moment had been different. Good. Because I’m tired of being a therapy droid, and you’re starting to test my patience.

Poe chuckled despite himself, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You’re more than a therapy droid, buddy.” He said as his x wing engines came to life, and the ship started going forward to take off. “You’re my family.”

Last Post of Poevember, I had a blast making stuff for my favourite pilot, thanks to all who supported Baby Poe stories and art, really means a lot to me!

HAPPY POEVEMBER! See you all next year!

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments are kindly appreciated!

@eyelessfaces @howellatme @ierofrnkk @silvernight-m @ingoldthewizard

@winniethewife @midgardian-witch @ominoose

#poe dameron #kes dameron #shara bey #starwars #star wars fan fiction #baby poe #poevember #poe star wars #bb8starwars #bb8 #poe fanart #star wars fanart #digital drawing #my art

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ilovejeongintoo · 8 months ago

Text

𝔽𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕎𝕒𝕪

!WARNING NSFW Content ahead! !MDNI!

Genre: Fantasy, Kitsune Mingi x Reader, Smut Wordcount: 3544 words Not proofread

I literally got this idea after making a bunch of Moodboards for Ateez and became kind of obsessed with creating more and more.

Summary: You get lost in the woods, trying to find a way out, you stumble upon something that you only believed existed in legends.

Almost tripping again, you adjusted your backpack for what felt like the nth time. You only wanted to go explore the woods near your grandparents’ lodge, being as it was the middle of summer, nothing bad could happen.

What you didn't account for was, how unfamiliar the terrain would be. You've been here countless of times before, summer vacation, festivities, get-togethers. But none of these dirt trails branched to the house.

It was only after listening through half a playlist and the sun shining even more brightly than when you first left, you noticed. You've tried basically everything, going back the way you think that you came from, marking trees and just straight up yelling for anyone that would be close.

Finally getting enough of all this walking and almost tearing a muscle in your ankle, you sat down on a big root coming up from an even bigger tree.

The sun was thankfully not shining directly onto your skin and frying you, but that didn't help all that much, considering that you were still covered in a thin sheen of your sweat.

Getting your water bottle out to try and calm your heart that wasn't just racing from the exhaustion of climbing a few hills, but also from finally realizing that you might be in actual trouble if you dont find a way back.

Leaning back against the tree with your head and closing your eyes, right hand still holding the open water bottle, you managed to relax a little.You opened them again when you heard a rustle in some bushes right next to you, looking into that direction, nothing was there, absolutely nothing.

Though the leaves rustled again, this time your eyes stayed on the foliage. Then it happened again and again. Curiosity was making your legs itch to go take a look as to whats making all that noise. You stood up, slipping off your backpack and closing that bottle. You slowly stepped up to side, reaching out for the plants planning to look what would be there, when something jumped out.

It startled you so badly, that it caused you to let out a loud shriek and tumble onto the floor. In a very ungraceful manner, great now your shorts were covered in dirt and sweat, just fantastic. You turned your head trying to catch a glimpse of what almost gave you a heart attack, and there it stood. A pure white fox, snow-white fur on display, not a speck of dirt. Which is weid considering it should be a wild animal. It stared right back when your eyes didn't move from its fluffly looking form, deep and dark eyes almost hypnotizing you.

Slowly you came to a sit on your haunches, your knees still touching the natural floor, as to not startle the little thing. "Hey, it's okay, I'm sorry for startling you." You called out softly, as if it would somehow understand what you're saying. It continued to stare for a few beats before it turned with a quick whip of its head, running off.

You don't know what possessed you to do it but you immediately got you things not even putting it into your bag, holding it in your hand and going after the little pale fluffball. You were hoping that it didn’t run too far off, and you were right, just in the distance you saw it jumping and climbing a few rocks.

You put your whole body into following, trying not to lose sight of it. Though when it took an unexpected turn into more bushes you scrambled into the same ones a bit later. Instantly you stopped though, faced with a pretty shrine that looked in pretty good shape considering that it was in the middle of nowhere.

There was a long pathway made out of rock pads reaching just up to a flight of indigo-colored stairs. It looked like a traditional Japanese shrine, the ones you saw at historical attractions. From the curved roof to the straw looking walls, it felt so peaceful situated so deeply in the forest. The natural lighting of the sun gave it an almost mystical feel.

You went along the path, looking around your surroundings, taking in everything. Even the air here felt different. The stairs didn't even creek when you put your feet one after another up them. The sliding door in front of you looked very tempting, you paused your hand just before it. Hesitating if it was really such a good idea to go exploring a building like this, abandoned, even if it didn't look like it. Though you quickly shook that thought out of your head when you saw the sun now a deeper orange color gave you an answer.

You opened it, being greeted with the smell of tea, and… the white fox. It rested in a small ball of its own fur, curled into itself, seemingly asleep.

You put your bag down with one hand after quietly sliding the door shut. The inside was just what you expected of the room, traditional looking paintings hung on the wall, some compact plants. There was a round, maroon table situated just on the left of the foxling, it was clearly meant for sitting down at it and enjoying a cup of tea, since there were small utensils to drink and some sweets on a plate on top of it.

They were clearly used a moment before. You decided to wait here, hoping the person that got those snacks would shortly make their way back. Though after a few minutes or so, you grew bored quickly and tried to reach for the fur of the fluffiness next to you now. Though just before your fingertips could brush that same fur the door behind you opened with a loud noise. With it followed a loud scream, which made you yank your head in that direction.

You were greeted by the sight of a tall man, very tall as you dragged your eyes over him. That wasn't what surprised you the most, it was the black ears on top of his head that perfectly matched his hair that left you speechless. A coplayer? A pretty immersed cosplay as he was wearing a traditional Yukata. His outfit was well coordinated, as a whole, dark but it seemed to have lots of layers, or maybe he must have a lot of muscle.

"What the hell is a human doing here" His eyebrows furrowed as he took you in. Okay, now he was even playing up the speech. This was getting weird, no matter how good looking he was. You stood up, noticing the fox left and stayed at the man’s side.

"Hey look, I'm not here to cause any trouble. I got lost in the woods and that little dude over there-" You pointed to the fox, "led me here." "You can continue your little cosplay session, I just wanna ask where the nearest city is? Or if I could use the phone here, if there is one?" You looked around a little. Training your eyes back on him after not getting an answer from him after a while. He was still stood there… now just staring at you.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I'm not gonna fall for the "I'm lost" scheme, I know people like you."

Like you? What the hell was he going on about? Before you could respond he continued: "You people come here, trying to steal offerings, disrespecting a sacred place." He had his arms crossed now, just radiating an energy that told me to leave. So, you got your backpack, not willing to deal with a weirdo that's cosplaying in the woods and that thought he was some kind of god of this place.

"If you don't want to help, just say so. But I really need to get back to my family, so either you make this fast so I can be out of your hair faster orrrr, you can make this more difficult so I can stay longer." You were starting to get irritated with this guys’ attitude yourself. He gave you another scrutinizing look, trying to figure out if you were lying, before sighing and opening the door. One foot was out the door when he turned his head, jawline on display he asked, "Are you coming, or do you actually want me carry you back to civilization?"

You got the cue to pick up your backpack and followed him out. He even walked like he was straight out of a comic, hands behind his back, weirdly resembling an old grandpa.

Now that you were just keeping up with him, his legs making a big distance with each step, you got the chance to really look at him. Mostly straight only slightly arched dark eyebrows, that were complimented by small but feline looking eyes. And a sharp nose that led to a set of very plump pink lips, angular jaw and smooth skin. He looked more unreal by the second. You snapped out of your thoughts when you remembered, this was a full-grown man, and you were alone here with him. Besides his poor attitude to you kind of trespassing on his property, if it even belonged to him, he didn't seem all that bad. You could slowly start to recognize some flowers that you definitely remembered from your previous stays here, so he must be leading you in the right direction somewhat.

The silence was starting to kill you, kind of starting to feel bad for not trying to deescalate the situation before, now it was becoming awkward.

You pursed your lips before speaking "Look, I'm sorry that I interrupted you with whatever you were doing, clearly it was something important. I've been tracking these paths for hours and I just wanna get back to my house and have shower and get some food."

Your legs ached from the amount of walking you had been doing the whole day, now even more because you had to stay right next to him, to be able to make conversation.

"I'm sure you just wanna get back to taking your cosplay pictures or whatever roleplay you were doing before I showed up, you must get my frustration." You flailed your arms and breathed heavily. At that he fully stopped making you halt a few steps in front of him now.

"Cosplay? You think this is a costume I am wearing?" He let out a laugh and put both of his hands at his waist, which was tiny looking in the outfit and had you distracted for a moment.

"Okay look, enough with the weird behavior, it's one thing that you're wearing something straight out of a historical drama. The way you talk is as if you're fully convinced of being some sort of… I don’t know a fox spirit or anything like that." You shook your head.

He stepped towards you until he was just a step in front of you. He leaned towards you, staring right into your soul. You could smell him, he was that close, pine and straw. A strictly traditional scent. "Why don’t you convince yourself of how real I am dear? if you think I'm so crazy."

Okay he must have actually lost it, your eyes widened. He turned his head to give you better access to his "ears", further encouraging you to touch him.

If it would satisfy him, you'd do it. You reached one hand up, the other gripping your bag for dear life out of nervousness.

You grasped the one ear into your hand, caressing it after feeling how soft it felt. It felt like actual fur, even the inside had the feeling of it resembling skin, even from the looks of it, you couldn’t see a hairband or any clips that would fixate them on his head. You rubbed them until the base, making sure that they were real. You pull your hand back as if it had gotten burned. Stepping away from him backwards, your back hit a tree.

He wasn’t lying about it, He was not lying about it. "Convinced now?" He spoke up ripping you from your thoughts. "I'm the real deal, darling. Everything about me is real. And I make sure little humans like you don't disturb that sacred place I live in." He pointed at you when he said "humans" and then pointed back with his thumb the way that led to the shrine.

He took slow strides towards you, effectively trapping you against the tree. It made you catch your breath, looking up into his eyes from this close proximity, made it more intimidating. You felt something warm stir in your stomach., a tingling sensation.

Your face started heating up, your face for sure a soft pink now. "Now that you know this secret of mine and I should be leading you to your relatives, that deserves some kind of reward on my part, doesn't it?"

He said leaning into your neck breathily whispering. You could feel his lips brush against your skin from time to time. As the words came out of his mouth.

Your heartbeat was quickening by the second out of excitement and pure arousal. Your pupils were filling out and your mouth fell open a little, relaxed.

"I don't typically involve myself with humans but you're so small like a bunny, that it makes me want to devour you." "Makes me want to bury myself into you and see how much you can take"

He kissed your neck after sounding out the last word taking a soft hold of your nape and pulling himself from you a tiny amount, he met your orbs.

"Would you like that pretty? Hmm?" He was gazing down at you, the sheer difference in stature had you in a chokehold. You nodded not trusting your voice to make any non-embarrassing sounds.

"Mingi, that’s my name, remember it well" He said before this time leaning towards your face and kissing you. It was so soft, just how his lips looked. His other hand snuck up to your waist to have a firm grip on it, as he pulled your body more into his. You could feel the hard muscle underneath and you quickly put your hands on his shoulders, arms his neck.

It turned heavy immediately and you could feel Mingi nip on your bottom lip once in a while, when you were catching your breath. He pressed you more into the tree and that's when you felt something hard against your stomach. A shockwave went through your core, and it pulsed. Slicking you up, anticipating what was about to happen.

His big, veiny hand on your nape made its way down your body, to side, to your hip and then went along the waistband of your jean shorts. He popped the button open and slipped into you pants and panties in one swift move, caressing what was inside.

You felt yourself jolt a bit at the first contact, his hand a little cold but quickly warming up as he continued to massage your clit and labia. He moved his lips down to you neck again, kissing and sucking there. His hand never stopping and finally slipping a finger inside after getting a loud frustrated whine from you.

"Patience we have all the time in the world, why the rush?"

He quickly added a second one after pumping the first for quite a bit. You could feel the stretch a little and you were sweating a little from all the closeness combined with the hot weather. It went fast after that quickly adding a fourth finger and making you leak down the inside of your legs. You were so wet, so ready, you needed him inside you. His fingers could fill you up heavenly but his dick seemed to be even bigger hidden by the yukata, was an obvious bulge.

You reached for the tie around his robe, pulling on it and letting it fall open. Than going straight for the draw string as best as you could while Mingi was fingering you pussy to death. It fell down his legs and you couldn't help but admire his length a little, pretty that’s all you could describe it as. And long, it looked like it would just about to reach the perfect place.

If you weren't so intent on having him in your pussy right this second you would have gladly given him the greatest blow job on the dirty forest floor, but you were really just too desperately for that itch in you to get filled up.

You reached for his veiny shaft and planned to align him with you hold yourself. Shrugging your shorts further off of you tried to take him into your hand, just to be get your wrist grabbed by the man himself.

You whined, his fingers stopping their thrusting motion when he grabbed you with his other hand. "Not even going to ask? Pretty rude to me don't you think? Do you believe you deserve this after giving me such a hard time?" "Ask for it"

Your core clenched around his fingers. You were so out of breath from all the kissing and all your emotions were heightened. "Please Mingi, please"

"There you go~~" He smiled, eyes making little crescents and teeth poking out. You didn't even notice how he had aligned himself with your entrance and pushed in, until you felt that familiar stretch not just more. His fingers may have prepped you, but it’s still burned a tiny bit, adding to the pleasure of finally being filled.

He started thrusting in a stable rhythm hitting that spongy spot on your walls, he groaned every now and then. Gripping your waist with both hands he slid them down to your ass, pulling you in, mid thrust. Mingi then picked you up, hands on grasping the back of your knees, pushing you against the tree.

You moaned out loudly at the action, gripping his hair and pushing it back from his forehead, which was sweaty from exertion. Now you were looking down at him, as he thrusted his hips up into you and letting gravity pull you down onto him. Your high was approaching incredibly fast you kept chanting out little omgds and pleads. He changed his pace, making his thrusts harder and faster. He reached down as he noticed your moans picking up in volume, rubbing your clit to get you over that blissful edge.

You felt it build up for so long and then it snapped, you felt yourself tighten up and your toes curled, as your cunt pulsed over and over again. He kept moving throughout your orgasm making it last longer than it ever has before. When you clenched down on him you also felt something warm leak into you, filling you up further than you thought was even possible.

And his hips stuttered a little, groaning and panting against your ear. It took a few moments, but he didn’t directly put you down, he first looked at your face again and closed the distance again. A kiss much softer than the ones shared throughout this whole time.

And then he slipped himself out, you winced still sensitive from your orgasm. And you clung to his shoulders when he started to put your feet down on the grown, wobbly, and barely stable.

You felt his cum trickle out of you and down your thigh, slightly disgusted now. He made quick work of your clothes putting them on without words but a few kisses here and there.

You were still in a slight daze after the whole thing and Mingi woke you up with a gentle hand taking yours and leading you somewhere, which you didn't quite register.

"From here this little path goes straight to your house" You took in his words; this was indeed one of the pathways that would take you back. Now you didn't want to leave that badly anymore though. Grasping his hand, a little tighter in yours. And looking at the ground. "Hey, you'll see me again pretty. Anytime you’re here and ger lost, I’ll be sure to find you and get you safely back"

He pushed your chin up to look at him, his eyes looking a lot softer. "How do I- I mean how do I find you when I want to meet you and not get lost?" A little smirk pulled at his lips, and he said in a hushed tone: "I'll get to you, I'll know." In the distance you could hear your family yelling out to you, probably noticing that you've been missing for a while.

His words made you feel better, and you let go of his hand after stealing a quick kiss from his lips and running off into that direction. "I'll get back Mingi, I'll find my way to you!" You yelled with a big smile turning to him quickly and then back around to go run down the path to the house.

He kept smiling until he couldn't catch sight of you anymore and made his way back to his shrine. He muttered to himself:

"Oh, I know you will."

#song mingi #ateez mingi #ateez #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez smut #mingi smut #ateez fantasy au

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thefaiao · 5 months ago

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Hi, firstly I just wanted to say that I love your art, especially with the way you use dynamism and angles in character sketches. It's really beautiful and I always look forward to seeing more black and white pieces from you.

I just wanted to ask, as a beginner artist whose been drawing on and off from 2017 onwards and hasn't seen much improvement, are there any resources or books you would recommend for someone still trying to grasp form and shape? Especially in creating 3d forms with line? I'd love to be able to draw characters in a similar way that you do but my cubes and cones never seem to come out correctly and humanoid shapes are even tougher. Thanks again for sharing your art.

Hello! Thank you very much for the compliments. Up until somewhat recently the B&W pieces were my favorite things to draw, so I get you. I did fall in love with coloring eventually though.

Alright, there are lots of things that can be done. I have had some classical training, and done human figure studies live, but honestly not nearly as much as I probably should have. You definitely should still do figure study as much as possible, especially in person. I'm just prefacing to say it may not get you to draw the way I draw I suppose, as its only part of what I've done to improve my drawing ability.

There are a few good resources to start with, notably the Loomis method, which a lot of artists use as a base. That's how you should use it too, ideally. It's not about copying his work exactly, it's about understanding just how the human body is proportioned, and adapting it from there. It doesn't have to define your thinking, it's just a good guideline. It's possible to structure a body quite differently than Loomis (and there are many many books for that), but the truth, which is, the proportions of the human body, is still there in all mindsets. Once you understand that, you can understand the reason for each approach, and even forego them to express something more unique, abstract and visceral.

The biggest thing you should do though, is always be observing the world around you, both online and offline. Figure studies are nice but they remove one of the most important things, and that is context. I find that people who will use those large libraries from people who pose professionally with bows and swords and the like will often draw technically impressive images, but they still feel like a fake pose. It doesn't feel like the person is holding onto the weapon like their life depended on it, or like they have a relationship with the object, that they pose and move in a certain way that reflects their personality. Live study with strangers helps rectify this somewhat.

Online you should also be following lots and lots of different artists! Don't limit yourself, pay attention to how they construct their drawings, how they go about things. It's important you follow a lot of people, see how they evolve. They are not only a point in time, they are also learning and evolving just like you. It's especially good if you can have artists friends to draw and share stuff with. I have a deep-seated belief that we draw art for others, to express ourselves to them, so they need to see it.

It may sound weird for me to say if you want to draw like me try to draw unlike me, but I'm just saying what I've done. I follow a lot of people and draw from a lot of places. Ultimately the main appeal of my forms is their dynamism and volume as you've said, but it's good to be versatile so you can always explore new avenues!

Now, you've done all these things, you are practicing them constantly. Now is the most important part. Keep drawing!!! Just keep drawing no matter what, no matter how bad you think it looks. You have to believe you have something to say, to express, no matter what. You say you haven't improved, but I don't believe you! Maybe you are faster, maybe your technique is better, maybe you have better habits, maybe you are a little more patient. There are a million ways to improve which don't even appear in the image. You have to keep drawing, NO MATTER WHAT!!! You have to believe you were born to do this and you will do it well, don't worry about what others think.

I can only draw such dynamic forms because I have kept drawing and masticating and elaborating this idea that is called my style. When you are drawing you are developing your own little language, and only when you are fluent you can start writing good books with it. Being fluent will take many years, you must accept that. If you take breaks, take breaks so you can keep drawing later. Take care of your health so you can keep drawing. You will only get to see your drawings become beautiful if you live long. To live a long and healthy life is to keep drawing.

That is my ultimate advice really, let that frustration build up, but keep drawing anyway. You will force yourself to find solutions to release that frustration as you do so, and improve. Maybe it's simple, but it's the only thing that is true no matter what. Don't worry about AI or whatever, none of that matters. Just keep drawing!

#talking

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victimeyez · 5 months ago

Text

Pity Party

Chapter 18 of Professional//Victim - Masterlist

Tommy celebrates his 30th birthday, five years after his capture. But it's his party, and he can cry if he wants to.

Content warnings in the tags.

_____________________________________________________________

At the top of the stairs Tommy stopped, frozen, the blood draining from his face. His chest had seized, and he only remembered to breathe again when Caius gave him a thump on the back.

He was forcibly turned by his shoulders back to face Caius, starting to hyperventilate while anxiety paralyzed him.

“Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

Tommy wheezed, barely able to drag his eyes from the scene. The best he could manage was a fuzzy, unfocused stare towards Caius’s mouth. No eyes, just the mouth, just the mouth that told him what to do.

“You don’t have to think about it. Stop making things harder for yourself all of the time. I will guide you, focus on that lifeline. You’re going to sit at the table, and you will be courteous, and gracious, and you’ll get the fuck over yourself for once and enjoy it. Play along. Show me you can do that.”

Tommy was seized with a violent coughing fit, doubling over. His eyes watered and he struggled to breathe, gagging on the air he did manage to get in.

“Jesus christ Tommy, this is not what is going to do you in. You have gone through the fire too many times to be getting this choked up over some cake. You’re too old for this shit.”

Even Caius winced a little at the last line, realizing a moment too late the poignancy of drawing attention to his age.

Something about it struck Tommy as funny. He couldn’t say what, but it stopped his panic attack in its tracks suddenly, like flicking a switch. He felt slightly dazed, surprised by his own sudden drop. A long, silent moment passed between them before Caius’s hand returned to his shoulder.

“Thatta’ boy. Come on, come.” He guided Tommy to the table, but he handled him with a light touch. Tommy was feeling quite delicate himself, like porcelain worn thin from years of use. Whatever stopcork was blocking his meltdown, he felt like it could slip at any moment.

His total guests consisted of Caius, Rory, and Sam. Tommy sat at the head of the table, feeling distinctly small. He felt a little heady, suddenly exhausted from the rush of emotions. He idly felt the top of his head, half expecting a birthday hat to be perched on top. If anything, he had expected streamers, balloons, some mockery of a little kid’s birthday party – Courtesy of the nearest dollar store, for sure.

Instead, it was…actually kind of nice. They usually left the table bare for use, but the wood was dressed in a clean, cream colored tablecloth. He rubbed the edge of it absently, feeling the material thick and silky in his dry hands. The table was set with paper plates and plastic cutlery, of course, but cloth napkins were rolled and tied with ocean blue ribbons, folding in a few sprigs each of dried lavender for decor. Plastic champagne flutes at each place were filled with a light golden bubbly. The cake in the center was of a smooth, light purple frosting, freckled with real vanilla bean. The top was decorated with a few more sprigs of lavender, sweet and simple.

“Michelle couldn’t make it, so he made your breakfast. We have a few things for you today, though.” Caius told him with a serene smile.

Sam smiled a mean smile, and slid him a card.

“Yeah, Tommy, just a chill day with the boys,” he agreed.

Tommy looked to Caius, who nodded meaningfully.

Play your part.

Tommy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to reset the scene in his head before opening the envelope. Inside was an oddly shaped card featuring Dora the Explorer.

YOU’RE 3o! She exclaimed in the speech bubble. Or rather, she said, YOU’RE 3! But Sam had sharpied in a quick 0 after the three.

It actually made Tommy chuckle, even though he felt like cracking a smile might crack him in half. It was so perfectly stupid, and honestly much closer to the party he had been expecting. Open humiliation and cruelty was far more familiar territory than when Caius pretended to be nice.

He opened it, and a five dollar bill fell out. Inside, the original message printed in the card was scribbled out, and a brief handwritten note was penned in.

Towards your retirement.

He assumed the abstract swirl afterwards somehow spelled out Sam’s name. He chuckled in spite of himself.

“Wow Sam, uh, your terrible handwriting is the first proof I’ve seen that you’re a real doctor.”

Caius and Rory laughed, sharing a brief look of surprise. Sam made a sour face, but when Caius gave him a playful push to his shoulder, he broke into a tense grin.

Tommy took a sip of his champagne, hoping it wasn’t obvious his hand was shaking. It was shockingly sweet, reminding him of some off-brand Halloween candy from his youth.

“Open Rory’s next,” Caius encouraged, reaching over to push the only other envelope slightly closer to him.

Tommy tore it open, fumbling it slightly before he pulled the card free.

The front of the card featured a picture of an elderly woman standing in a cucumber patch. She was smiling proudly, holding aloft a massive cucumber that had grown into a conspicuously phallic shape.

Underneath, a text box said, “Hoping your BIGGEST wish comes your way this year!”

“Oh my god, he’s blushing!” Rory laughed, and Tommy covered his mouth with his hand nervously. He flicked the card open with his thumb.

Don’t take shit so seriously

Never turn down a joint

Hit the gym

Work hard, play hard

Keto will give you the runs

The list was penned in by hand. Rory leaned over, stealing a peek inside, and groaned.

“Shit. I forgot I wrote that. Caius was saying something about - imparting wisdom for turning thirty. I guess most of that doesn’t really, uh…apply here, exactly. Seriously though, fuck keto. Never again.”

A friend has given you a funny card. He’s…a loveable scamp. Probably a fan favorite. Tommy’s Life is filmed before a live studio audience. Queue the tinned laughter.

Oh, that ol’ Rory!

Tommy chuckled, smiled.

“It’s great, thank you.”

He set it aside and sipped his champagne. He felt warm. He didn’t think he was throwing it back that hard, but it was drained before he realized.

Tommy pulled it away and looked at it in surprise. He supposed it was a pretty small flute. He realized he’d never actually drank champagne out of a champagne glass, just out of the bottle, passed around the circle with the band after their EP release show.

God, he hadn’t thought about that in ages. It hit him with such a strong nostalgia,a longing for just sitting on the couch with the missing leg in Greg’s apartment. G’s cat had shredded the shit out of the whole side of it, and it was worn down to a soft fuzz.

They had this great recording of Greg yelling at Mr. Meow Meow for clawing at it again, right at the end of the song, and Jazz totally losing it in a fit of giggles. They’d left it in, all of it, letting it finish out their five song EP. Fuck, which song was that?

“I’ll get you a refill, bud.”

Sam interrupted his little flashback by snatching the plastic flute out of his hand. Tommy realized he had tears in his eyes, and wiped at them with his sleeve self consciously.

Just allergies. The show goes on.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. Caius gave him an approving thumbs up. Tommy smiled weakly back and cleared the thickness from his throat.

Sam put on some music while he was up, and something emo started playing.

“What kind of music would you like to listen to, Tommy?” Caius interjected pointedly. Sam scowled at him.

He was tempted to say it doesn’t matter, but he had limited access to music. Caius gave him an odd assortment of tapes and records, even some CD’s, but he knew the most recent one was from 2010.

It’s my birthday, and I’ve got the aux.

“I used to - I like Bad Guys Win. Have they put out anything since Strander?”

Sam groaned, but Caius promised they would check. He gave Sam a meaningful look, and he dutifully changed the track.

It was a little distracting, because Tommy really wanted to listen to it in silence, but he managed. They chatted idly and drank champagne. They stuck to safe topics - things that didn’t involve work talk.

Tommy’s favorite was when they told him about horror movies he hadn’t seen. Sam described the entire movie The Human Centipede, much to Tommy’s grossed-out delight and Caius’s grossed-out chagrin.

Rory insisted on cutting the cake, cursing as he attempted to saw through it with a plastic butter knife. He rustled through some drawers in the kitchen before proudly holding a trowel-like utensil aloft.

“We are using a cake server proper. These bitches work pretty good for pizza, too,” he announced to his audience, before using it to deliver an enormous slice of the cake onto Tommy’s plate. Tommy stared at it wide-eyed, the mountain of fine pastry set before him. He didn’t usually even get lunch, and breakfast had already been too good to be true. He knew the sugar might make him sick at this point, but he had zero qualms about the stomachache being worth it.

He needed something in his stomach, anyway. He was nursing his third glass of champagne, and while he didn’t think the alcohol content could be very high, he was already feeling it. His face felt very warm and flushed, and he felt like his heart was pounding, even though he was about as safe as he could be here.

Current threat levels: low.

The cake was sweet, but well balanced, the herbal taste of the lavender sweetened with a bright vanilla mascarpone that melted in his mouth. It’s not something he probably would have picked on his own, but it was delicious. The other guys appreciated it too, and Caius recommended the pastry shop he’d gotten it from. Tommy forgot it as soon as he heard it - it wasn’t like he’d be visiting.

Sam moved to top off Tommy’s glass, but he raised a hand to pause him.

“I think I’ll just have some water, please.”

“I’m not going to let you be a lightweight for your birthday,” Sam teased easily, and whisked away his cup in spite of his protests.

Tommy sucked the frosting from his spoon, lifting a hand absentmindedly to his forehead. He did feel warm. Just his luck to get sick on his birthday. No, it must be the alcohol and the sugar, it made him jittery.

Caius noticed he hadn’t finished his piece of cake.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no it’s very good. I think I might just, uh, be getting a little bit of a sugar rush here.” He gave Caius a sheepish smile.

His lips felt oddly numb, and he had a sudden feeling of dizziness.

“Honestly? Worth the diabetes, or whatever,” Rory piped in.

Sam poured shots of whiskey for them all. Tommy stared at the russet potion, and nausea ate at his stomach just from the smell. He pushed it away from himself without thinking, turning his nose.

God, has whiskey always smelled this bad? What the hell is this stuff?

“Oh come on Tommy, it’s good stuff. Try it,” Sam encouraged, tipping his own back in one oversized shot.

Actually, he was very nauseous, and the room suddenly seemed so bright, he had to squint.

“I have the last couple of preparations to do. You boys behave!” Caius told them, givinf a wave as he left for the stairs.

“Wait,” Tommy whispered, but Caius was gone. His stomach clenched with anxiety.

Don’t leave me alone with Sam.

Sam leaned over at the table, leering at him.

“What’s wrong? Not feeling well?”

“‘M drunk,” Tommy tried weakly. “I just need to lay down, I think, could you-”

“You’re not thinking very clearly. You just need a little hair from the dog who bit ya.” Sam slid his whiskey closer to him. He positively oozed smugness, and Tommy had a strong sense that he was playing into a cruel joke he hadn’t picked up on yet.

The room felt hot. He pulled his shirt out from his chest and realized he was sweating. The temperature had felt fine before, but somehow it now felt sweltering.

“Jee Tommy, you don’t look so good. Too much freedom for you, buddy?”

“Was the cake an edible or something?” Tommy managed.

“Like I'd waste good weed on you. You’re just being a spazz.”

Tommy squinted against a particularly bright spot in his vision, off of the-

The cake server.

The cake server was metal.

Blunt, and thin, but it was real metal.

“Knock it off.”

They both turned when Rory spoke. His hand was clenched around his whiskey, glowering at Sam, who spat back.

“Take a joke man. Have a seat until your number is called.”

“Let Tommy have his day, man. Caius put this together, you don’t want to piss him off.”

Sam laughed harshly, turning fully towards Rory. Tommy was grateful for the respite from his attention, but he didn’t want to be caught in the middle of them any more. Sam was not deterred.

“Hey Rory, we’re sharing stories. Tell me that one again, about how you got kicked out of Yale. How much did that one cost your daddy?”

“A lot less than medical school and a string of malpractice lawsuits, I’ll tell you that. You would know all about that though, Doctor – I’m sorry, Mister Snow.”

Uh oh. Honestly, it was amazing they’d gotten along for a few hours. Usually, they just skipped right to the dick measuring contest.

Where the fuck was Caius?

“I’m gonna go see if Caius needs help,” Tommy mumbled, trying not to interrupt too much, but knowing an attempt at a silent exit would only stir them up. He started to stand, pushing himself up from his hands on the table to rise.

He just wasn’t fast enough.

He’d barely started to turn away before Sam’s hand grabbed his wrist and yanked, pulling him closer instead, and knocking over Tommy’s untouched whiskey in the process.

“Tommy, you’re my patient, you know I’m a good doctor. If I wasn’t, you’d be one hell of a Freddy Krueger looking motherfucker, wouldn’t you?”

The spilled plastic cup rolled in a semicircle, a pool of pungent whiskey soaking into that soft cream tablecloth. There was something wrong, though, a streak of color clouding the liquid.

“-Tommy?”

His heart was pounding in his ears. His head throbbed along with it. He picked up the goblet with the hand that wasn’t being crushed in Sam’s fist, and held it up to the light.

There. Just a little, in the bottom. A pink, chalky residue - all that was left undissolved of whatever Sam had slipped into his drink.

Thud thud thud thud thud - his heart was beating so loud and so fast, his chest ached.

Rory seemed to put it together at the same time.

“What the fuck-”

Sam wrenched Tommy over, his body pressing against his, too close, too hot.

“Look at the fucking mess you’re making!” he hissed, his voice dangerously close.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE ME?!” Tommy shouted into his face, helpless tears spilling over.

“Your birthday gift.”

Fuck, he was cracking, all the grief and anger he’d held back erupting all at once.

Tommy shoved at his chest, ripping free just to make it two steps before Sam dragged him back by the arm, and then by a hand in his hair, and the room tilted crazily around him. Tommy’s head exploded in pain as he was slammed against the table’s surface, the cloth runner little comfort as his face was ground into the whiskey soaked linen.

“It’s okay Tommy, I’ll just fix it! Like I always fucking do. You know what would fix you, Tommy? A fucking lobotomy. I think I’ll schedule the operation with your owner today, yeah!” Sam’s voice was slightly slurred. One thing he had in common with Rory – he was a mean drunk.

The impact had dazed Tommy a moment too long, and his resistance was weak when Sam flipped him, bending him backwards over the table and pinning him by his hands around his throat.

Rory was shouting something, but Tommy couldn’t make sense of it. The light above him was blinding, he couldn’t breathe – he thought his head would burst from the pressure of Sam’s hands digging in under his jaw. He clawed at his wrists uselessly while Rory backed away from the table.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING MAN? HE WASN’T EVEN DOING ANYTHING YOU PSYCHOPATHIC–”

Tommy could hear him, faintly, barking and barking, but he was only moving further away from them.

HELP ME, HELP ME-

With unbreakable will, Tommy released his grip on Sam’s wrist and raised a hand above his head, feeling blindly along the table. Nothing, nothing - and then his hand sank into the gooey remains of his cake, ruined now under his fingers.

“I’m gonna put a hole, right here–” Sam jabbed at the inner corner of his eye, forcing it closed as he twisted his finger hard against his sinus, miming screwing something into him.

Tommy’s fist closed around the handle of the cake server.

“-And I’m gonna carve the thirty-year-old loser right out of your body.”

Tommy drove it into the top of Sam’s hand curled around his throat.

Sam shrieked, dropping him immediately, but Tommy stabbed it again into his chest. Sam stumbled back, but Tommy was a live wire now, righting himself before the rush of blood back to his brain could even catch up with him. He swung his weapon down at Sam’s chest again, another hit narrowly missing with a wild slash as the good doctor retreated.

Rory finally lept into action, hooking his arm around Tommy’s at the end of his arcing strike, halting his attack. Sam was back on him in a second, pinning him back over the table with his arm barred across Tommy’s throat. Tommy gnashed his teeth, trying to struggle out from under Sam, as Rory tore at his frosting-covered grip on the cake server.

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE?!”

At the sound of Caius’s voice, Tommy’s resistance abandoned him. He went limp under Sam, and Rory pried the cake server from his fingers. Sam let him up and he took an agonizing breath in, falling to the floor when the other man stepped back. He curled into a ball on the ground, screaming uncontrollable sobs into his hands.

The other three shared a moment of stunned silence. Caius threw his hands up in bewilderment.

“Didn’t I tell you all to behave?!”

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slighlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @paperprinxe

Thank you all so much for reading, I cannot tell you what it means to me.

#professional//victim #captive whumpee #emotional whump #noncon drugging #pushing alcohol #choking #improvised weapons #stabbing…sort of

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