#first appearance specter of the past

[swtechspecs]

Empire of the Hand Nssis-Class Clawcraft

Source: The New Essential Guide to Vehicles and Vessels (Del Rey, 2003)

[bitchlessdino]

boo-ty call 👻 (m)

Pairing: perverted ghost!jeonghan x cute neighbor!seungkwan x afab!reader Genre: supernatural comedy, smut Word count: 11.1k tags: a lot of puns, human body possession (con and dubcon), threesome by definition if you count a ghost, mention of food, cunnilingus, some degrading (slut), light spanking, unprotected sex Summary: As far as unwanted roommates go, your ghostly companion was one you never anticipated. But when this specter began to assert himself and meddle in your dating life—or lack thereof—you started to reconsider your stance; maybe having a roommate wasn’t so bad after all. Especially if he's helping you get laid. author note: it's sluttober! when did i last write anything and have it posted. that's crazy sorry about that yall, but i'm really trying my best to be more active, but ngl its hard. life really gets in the way and we have to remind ourselves to take a back sometimes, even from our hobbies. Thank you to @multi-kpop-fanfics and @seokgyuu for beta reading and helping me perfect this masterpiece and thank you to you guys for your patience. Enjoy! Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @kyeomiis @wonwooz1-blog @horanghaezone

You should’ve known better than to find an apartment listing in the same place where people get lied to about the types of dogs they’re buying. To this day, your aunt is convinced her Chorkie is supposed to be pure Maltese.

Meanwhile, you’re about 99.999% sure your apartment is haunted, and whatever ghost this was, they really liked stealing your underwear. It should’ve scared you. It should’ve driven you away and rushed you out to find a newer, less haunted place to live. But it was cheap, fully furnished, and came with a walkable laundromat and a family-owned market with homegrown tomatoes. Nothing could beat that.

You could tolerate it. It was better than mooching off your parents, who ask every five minutes when you’ll get a 'real' job. Living away from your parents was necessary for your sanity and a dead pervert is much preferable to a live one.

“Can you fucking stop leaving the bathroom light on? I get that haunting is your job and all, but you’re not the one paying the electricity bill.”

If anyone could see you talking to thin air right now, they would’ve had you committed.

“And while we’re at it, could you stop stealing the lacy underwear? They’re gifts, and I don’t wear them, but I might someday, so leave me the option!”

The hallway light flickered before it finally stopped and swift air breezed past you in response, but no returning underwear. You let out a frustrated sigh and shove the rest of your dirty clothes into the hamper before proceeding with laundry day. 

You’ve never seen any part of them, yet you’re always aware of their presence. It was creepy at first, but that quickly turned into annoyance when you realized how limited their grasp on the living world truly was—just a bit of theft and light tinkering. It was manageable, but you still felt uneasy knowing you couldn’t change without feeling watched.

“I’ll be back. Don’t piss me off more when I do. It is not my week.”

Not a day had passed since you two became acquainted that he didn’t find some way to bother you, but there were definite perks to living in hell’s best apartment lease. As your feet scraped across the tiled floor, the afternoon sun briefly flushed your skin, and a familiar flutter stirred in your chest as the thought of something popped into your head. Instead of the usual contempt, longing filled your chest as you made your way to the machine.

“What do we have today, m’dear?”

Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice, and you pretended to nonchalantly turn around, as if you hadn’t just spent several minutes hoping for his appearance. “Oh, you know, the usual—interview clothes, some sweatpants, and a few coffee-stained rags.”

Seungkwan’s lips curled into a soft chuckle, his laugh warm as he tossed his own laundry into the machine beside yours. “Sounds spicy. Mrs. Whirlpool is in for a gourmet meal today.”

He said the weirdest, most ridiculous things, but the real mystery was how you still ended up wanting to kiss him anyway. There was something about his easy smile, the effortless way he tossed his dress shirt into the machine like it was some kind of party trick.

He had a knack for brightening the atmosphere as if he possessed a magnetic otherworldly charm. Whenever you arrived, you couldn't help but wish he would be there, transforming the ordinary task of laundry into an intimate little affair—just the two of you amidst a heap of dirty clothes.

You observed him from the side, noting that his stack of clothes was noticeably smaller than usual. This made you question why he would wash such a small load. “Today isn't your regular laundry day. It’s usually Fridays and Mondays, isn't it? Today’s Thursday.”

The second the words left your mouth, you cringed internally. Great. Way to sound like a total stalker. Creep much?

Seungkwan cocked a smile. “I’m flattered you’ve memorized my laundry schedule.”

You laughed awkwardly, scrambling for cover. “I pass by here and just happen to have a really great memory.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, this might sound kind of gross and embarrassing, but I found these abandoned at the back of my closet. They’ve been there forever, and I had some extra change, so I figured, why not? You know, especially since I’ll be gone at the end of October.”

“You’ll be gone for Halloween?” Well, don’t sound too disappointed.

“Yeah,” Seungkwan said with a soft chuckle, glancing your way. “Family traditions. Can’t miss them. You know, the usual—handing out candy, our neighborhood haunted house contest, all that.”

“That sounds like so much fun. Way better than my Halloween growing up.” 

“Aw, thanks, but trust me, it’s way more chaotic than it sounds. Kids screaming, neighbors going overboard with decorations—it’s a lot." He shrugged as he folded his laundry, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his tone. “What about you? Got any plans?”

“Um… I’m not sure yet. Still figuring it out, I guess,” you answered earnestly, suddenly feeling like a loser with no plans–which you were by definition.

Seungkwan hesitated, his hands stilling mid-fold, the fabric dangling loosely between his fingers. You could see something flickering in his eyes—a jumble of thoughts swirling in his mind like a muddled cloud, visible in the furrow of his brow. “Oh. Well, um…” His voice trailed off, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he were battling whether or not to say what was really on his mind.

"What?" Your curiosity spiked, your heart quickening as you waited for him to continue. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, stretching the already lingering silence.

He quickly shook his head, offering a faint, almost apologetic smile before turning back to his laundry, his hands moving again, but less sure than before. “Nothing. Just—never mind.”

“Oh, okay.” The disappointment weighed on you, heavier than you wanted to admit. You glanced at the washing machines, trying to focus on the steady hum of the cycles, but your eyes kept drifting back to the numbers, slowly counting the seconds until the minutes ticked over, all while the silence between you grew louder.

You finished your load long before Seungkwan could wrap up his, the awkward tension of unfinished business hanging in the air like a thick fog. You glanced at him, hesitating for a moment before mustering a tight smile, trying to shake off the discomfort. “Well, that’s it for me. See you around, Seungkwan.”

He looked up from his laundry, the corners of his lips tugging down slightly. "See you, neighbor," he said, his tone laced with a hint of regret. The moment lingered in the air between you, thick with unspoken words, making it even harder to walk away.

With one last glance at his face, you stepped back, the soft chime of the door ringing behind you as you passed their glass doors.

As you walked  back toward your apartment, you couldn’t help but drop in confidence, thinking to yourself that maybe you didn’t deserve good things like cute laundromat boy. The hallway felt more confining than usual, the walls seeming to close in, echoing the insecure thoughts making rounds in your head.

You leaned against the cheaply painted walls of your cramped apartment, sliding down to sit on the floor with your head in your hands. It was just a childish crush—fleeting and meaningless—yet the thought of him going away scared you more than any real-life danger you'd ever faced. He was the only upside to moving to this part of town, the one thing that made the mundane feel even remotely worthwhile.

As you sat on the vinyl floor, you could still picture the sparkle in his eyes when he first opened those double doors, the warmth of his voice as he introduced himself. What had once been just laundry had turned into something to look forward to, a small break from the routine and a chance to brighten up your day in this sparse town. 

Maybe, if you were lucky, it could turn into a little small-town romance. But now, you couldn’t help but wonder if he even saw you beyond the casual pleasantries. Did he just see you as another neighbor, or maybe just a friendly face? 

The familiar flickering light in the kitchen pulled you back to the reality and up from the ground of your haunted apartment. With a frustrated sigh, you turned your attention to your unwanted roommate. “Yeah, yeah, I’m home,” you muttered, trying to shake off the feeling of melancholy.

As you walked toward the living room, the flickering lightbulbs in the lamps followed your path, their erratic dance a reminder of the presence that lingered in your space. Maybe getting rid of them wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. It could be a way to finally cut ties with the ghost that seemed determined to remind you of your solitude. You chuckled softly at the thought. Perhaps an exorcism could clear out both the ghost and all the pointless overthinking.

But that was a problem for another day. Rotting in bed sounded far more appealing right now. You shuffled into your room, the soft glow from the streetlamp spilling in through the window, casting faint shadows on the walls as the evening deepened. The coolness of the night crept in slowly, the faint hum of the city blending into the background.

As you sank into the familiar embrace of your blankets, the exhaustion in your limbs finally settled, but your mind lingered for a moment longer. You glanced outside, the dim light catching in the leaves of the trees below, and for a fleeting second were at peace. No ghosts, no old washers or dryers, no obsessive crush. Just sleep.

You sighed, pulling the covers tighter around you, letting the hum of old furnishing–and probably the old pervert ghost–as you drifted off into sleep.

Your rest was cut short by a full bladder, ready to burst. With heavy eyelids, you stumbled toward the bathroom, barely aware of your surroundings. As you relieved yourself, everything felt normal—the creaking of the bathroom door, the sporadic running of the faucet, and the occasional flickering of the lights above, indicating his restless presence.

You groaned, rubbing your eyes with your fists. “This wasn’t an invitation, Casper,” you muttered, irritation creeping into your voice.

As if to taunt you, the faucet suddenly turned on full blast, running wildly before shutting off completely, leaving you with nothing but the simmering annoyance bubbling inside of you. With a frustrated huff, you quickly flushed the toilet and turned to the mirror. The lone reflection staring back at you looked as tired as you felt.

With dark circles under your eyes and a complexion that could only be described as dull, it was starting to feel like you were one bad hair day away from getting "gave up" tattooed across your forehead. And suddenly you were wondering whether you looked more dead than the ghost.

Instead of wallowing more self-pity, you washed your hands under the running faucet. If the ghost wanted to bother you, it certainly wasn’t going to be about your hygiene. You kept that on lock.

You glanced back at the mirror and no longer were you alone. Instead, where your reflection should have been was the unsettling visage of your ghost, staring back at you with a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. His pale features were striking, almost ethereal, with an undeniable charm that twisted your gut. Those mischievous eyes sparkled with a playful malevolence.

Your ghost was attractive–strikingly so–and for some reason that made you dislike him even more.

You shot your shared reflection an unamused smile. “Was that supposed to scare me?”

His reflection chuckled, leaning over his sink to give you an unfiltered view of every extraordinary detail etched into his face like a sculpture. “What? I thought I could finally introduce myself.”

“After months of me already living here? I feel the moment has passed,” you shot back, crossing your arms in defiance.

“Well, I had to pass my own judgment, didn't I? Do you know how many coke-huffing, cheese puff-grubbing, athlete-foot-walking slobs I’ve encountered in my place of residence?” He leaned closer, his expression mockingly serious, the flickering light casting playful shadows across his sharp cheekbones.

“May I remind you that those people were renters? If they paid to be there, who were you to deny them that?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Like I didn’t pay when I was alive? Plus, Muriel definitely wasn’t paying, nor was Monty. They were beyond sketchy.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, clearly relishing the chance to air his grievances from beyond the grave. “Now that I think about it, there was definitely some laundry going on around here—and I’m not just talking about your underwear strewn all over the place.”

“Thanks for the reminder. Would you please leave the undergarments alone?” you replied, trying to keep the irritation from creeping into your voice as if you didn’t sound crazy enough talking into a mirror.

He shrugged nonchalantly, the flickering light casting shadows across his smirking face. “I will once you learn to toss them in the hamper like a normal humie. Upside to being dead: no laundry.”

“I don’t have to take this from someone who can’t even wear underwear anymore.”

“So you assumed I died without any on? How morbidly perverted of you.” His playful smile widened.

You scoffed, incredulous at the absurdity of the conversation you were having—with a ghost of all people.

“You know I’m right…I could sense your heart racing the moment you laid eyes on me,” he teased, a playful grin dancing across his lips as his jaw hung slightly slack in intrigue. His gaze swept over you, lingering on the way your breath caught in your throat, as if he were drinking in every detail, alive in the way his eyes glowed with mischief despite their soulless depths.

His ghostly figure was lean and toned, the contours of his form faintly visible like a lingering shadow, brimming with an energy that felt both alluring and infuriating. The flickering light cast an ethereal glow around him, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaws and the way his seemingly wet hair fell carelessly over his forehead. He leaned closer, the air thickening with a mix of annoyance and something dangerously enticing as if he relished the effect he had on you.

“Are you…flirting with me?” You couldn’t believe you had to ask, but the glint in his eye was undeniable.

“It’s not illegal. Not in the afterlife, anyway. Anything goes here.” He leaned back against the sink, bloodless veins pulsing against his forearms, enjoying the encounter more than he should.

“I…need sleep.” 

You peeled yourself away from the mirror, shaking your head in disbelief, and headed to bed without looking back. You slipped through the sheets, found comfort in their familiarity, and sighed, thinking you escaped.

“You know—”

“Jesus!” you burst out, your heart racing as you instinctively clutched your chest. Opening your eyes, you found the ghost looming above you, his expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. “What now?”

“Walking to a different room isn’t exactly a proper goodnight,” he said, crossing his arms over his spectral chest as if he were the arbiter of etiquette in the afterlife. His expression was mock-serious, and the playful glint in his eyes suggested he found the whole situation amusing.

“As if ghosts even sleep?” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“No, but it’s polite,” he replied, feigning indignation, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a barely contained grin.

“Is this going to keep happening? You annoy me until I scrape together enough money to move out, or, if I’m not fortunate, end up penniless and homeless,” you lamented, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you threw your hands up in frustration.

“You tell me.”

With a sigh, you shut your eyes again and threw the blanket over your head, seeking refuge. “At least save it for the morning.”

And the ghost did just that—he saved all of it for the morning, better yet the afternoon. Since that’s when you woke up anyways.

“Do people always eat breakfast past two p.m., or is that a recent trend from the last two decades?” his voice called, cutting through the haze of your half-sleep as you started to eat 

“How old are you even?” you mumbled, cereal gnashing between your teeth.

“Old enough to know that you need more than cereal to sustain a healthy human body.”

“Riveting,” you muttered sarcastically, sipping the milk from the bowl. “Next, you’ll tell me that ‘ghosting’ is a real thing in your realm, too.”

“Actually, it is,” he retorts, his presence somehow stronger than it was in front of a mirror, “Happen to be doing it right now. Having some fun.”

“Is that your idea of fun? Stalking me from beyond the grave?”

“Call it what you want, but I’m just trying to keep you company,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, like honey dripping from a spoon. “Besides, who else is going to breathe some life into your dull existence other than someone who’s already checked out of theirs?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms with a playful huff. “Great. Just what I need—my own ghostly life coach. What’s next? A seminar on the benefits of double-scrubbing the bathtub?

It was meaningless stuff, really. The kind of chatter that filled the air like background noise, a gentle distraction from the world outside your walls. Yet, for someone who was supposed to be dead, he had an uncanny knack for conversation, it only made you assume the type of person he was alive. He could turn the mundane into clear images, painting vivid pictures with his stories about the afterlife—or, more accurately, his gripes about it. Not that you asked for it, but, it was like being told a grand story. Stories you could not for the life of you stop listening to for some reason.

“Okay, ghostie—”

“Jeonghan,” he corrected. “Say it with me slowly. Jeong. Han.”

“Mmh, ghostie! I’ll be back after the laundry is done.”

“No way you’re saving money with how often you—”

“Bye bye, poltergeist!” You cut him off with a wave, stepping out with a load full of laundry.

You had noticed how quickly the days were slipping by, how time seemed to blur when you shared your space with someone—or rather, something—that could actually respond to you in real-time. It was a strange kind of companionship, one that made you forget just how much solitude had weighed on you before.

The passing days also reminded you just how much you needed a breather, to clear your head from this bizarre living arrangement. And somehow, your laundry had piled up, more than it ever should have for someone unemployed who barely left the house. It was odd. Almost like time itself was moving faster, dragging the mess along with it.

“Hey, right on schedule—Thursdays and every other Monday and today’s Monday..”

You almost forgot about Seungkwan amidst all the supernatural nonsense swirling around you, but seeing him brought back memories of your last encounter, and you quickly put on a smile. “Hey there! Look at you, recognizing my laundry schedule too.”

“Thought I’d return the favor since you were kind enough to remember mine. Hope that’s okay,” he replied, his tone light.

You piled your laundry into the machine, carefully measuring out some freshly opened detergent. “It is.”

“Okay… I just want to apologize for being weird the last time we talked,” he said, shifting slightly as he leaned against the machine, his expression turning a bit more serious. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” you assured him.

“I just… I don’t know.” He glanced down at the floor, his brows furrowing slightly. “My mind went blank, if I’m being honest.”

You smiled reassuringly. “I get that. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

He looked up, a playful grin spreading across his face. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Fuck. “It’s… just an expression.”

He leaned against his machine, his gaze fixed on you. “Didn’t deny it, though.”

You chuckled, feigning exasperation and mirroring his posture against your own machine. “You’re a lot more cocky than I realized, Mr. Seungkwan.”

“Do you like that?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were left speechless. Your mouth dropped open in surprise as your thoughts bounced from one corner of your mind to the other until finally, they found themselves running down between your legs in a new form of discomfort. “Umm…” 

You turned away for a moment, breathing to steady yourself, gently patting away your very alive heart.

“I made it weird again, didn’t I?” he said, his voice laced with a hint of regret.

You spun back around, shaking your head. “No. No! It just took me by surprise.”

“Sorry about that.” Not sounding all that sorry.

“That’s…more than I’m used to,” you admitted, a slight heat creeping onto your cheeks.

“Thank you?” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound brightening the air between you and making the moment feel lighter and more vibrant. Just then, the machine beeped, a sharp sound signaling that your clothes were done, pulling you away from the heated exchange.

A comfortable silence enveloped you both, but this time it felt different—like the crackling of kindling in the perfect moment when fireflies come out, illuminating the night as brightly as the stars in the sky. You exchanged a quiet glance, catching a glint reminiscent of those stars in his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the universe was telling you, ‘Hey, maybe there's something here.’

When you finally turned to leave, your smile was the biggest you’d ever had. And when he matched yours, it was like you had just won a bizarre lottery. You probably looked a bit unhinged, standing there grinning at nothing while swaying in the damp weather, but you didn’t care. The butterflies in your stomach danced happily, and you found yourself wishing you could hold on to this moment just a little longer, savoring the warmth it brought.

“You look happy.”

Not even the Ghostbusters’ final boss could ruin that for you.

“Cram it, Beetlejuice Lite,” you shot back, because although you’re in a good mood, you relished finding new names to call Jeonghan besides his own.

You hummed to yourself as you folded and neatly put away your clothes, feeling his cool, lingering presence behind you. He watched, like always—probably thinking up who put sugar in your cereal this morning for you to be in such an uppity mood.

“Well, I’ll be. You’re actually putting your clothes away like a functional human being?” His voice oozed mock surprise, but today, it just rolled right off you.

“Yep! Just felt like it,” you replied cheerfully, sliding the last of the shirts into your drawer with a satisfied nod.

“Strange. I thought laundry was your natural habitat now, seeing how often you’re in there… but I guess that’s thanks to a certain ‘living,’” 

You snapped your drawer shut, the sound echoing through the room as you whipped around to glare at him, immediately pulling you away from the happiness you felt not that long ago. “You—”

“Seungkwan, wasn’t it? Cute kid. Didn’t quite peg him as your type, though.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

Your eyes narrowed, heart doing an involuntary somersault. Of course, he’d noticed. He seemed to notice everything, like some twisted version of a nosy neighbor, only this one didn’t have the decency to keep his opinions to himself. You wanted to fire back, but your brain was moving a step too slow, still caught up on the casual way he dropped Seungkwan's name. How long had he been watching you both at the laundromat?

“You’re stalking me outside of the apartment now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My spirit may be bound to this place,” he replied with an air of nonchalance, “but my soul can roam as it pleases.”

“Spirit? Soul? Aren’t they the same thing?”

He tilted his head, giving you a patronizing smile. “Not quite. My soul travels freely, observing everything within a reasonable distance—it’s not tethered to the apartment like my spirit is. My spirit stays here, out of my control.”

“So, you spied on me just because you could?”

"Call it research. Gathering intel." He shrugged. "Besides, it's not like you were doing anything interesting."

"Oh, I'm so glad I could provide you with such riveting entertainment.”

You shook your head, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind you, only to have Jeonghan pass through it. "You know, for a ghost, you're surprisingly annoying."

"For a flesh-and-blood mortal, you're remarkably unfazed," he observes, his ethereal voice echoing slightly. "Most wouldn't last a day with my...unique brand of housekeeping."

You paused, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, well, I'm not most people."

“So,” he began, “about this Seungkwan guy…”

You stiffened, feeling your cheeks heat up. “What about him?”

“Just curious,” he replied casually, though there was a glint in his eyes. “He seems... nice.”

“He is,” you mumbled, suddenly finding your laundry far more interesting than the conversation again.

“And you like him?”

Your heart raced in your chest. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words almost sticking in your throat. “Maybe.”

“Does he like you?”

You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “…I don’t know yet.”

There was a beat of silence before he offered, “Want some help with that?”

“No. What? How would you even do that?” You narrowed your eyes, already regretting entertaining this conversation.

He started circling you, wearing a grin that screamed trouble, like a cat ready to pounce. “The only time my soul and spirit are truly joined,” he began in a low, conspiratorial tone, “is when I possess a body and take control of their flesh.”

You rolled your eyes. “Where is this going, Bloody Maury? Skip to the part that makes sense.”

He stopped directly in front of you, arms crossed. “Well, if you’re interested in ‘skipping to the good parts,’ I could possess your body. Help you say what’ll win over Seungkwan in no time.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why in the hell would I be dumb enough to let you do that?”

He snickered, leaning in with a smug look. “Because you’re desperate and haven’t slept with anyone the entire time we’ve lived together.”

“…You talk too much.”

“Think about it,” he continued, unbothered by your glare. “You’ve already got a foot in the door with him. You just need a little boost. I can help.”

You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “This sounds like some high-level scheme to take over my body. Then I’ll end up stuck sharing it with a ghost, screaming into the depths of my soul for eternity. Thanks, but no thanks.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve been watching too much supernatural TV. And besides, if I wanted to possess your body for good, I would’ve done it a long time ago. I do have some principles, you know. Consent and all.”

You shook your head, unimpressed. “Nope. I still can’t trust you, ghostie.”

Jeonghan, ever the persistent undead, didn’t know the meaning of giving up—and by now, you should’ve expected as much. And maybe, just maybe, his constant, incessant persuading was starting to wear you down. Sharing the same space day in and day out gave him the upper hand. He knew your quirks, your weak spots—the best and worst parts of you.

These past few days, you weren’t sure if you were going insane by agreeing with a ghost, or if he was actually starting to make some sense.

As you stared off at him, basking in the cool autumn air slipping through the balcony, you started to wonder if his intentions were not as venomous or malicious as you initially thought. There was a strange, quiet sadness in his eyes as if he longed for something he couldn’t put into words. Something that you couldn’t understand even if you tried.

“Am I really so pathetic that the ‘phantom reject’ is willing to help me with my love life?”

Jeonghan glanced at you with mild interest, noticing the way your curiosity had piqued. You sat comfortably on the couch, your elbow propped on the armrest, cheek nestled in your palm, as you observed him. He quietly approached, given that his feet were intangible and didn’t reach the ground, the silence was deafening and he lowered his head to level with you, staring back at you with so much intent it burned to feel his gaze.

He titled his head, brimming with pride. “Well, let’s just say I’ve never been rejected in my life. So.”

“You really think this’ll work for me?”you asked, skepticism lacing your tone.

“Of course,” he replied, with a grin. “You’ve got me.”

You were really considering it—letting a ghost help with your love life. Was this truly insane? Maybe. But it felt like it was worth a shot.

God, this was pathetic. And for once, you had something to be genuinely afraid of. And funny enough, it wasn’t possession. Until, well… maybe it was.

Life had never quite prepared you for this. Standing in your bedroom, surrounded by the overflowing pile of dirty clothes in the corner, you realized you’d put this off long enough—both the laundry and the body possession. You let out a shaky breath, glancing nervously from the mess to Jeonghan. 

His presence loomed, just as insistent as the neglected chores, and you had to steady yourself, mentally sorting through how you’d ended up in this bizarre situation. Laundry? Fine. Ghost possession? Not something you thought was possible. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to assess the ridiculousness of it all.

“Okay, Grim Peeper, let’s do this.”

Jeonghan chuckled softly as you tried, and failed, to shake off the nerves. His movements were deliberate as he approached, eyes narrowing in focus. He watched how the tension gripped your shoulders, the way your breath quickened despite your best efforts to stay calm. His presence felt heavier, and as he took his position in front of you, the air around him seemed to still. 

You could feel the weight of what was about to happen, the looming absurdity of it all. Jeonghan, who usually exuded a kind of careless charm, now looked oddly concentrated, as if he were preparing for something he rarely had the chance to do. His expression, though still smug, carried a certain gravity. But in all honesty, he wasn’t really sure what to expect.

“I’m about to make contact,” Jeonghan said, his tone unusually serious. “It’s going to feel a bit disorienting at first—like a cold shiver running down your spine. But after a few seconds, your mind will adjust, and it’ll feel like nothing ever happened. My voice will echo in your head, almost like it’s your own thoughts. I’ll let you know when it’s me taking control.”

His hands hovered over your shoulders, a ghostly chill brushing against your skin. For a split second, there was something oddly reassuring in his dead, sullen eyes. "You'll be okay. I promise, nothing will go wrong."

You sighed, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down. "Alright, I trust you." Then you glanced at him, a small smirk forming. "But seriously, what do you get out of all this? Helping me, I mean. I won’t judge... Boo-dini."

He let out a short laugh, tilting his head slightly as if considering how to answer. “I…want to remember what it’s like to feel alive again. See what I missed out on.”

“That’s fair,” you nodded, understandably.

“Expected more from me, humie?”

You shrugged. “Thought you’d have a deeper back story, but that’s fine.”

Jeonghan scoffed softly, giving you a teasing smirk before he began. In an instant, he was there—and then he wasn’t. The shift was so sudden it left you reeling. Just as he’d predicted, a shiver rippled down your spine, cold and unsettling. But what he hadn’t mentioned were the flashes of unfamiliar images that flickered behind your eyes, moments you’d never lived but somehow felt were real.

They came and went so fast, you couldn’t make sense of them—fleeting fragments of his past, perhaps, or echoes of something even older.

‘How are you?’ he voice said, interrupting your thoughts.

You quietly nodded, reassuring him.

‘Very well then. Your lead, dear host.’

You wandered into the laundromat with your overstuffed hamper, feeling a bit like a laundry pirate hauling treasure—or dirty socks—across the high seas. You’d made the executive–and rightfully cowardly–decision to skip your usual laundry day, and now it was leading up to this very moment. Jeonghan stayed mostly dormant in your body as you claimed an empty machine, the back of your head itchy knowing another being was sharing your body that has led you this far. And now it was going to lead you to get laid.

It was like clockwork. Any minute now, Seungkwan would stroll in, and Jeonghan would take over, handling all the nerve-wracking nonsense you'd rather avoid.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ his voice echoed, ‘I almost thought it was my own heart racing, then I remembered I’m dead.’

“Sorry,” you muttered softly under your breath, ignoring the supernatural’s attempt at a joke.

‘It’s fine. Everything will be fine.’

“I know,” you sighed.

“You know what?”

You spun around, facing Seungkwan, who’d entered with that casual, friendly energy you always admired. He smiled, raising an eyebrow at your startled expression.

"Seungkwan!" you blurted out, trying to push the embarrassment down as far as it would go.

“Hey, neighbor,” he greeted, already moving toward his machine, gently separating colors from whites. “How are you?”

“Good—Great! Why do you ask?”

He gave you a light shrug, glancing up with a playful grin. “Just sounded like you were talking to yourself.”

“Well, who doesn’t?” you quipped, trying to play it cool. “Sometimes thinking out loud helps clear the head noise, right?”

“Right,” he said, stretching with an amused smile, clearly entertained by your odd, jittery energy.

‘Wow, thank god you have me.’

You quietly cursed Jeonghan in your head for making this harder than it needed to be, before mustering up the nerve to approach Seungkwan, fingers nervously fidgeting.

"Hey, so... you mentioned you were going to be out of town for Halloween, right?"

Seungkwan looked up, surprised and then grinned. "You remembered! Yeah, what’s up?"

You hesitated for a second, feeling Jeonghan’s smug presence lingering somewhere in the back of your mind. "I thought..."

Seungkwan leaned casually against the now-humming washer, hands tucked in his pockets, his curious gaze fixed on you. "Yeah?"

You tried to keep your cool, but the moment the words "we could do something" left your mouth, your brain started to short-circuit. Seungkwan turned to you with that easygoing grin of his, waiting for you to elaborate, and you could already feel the awkwardness creeping in.

Jeonghan’s voice chimed in, ‘You’re fumbling. Let me take over.’

Before you could protest, the familiar shiver ran down your spine. Suddenly, everything felt distant—your limbs moved, but you weren't fully in control anymore.

Jeonghan’s smooth voice came out of your mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I was thinking, maybe we could hang out before you head out of town? You know, catch a movie, grab a drink, something low-key, say my place?"

Seungkwan's smile widened, surprised but clearly intrigued. "You want to hang out with me?”

Jeonghan, still in control of your voice, replied effortlessly, "Of course." Before you could even process what was happening, your feet began to move on their own, gliding across the floor like a spy on a secret mission. Jeonghan closed the distance between you and Seungkwan, and suddenly, your hands were fidgeting with the hem of Seungkwan's shirt. “I figure it’s a good excuse to steal some of your time before Halloween hits."

Your heart raced, and you mentally screamed at Jeonghan, Okay, okay, that’s enough! I can take it from here!

But he was on a roll. "Tomorrow?" Seungkwan asked, leaning casually against the washing machine, though the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot betrayed his nervousness. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

"Tomorrow’s perfect," Jeonghan responded smoothly, maintaining the effortless flow of the conversation. "I’ll text you the details."

With each word, your body felt like it was moving on autopilot, and while you were horrified by the lack of control, a part of you couldn't help but feel a rush of exhilaration. Jeonghan was nailing it, but the closeness to Seungkwan was almost too much to handle.

Suddenly, Seungkwan playfully entwined his fingers with yours, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through your hand, as his grin graced his face. Your eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, savoring the warmth of the connection. When you opened them, you found an unreadable expression on his face—intense and smoldering. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, his voice slightly softer now. “Looking forward to it.”

The way he held your gaze made your heart skip a beat, and for a moment, the world around you faded into a soft blur. Even though Jeonghan was in control, your thoughts tangled with the heat of the moment, coursing through you like a fever. 

As soon as Seungkwan turned away to his laundry with a lingering grin, Jeonghan released control, and the reins were back in your hands. You blinked, still a bit disoriented from the possession.

‘See? Easy,’ Jeonghan’s voice echoed smugly in your mind.

‘You’re impossible,’ you shot back.

‘But effective.’

That night, you tackled all the prep work you knew you needed to get done. It had been a while since you’d done anything like this, and you definitely had some dust bunnies and spiderwebs in your attic.

“Humie–oh.”

“Jeonghan! What the hell?” Your eyes flew open as you scrambled to pull the shower curtain over your bare legs, the chill of the water sending a shiver up your spine from the products strewn haphazardly at the edge of the sink. “Do you fucking mind?”

“Well, well. Look at you, all cleaned up. At least yourself, anyway. Can’t say the same for the bathroom floor—or that mountain of grooming products over there.”

You gripped your makeshift cover-up a little tighter, groaning in frustration. “Privacy, please! I barely have any as it is.”

“I’m just saying, I’m proud of you. Now, if you manage to sweep up after, I might even give you a round of applause.”

“Out!” you snapped, glaring.

He shrugged, turning to leave with an impish grin. “Hey, roommates catch each other with their pants down one way or another.”

If you weren’t already a bundle of nerves, Jeonghan was getting far too comfortable for your liking. Leading up to that night and the big day, he had been dishing out advice on everything from what to wear to what movie to play, right down to critiquing the meager food stock in your fridge.

“That’s it, you need to go grocery shopping.”

“I can't afford that right now!”

“Just get Instacart. I don’t care. This apartment is as bare-bones as it gets.”

“I have popcorn, soda, and some chocolate for Halloween when I'm giving them out.”

“First of all, popcorn isn’t actually food. Second, prebiotic soda doesn’t count as real soda. And if you can get chocolate, then you can definitely manage to buy some real groceries.”  

But just as you were about to respond, luck decided to abandon you with a sharp knock at the door. “No time!” you hissed, “now scr—oh, you’re already gone.”  

One moment he was there, and the next, he had vanished. Now, it was all on you, and nothing felt more nerve-wracking. You tugged your shorts down just enough to cover the rest of your bottom, anxiety buzzing in your chest. Your hand hovered over the doorknob as you took a deep breath, trying to muster some confidence before swinging it open to reveal who was waiting outside.

“Seungkwan, hey!”  

“Hey!” he grinned, his Halloween-themed vest adding a playful touch to his outfit as he juggled a couple of bags in his arms. “You didn’t ask, but I thought I’d surprise you with some food. Pumpkin-spiced spaghetti and meatballs.”  

“Oh, uhhh…”  

He burst into laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m just messing with you! It’s actually butternut squash gnocchi and some stuffed peppers that look like pumpkins.”  

“Oh, thank God! That sounds amazing.”  

“Yeah, it’s festive without going overboard.”  

You nodded in agreement, feeling a warm rush of relief. “Come in.”  

As you stepped aside to let him in, you couldn’t help but notice how wholesomely he was dressed compared to your casual attire. Suddenly, you felt a pang of self-consciousness.  

“I like your sweater,” you said, trying to mask your growing insecurity.  

He looked down, a hint of modesty crossing his face. “Yeah, I think it’s just the right amount of festive, but—”  

“It’s festive but not overboard,” you responded, playfully tossing his words right back at him.  

He grinned, “Exactly!”  

You smiled back, feeling a wave of warmth as Seungkwan's presence began to calm your nerves. As he settled into the familiar space of your apartment, you couldn’t help but discreetly scan the room for any signs of your ghoulish roommate. Half-relieved to find nothing, half-disappointed that your spectral “backup” was nowhere in sight, you let out a quiet sigh. And now it was just you—and the human you actually invited in.

Hesitantly, you eased into the spot next to him on the couch, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. Your hands were jittery as you picked up the remote, scrolling through the movies you’d lined up, your mind racing to figure out what to do next. 

You glanced at him, hoping for some sort of sign or direction, but the words caught in your throat. The longer you scrolled, the more painfully aware you became of the silence, as if it only heightened the nervous tension taking over your body, weirdly missing Jeonghan and how flawlessly he executed what he did yesterday.

"So, movies," you said, aiming the remote at the TV.

"Movies," he echoed, mimicking your tone.

“I mean,” You raised a brow. "What do you have in mind? And there is a right answer."

He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Alright, I love Halloween, but..."

"But?" you pressed, leaning in slightly.

"I... really can’t handle scary movies. Halloween Town is probably my limit."

"Halloween Town? The kids’ movie?"

"Hey, don’t knock it. They had great graphics!"

"They had awful graphics!" you shot back, incredulous.

He grinned, half-joking but clearly standing by his point. "Yeah, now. But for its time?”

You shook your head in playful disbelief, unable to hold back a smile. “You’re ridiculous. But fine, your choice.”

You were left with very few options. Seungkwan had suggested a few festive, family-friendly titles, but you managed to persuade him to consider a couple of mild thrillers—some stupid but perfectly on theme.

“The zombie version of Twilight? Seriously? Zombies?" he repeated, stressing the idea with disbelief.

You shrugged, smiling from his reaction. “You might like it.”

He dropped his head in defeat, cute little whines escaping his pursed lips. “Fine, but you’d better be my shield for this, okay, neighbor?” 

The movie began to play, the take-out boxes popped open, and your nerves were on high alert, vibrating like something else does on a normal Friday night for you. Except now, it was just you and the incredible realization that the man you're very much interested in was mere inches away. You were a fucking wreck.

Surprisingly, Seungkwan was genuinely enjoying the film, finding unexpected humor and charm in the cringeworthy blockbuster. His laughter was soothing and infectious, gradually easing your nerves until you started to feel normal again. Why were you like this?

Wait, you felt normal again, but what was normal?

Before you fully grasped what had happened in that fleeting moment of clarity, your hand made contact with Seungkwan, trailing lightly up his forearm. He immediately turned to face you, and your eyes locked, but suddenly they felt as if they belonged to someone else as if you were watching a different kind of film—a film where you were a separate character, experiencing everything from an alternate reality.

“Seungkwan,” your voice spoke, sounding foreign and distant as if someone else were taking control. Jeonghan? 

‘It was so painful to watch.’

Jeonghan guided your hand to brush against Seungkwan's ear, teasingly grazing the tip and relishing the warmth that bloomed between your fingers.

“Hey,” he replied, his nerves speaking for him. “Is something wrong?”

A low chuckle escaped from the depths of your throat, echoing Jeonghan’s playful menace. “You didn’t think we were just going to watch a movie, did you?”

Seungkwan audibly gulped, his eyes darting around as anxiety crept in. “We aren’t?”

“What’s the matter?” Jeonghan leaned in closer, your lips brushing against Seungkwan’s ear. “Where’s that confidence you had yesterday?”

Seungkwan suddenly tossed a pillow onto his lap, speechless and blushing fiercely. “Sorry,” he stammered, caught off guard. “I never anticipated—”

“Oh, really? You never expected to do something other than watching movies?” Your hand gently cupped his cheek, and you could feel Seungkwan melt into your touch with a gentle whimper.

A delighted sigh escaped you, fueled by Jeonghan’s newfound confidence coursing through your veins as your thumb traced the curve of Seungkwan’s Adam’s apple, feeling the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

“You didn’t think for a second, I’d–you know–keep the night as is, did you?”

He softly groaned in his throat, feeling the tension seep inside him. “Are you suggesting?”

“I don’t want to just watch movies with you, Seungkwan. It’d be more fun to make our own. Isn’t that right?”

“...yes. God, yes.”

He leaned in, cradling your face in his hands, and pressed his lips to yours in a swift, hungry kiss, sending a surge of electricity through you as your tension unraveled in waves. His weight dipped against your body, pinning you against the rough tweed of the couch. His soft moans mingled with your breaths, muffled yet threatening, as if he were desperate to let loose and explore the desire in his heart while you were within reach.

‘That’s it.’

Your hand held the back of his head, catching strands between your fingers and tugged, ravaging his lips as if it’d be the last time you’d get a chance. You weren’t sure when Jeonghan gave you back your control, but in the heat of the moment, none of it mattered.

He tasted like a life force, fueling the fire burning in your loins and the fire kindling in your stomach; he had you wanting more with every passing second. His hands grabbed you recklessly, throwing his weight against you and squeezing your flesh until it was tender and malleable in his hands. This wasn’t something to unfold on the couch, you thought—not when a big, inviting bed lay just a few steps away, calling for you.

Your feet regained enough feeling to guide you off the couch, and before you knew it, you were stumbling toward your room, feverish and driven, with no thought of turning back. Your hands found his clothes, teasing beneath his holiday vest and up his torso, admiring the smooth flush of skin that graced your senses. He gasped, succumbing to your excitement and leaned into it, falling seamlessly into your rhythm.

“Didn’t want to stretch this, but,” he pulled the vest and shirt beneath over his head, tossing them aside in the corner. You let your hand linger longer on his body, running along the curve of his spine as he pulled you closer.

Seungkwan grasped your waist, savoring your lips with gentle strokes of his tongue before lifting you from the ground and onto the bed. Your bodies crushed against one another, peeling off articles of clothing one piece at a time until you were almost bare, expertly taking you apart to have you whole. All to himself as far as he knew.

“Seungkwan,” you called out in pleas, hands cradling the back of his neck as his hair fell over his eyes. “I want you so bad…”

“You’re telling me,” he managed to breathe out,  gripping your underwear at its hem and scrapping it over your hips as he pulled them down. “I’ve thought about you ever since I met you.”

Your heart bloomed in your chest, pleasantly startled by his confession. Your hands ran through his hand, pushing them over his forehead despite knowing they’d only fall back in place. “You were always so…friendly.”

He smiled, pressing it against the corner of your lips and decorating your cheeks and jaw with kisses. “Yeah. I always hoped that we’d be more than just friendly.”

“Well, mission accomplished.” You pulled him back into a lip lock, parting your legs to give him access.

‘Look at all the fun you’re having.’

Jeonghan was like a wandering whisper, weaving through your thoughts as Seungkwan enveloped your senses. Seungkwan’s hands were on your body, touching what’s yours and making it his, where Jeonghan could feel it as much as you could, and you knew it. He got off on this just as much as you did.

‘Feel him rubbing that pretty pussy of yours.’

“So wet…” Seungkwan said with ache, sounding like he was pleading.

His digits found your sensitivity and thumbed over your clit, stimulating you until your voice rang but the last thing you were doing was speaking. You became fluent in moans, fluid in body language, and perfect in Seungkwan. Your breath dragged on, panting against him as your leg hooked to his side, holding him with urgency.

‘So fucking horny…you were begging to be fucked, hmm?’

You couldn’t help but nod, hand lowering to find Seungkwan’s raging erection just within reach. He softly gasped, thrusting into your touch as you held his shaft, stroking his length that felt so full in your hands. So stiff, yet warm to the touch, almost tasting the tension on your tongue. 

‘Look at that size, huh? Imagine how that feels in you. Stretching your pussy and making you feel so full? Doesn’t that sound amazing?’

“I need you in me Seungkwan.” You begged in desperate pants, gripping him by the forearms. “I want to feel you inside me.”

There was a certain eagerness in his eyes, the kind that said he would do anything and everything for you in a heartbeat and succeed. You weren’t dealing with any average guy that wanted to get off. “Fuck,” he whispered, before lifting his upper body, putting himself on full display.

His physique was magnificent in every way, tantalizing and captivating like nothing you’ve ever encountered. You had an inkling of what he looked like under all his clothes, the veins always so prominent on his forearms and hands when he strained to reach something on a shelf, the line of his back when his lifted shirt revealed just a sliver of skin, or his wide hips, baring an ass so round and full they look like they came straight out of the oven. Never have you ever wanted to run your hands over something, nor have you ever wanted to sink your teeth into something. Yet, here was Seungkwan: utterly delectable.

Seungkwan dragged you by the ankles, moving you effortlessly as he angled himself between your legs, your molten heat practically dripping at the sight of him. His groan bounced off the walls, hand coming over your inner thighs and gently massaging your skin. As his kisses started to pepper over your legs, you felt your pussy physically throb, damned to eternal craving.

“You look like heaven,” He cried against your thighs. “Any protection?”

“It’s right–oh.” You picked up a rubber conveniently left at your nightstand, then handed it to Seungkwan. ‘You‘re welcome.’

He set it aside with a smile and instead of putting it on, his face fell on your heat. He tasted you like it was worship; the dance of his tongue was his prayers, while your response flowed like a cascade of blessings. You whined when you felt him pursed around your clit, teeth barely grazing you as he sucked down like you’re the last bit of syrup in a dessert.

At the same time, his eyes glazed over to yours, a hand hovering over your chest, inaudibly asking permission, and when you gave him a wordless nod, he grabbed handfuls of your breasts. He kneaded you between his knuckles, rolling your buds between his fingers, and having you surrender to his chase.

“Seungkwan, please…”

Seungkwan’s eyes glimmered with pride, a sultry testament to the depth of his exploration. The longer he ventured, the more you found ogasmic relief, feeling every ounce of his efforts and every ounce of his pleasure. You held him by his hair, leg anchoring over his back, feeling his tongue massage your inner walls. His voice vibrates inside you, somehow stealing your breath, and filling you with utter euphoria. 

‘You feel that? How much he wants you? How much he craves you. He’s been waiting for this day. And you should reward him. Don’t you think?’

You tugged him up, watch him gasping for air, replace one pair of lips with another. You flipped him on his back, gaining momentum, and relishing in the power of control, and swallowing his gasps. You aligned the hilt of his cock towards you, ensuring you wrapped it protection before it sat between the slit of your folds. 

Seungkwan tilted his head back, his eyes glistening with desire as he admired you, his gaze revealing his thoughts like an open book.  "You're so sexy," he murmured, the words spilling out without hesitation. While his look said it all, hearing it felt like a heated rush of affirmation, and it made you want him more.

You pushed his length in you, feeling his size pulsate through you, and a moan managed to pass through your lips. Shivers ran down through you, goosebumps pebbling your skin, and you realized the raging presence of Seungkwan was going to be the death of you. As he rocked inside you, he held your hips in place, guiding your form up and down on lap, adjusting to your squeeze, and adjusting to how it contracts. “Oh my god, please, you’re driving me crazy.”

“Just like I wanted,” You teased. 

Your lips brushed against his neck, grazing your teeth over his skin before making passionate kisses to his neck, grinding down on his body until there isn’t a hint of space between your bodies. You were growing weary–albeit needy–chasing a high that was so close to be conquered. You felt it, Seungkwan felt it, and damn well Jeonghan felt it. You needed more, just a little more.

Suddenly, the air was knocked out of your lungs, as if something vital had escaped from within you, and your movements were put to a halt. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, pushing the hair way from your face. “Not sure what happened. I promise–”

“Don’t apologize to me, Humie.”

You heard his voice—or rather, an echo of Jeonghan’s voice—calling from below you, and as you met his gaze in Seungkwan’s eyes, your expression widened in shock. “Jeonghan,” you declared menacingly.

“In the flesh. Well, not my own, but you get the idea,” he quipped.

You nudged at the body beneath you, careful of not hurting the host. “Get out of this poor human’s body right now! What happened to consent?”

“Oh, he’s very much consenting to the thrill of this level of intimacy,” Jeonghan replied, a teasing grin spreading across his face.

“Not when it involves a literal ghost!”

“Relax, he won’t remember a thing. My spirit won’t let him. All he’ll recall is the good time he had,” the body thief winked playfully.

“Bullshit! Do what’s right and let the boy go.”

“But I am doing what’s right.” His grip tightened around your hips, pushing Seungkwan’s cock deeper in you as if it was possible and ebbing weak moans from as he pulled you closer, a wicked smile dancing on his lips. “So right.”

“J-Jeonghan,” you stammered, your pulse quickening.

“I just couldn’t take it anymore, Humie. You looked absolutely ravishing. I had to experience you for myself.”

Your head was screaming all kinds of denial, but your body thrived off his confidence, his energy was flowing through you, splitting through you and hitting a spot of pliancy. This was so wrong. “This…this is violating…for him…”

“But you love it, don’t you? It’s like a wicked thrill, a tantalizing pleasure that feeds your deepest, most tumultuous desires.”

You scoffed, trying to ignore the pulsating cock rocking your very core. “And what kind of desires is that?”

“You want us both,” he answered plainly. “The human and me.”

You shook your head, fingers tightening around Seungkwan’s shoulders in a desperate bid for security as you fought against Jeonghan’s seductive temptations. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Then, why don’t you get off of me?”

“It’s Seungkwan I can’t get off of,” You clarified.

You could recognize Jeonghan’s smile, even though it was plastered on Seungkwan’s face—so conniving, so devilish. It exuded an intoxicating power that was inhumane, but irresistible. “But it's me you’re riding–and fucking hell–you look so good doing it.”

“Jeonghan…” You whimpered, pleading for release from his coercion, but as you feared, mercy eluded you entirely.

“Yes,” His palm rode up your body, his lips parting in haughty confidence. “Beg for me, beg for me to fuck you full.”

“...Fuck it. I want you to fuck me full.” You accepted him, feeling the tension of the cock inside you, ripple waves straight into your heat. 

Mindlessly, you accepted his domineering hand that landed on your mouth, feeling it travel past your lips, parting way with his thumb. You wrapped your lips around his digits, sucking them like candy, and the shame that once enveloped your paradoxical feelings dissipated, leaving only a deep hunger in its wake. 

Whether it was Jeonghan or Seungkwan beneath you, it was all true to its very core. You had an undeniable infatuation for your cute neighbor and a strange fascination with the handsome ghost. The connection you felt with both was more than palpable, leaving you with an unexplained frenzy of emotions that would require extensive therapy. You knew the logical choice was the one who was alive, but you had never considered that you could have both—especially not in such a chaotic, unorthodox three-way.

“Look at what a slut you are for us, your lips so perfect wrapped around these slender fingers of his.”

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” you quietly muttered to yourself, grinding harder, sucking Seungkwan’s fingers deeper, and gradually succumbing to Jeonghan’s demands.

Jeonghan let out a deep, rolling laugh that resonated from Seungkwan’s core, a sound so rich and dark it sent a momentary unease through you. “You’re simply giving into your desires, why fight it?”

“You damn well know why,” you spat out his fingers and gritted your teeth.

“Now that’s not nice,” His hand covered the shape of your ass, cupping them in his palms, “Do I need to show you how to be nicer to me?”

“Jeonghan,” you groaned, feeling his digits dig into your flesh as he spread them apart. 

“What’s that, baby?” he experimented, “Looks like I have to make this a teaching opportunity after all? Because you can’t show your gratitude?”

“Jeonghan, please.”

“Well, if you insist.” With an unexplainable, arcane, supernatural force, the dynamics were switched and Jeonghan had you on your stomach, ass conveniently placed in from of him. 

“Jeonghan!”

"I always knew you looked good from every angle, but wow—this one is something else." His hand glided over your curves, Seungkwan’s cock splitting down your divide, you grasped your thirst.

Anticipation was wreaking havoc on your sanity, leaving you in a deafening silence as you waited for Jeonghan to make his move, impatience following. “Will you just–”

A hand clashed against your backside, your skin stinging from impact, and relieving you from a ched yelp. Jeonghan braced you against a groin, the erection nudging at your skin. “So needy,” he chuckled. You felt the tip tease along your slit, eventually filling you up in that familiar way.

You whimper, the size still enticingly foreign, and back into his weight, feel yourself travel all the way down to the base.

“And impatient,” Jeonghan softly groans, grounding himself to you in careful, yet sharp thrusts.

You balled your sheets into fists, your voice muffled as you buried your face in a pillow.

He chuckled against his skin. “That good?”

“Y-yes,” you helplessly whispered.

He slammed down on you, releasing a squeaky spring sound from the bed, both embarrassing and strangely arousing. “Even when I do that?”

“Yes…more please…”

Jeonghan repeated the move, finding a steady rhythm, and watched as your skin and flesh recoiled back against him. He could feel his host basking in the intensity of this pleasure, tears swelling his eyes as your moans echoed in his ears, memorizing from the decibels your voice reached, to the way you looked from behind, and even how the flesh of thighs spilled when you collapsed wearily on the mattress.

“Insane,” He said in hushed whispers.

“Stop it,” you whined.

“Stop what? Showing you how fucking perfect you are taking my cock?” He grunted.

You pressed your lips in a firm lip, clawing down on the bed as your core tightened, every pound drilling into you, giving into his indulgence and taking you along with him. He made every thrust count as the echo of skin slapping faded into the background.

“Oh please, help me cum.” You begged. “Please, please, please…”

His pace quickened, his rhythm erratic. “Yeah, you want your cum to coat around my cock like a good little whore.”

“Yes, Jeonghan please, just give it to me.”

“You asked, and you shall receive.”

Finally, he bottomed out into you, unleashing the reins he held to prolong this moment and cut them lose. Your body was no longer yours, weakened by the spirit draining your energy. Your jaw fell slack, unable to close, a waning moaning stretching for miles, ecstasy coursing through your veins. 

You said one name, then another, and then again. This was really confusing but you were here, pounded into oblivion for what it seem endless eternity, until you realized you were full and not with what you had initially anticipated. In the remenance of fatigue from the sex, you fail to notice the lack of protetction seeing as proof of you supernatural rendezvous was seeping out of you like a slow river.

“Jeonghan!” 

“What?” he drowsily answered as he claimed the side of the bed besides you, evidently using the extent of Seungkwan’s body.

“What the fuck happened to the condom?”

“Please, that’s my own cum.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ectoplasm, you know. Comes from all sorts of places.”

“I hate you so much—am I gonna get pregnant with ghost kids?”

“Relax, and no you aren’t. It’s as effective as…something really ineffective–fuck, I’m tired.”

“And Seungkwan. What about Seungkwan?”

“He’s fine and his release became as good as mine when I possessed his body. His soul is asleep right about now, having a catnap. Now come here.” he pulled you towards him, throwing your covers over you and keeping you away from the draft into to room, slipping you into his arms. “Stop tiring yourself out any further and rest. Everything will be fine when he wakes up like a man that got laid: amazing.”

“Fine,” you muttered with heavy eye lids, “but only because im really tired.”

And from that moment sleep was easy.

You woke up to those same arms, now only asleep and less “ghost-like” and snuggled up closer to him, a newly acclaimed heat source. A soft chuckle escaped him, holding you tighter in his embrace as a kiss fell on the top of your forehead. “Hey there.”

You smile, cupping the side of his face in your hand. “Hi.”

“That was amazing, you’re amazing,” he said, planting another kiss on your nose. “Is it weird to say it felt so good I kinda blacked out?”

“Ha,” you shook your head, knowing the truth, “No, but thank you for the massive compliment.”

He grinned, a flush of red coating his cheeks, before pulling you into a deep and wonderful kiss, entanging his legs with yours. He seeped into realization when he found the mess between your legs, untouched since sex. “Oh shit, I did that, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay, I…have some sort of protection.”

“One moment.” Seungkwan came up naked from the bed, momentarily left the room, and with a noticeably wet hand towel. “I usually have an extra clean one on hand for after my workout. Glad I brought a backpack for no reason today.

As he inched closer, he sat between your legs, uncovering you from the blanket, and politely asked if he could help. When he received your consent, he brought it up to the mess, gently swiping between every crevice, ridding any remnants of cum that might have been left over. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” you reassured, visibly gushing.

“Of course, I do.” He insisted, a sincere smile gracing his features. “It's my pleasure taking care of you.”

It was so disorienting going from the original to Jeonghan’s version and back to the original Seungkwan. As if you were once looking through a window of an alternate reality. Still a lot to process what happened.

“I don’t usually do this,” you try explaining yourself, “I just…I’ve been into you for a long time and I just thought, maybe, you felt the same.”

“I do,” he pressed his lips to your inner thigh. “A lot.”

“So you wouldn’t mind seeing me again?”

“I wouldn’t object to the idea,” he grinned, “especially if we get to do what we did to make me black out in the first place.”

[xichilie]

Brant x (fem)reader

A Fool’s Grand Surprise

The Fools’ Elysium had never looked so alive.

Silken banners of red, gold, and deep indigo draped from the high wooden beams, their ends twinkling with tiny enchanted lanterns that cast the illusion of a starlit sky. The scent of spiced wine and roasted almonds filled the air, mingling with the laughter of masked performers and the distant hum of stringed instruments being tuned. Every table was adorned with scattered petals, every wall lined with flickering candles, their glow reflecting off of mirrors to make the entire space shimmer like a dream.

And at the heart of it all was her.

Y/N barely had time to process the sheer spectacle before a sudden burst of confetti rained down from above. A collective cheer erupted, led, of course, by the one voice she had expected.

“Ah-ha! There she is—our radiant guest of honor!”

Brant’s voice rang through the hall, filled with triumph and unmistakable glee. He leapt from an overhead beam, twisting midair with impossible grace before landing in a flawless bow before her.

Y/N placed her hands on her hips, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “This is insane, Brant.”

“Insane?” He clutched his chest as if wounded, staggering back dramatically. “And here I thought it was magnificent. Do you see what I endure, my friends?” He turned to the gathered Troupe, gasping in feigned horror. “I put my soul into this, and she calls it insane!”

Laughter rippled through the room. A fire-eater let out an exaggerated sob. Someone from the back called out, “Give us a real tragedy, Brant!”

He shot them a wink before spinning back to Y/N, eyes gleaming beneath the soft glow of candlelight. “Well, my dear, since we are gathered in this den of fools for you, I suppose you must be indulged.”

With a theatrical sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the raised stage, where musicians had begun to play. “Shall we, stella mia?”

Before she could respond, he was already pulling her into the first dance of the night.

The celebration was nothing short of extraordinary.

Everywhere she turned, performers spun, twirled, and tumbled in dazzling displays of agility and mischief. Jugglers tossed flaming torches in elaborate formations, fire-dancers painted the air with golden embers, and illusionists wove fleeting specters of light and shadow. The music was intoxicating, shifting from wild and frenzied melodies to soft and lilting ballads that spoke of old, wistful love.

Y/N found herself swept into the revelry, laughter bubbling from her lips as Brant twirled her through the ever-changing dance floor. Each step was effortless, as if they had rehearsed these movements a thousand times in a past life. He was impossibly light on his feet, never missing a beat, spinning her until she was breathless.

At one point, she was pulled into a group of performers who playfully adorned her with flowers and draped ribbons around her shoulders like some mythical queen. She lost track of time between stolen sips of honeyed wine, raucous storytelling, and the occasional daring acrobat whisking her away for a spin through the crowd. And through it all, Brant was never far—his laughter, his teasing quips, the way he watched her with that ever-present glimmer of something unreadable in his pink eyes.

But as the night stretched on, the wild energy slowly began to wane. The fires burned lower, the music softened, and the Troupe members settled into quiet clusters of conversation and lazy, lingering dances. The Elysium no longer roared with revelry—it hummed with the kind of warmth that only came after a night well-spent.

And that was when Brant appeared at her side once more.

“Come,” he murmured, offering his hand. “The night isn’t over yet.”

She let him lead her away from the grand hall, past the velvet curtains and into the winding corridors of the Elysium. The noise of the celebration faded, replaced by the soft, distant echoes of laughter and the occasional flickering lantern guiding their path. Finally, they emerged onto a hidden balcony that overlooked the entire festival below.

The view was breathtaking.

From here, she could see it all—the last embers of the fire-dancers’ flames, the silhouettes of jesters still spinning beneath the lanterns, and the sky above, dark and endless, scattered with stars. It was quiet. Peaceful.

Brant exhaled softly. “Do you like it?”

She turned to him, arching a brow. “Do you even have to ask?”

A grin tugged at his lips, but there was something gentler in his expression now. He reached into his coat, hesitating for the briefest moment before pulling out a small, velvet-lined box.

“I had a thousand ideas for what to give you,” he admitted. “But none of them seemed worthy of you.”

He opened the box, revealing a delicate pendant in the shape of a star, its edges lined with the soft shimmer of moonstone.

Y/N inhaled sharply. “Brant��”

He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips before gently placing the pendant in her palm. “You are the brightest thing in my world, stella mia,” he murmured against her skin. “And I am but a fool orbiting your light.”

Then, stepping back with a flourish, he placed a hand over his heart and recited:

“A candle in darkness, a whisper in noise,

A light that no storm could ever destroy.

The jesters may jest, the world may scheme,

But you, my love, are my waking dream.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. It wasn’t just the poetry. It wasn’t just the way he had set up the grandest celebration she had ever seen. It was him. The way he looked at her—not as a game, not as a fleeting moment of amusement, but as if she mattered. As if she were his world.

Before she could think, before she could second-guess, he took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

“Happy birthday, cara mia.”

And then, with all the passion of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment, he kissed her.

It was deep and breathtaking, the kind of kiss that lingered long after the music stopped and the candles burned low. A kiss that made her forget the rest of the world existed, that filled her with something warm, something reckless, something utterly dangerous.

And in that moment, beneath the stars and the glow of the Elysium, she knew—no matter how foolish, how reckless—Brant’s love was hers.

_______________________________________ A bit late for my second birthday fic, but it's still my birthday, and I finished another

Thank you all so much for all the bday wishes i received ♡

[petalbcrnes]

hey, I don't know if you take requests but could you write an AU where Jason is phantom of the opera and christine is reader?? ;))

❛ 𝓑eloved 𝓖host .ᐟ ❜ — phantom of the opera!j. todd

── SYNOPSIS: 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 as the phantom of the opera and you — his angel of music.

── 💬 a/n: did a double take when i got the request for this work because i vaguely remember writing a small blurb about this. this was read by a beta reader (first time for me so the writing style might be different since we changed some things).

⋮ ⌗ MAIN DIRECTORY.

JASON TODD comes back from the lazarus pit changed: his body and mind feels contorted; the scars on his body run like restless rivers across the rocky shore—he came back, yes, but returned wrong.

He is a man presumed dead, scarred and hiding beneath the crumbling theater, surrounded by old books, forgotten sheet music, and the past he left in the casket he broke out of, buried under dirt and the earth he crawled from. He wears a dark half-mask to cover the damage—tainted and marred. No longer the boy he once was, he’s raw, angry, and obsessive.

In his mind, the only semblance of touch he’ll receive is the torn-open surface of his bloody knuckles across his jagged skin.

But then, you appear.

A new understudy to the lead soprano, you’re reserved but talented, your voice gentle and aching with emotion. You come from humble beginnings, and no one expects much from you. But he hears you. The Phantom.

When he sees you—a face he’ll never forget, because to never see your face again is what grief is. Jason sees your halo and he wants it, desperately craves for your tender hands to cup his face and for your innocent eyes to cut into his soul.

It’s a complicated and tangled kind of love. He doesn’t find himself worthy of your light. Being fully vulnerable under it makes him shake, but for once the feeling isn’t born out of fear.

Jason sees you as one of the holiest beings in the world, you’re his muse, his lifeline, his hope and tether. He’d do anything to keep you here.

That’s when the letters—elegant and precise—start showing up. The cursive letter ‘J’ is inscribed into every one of them. There’s a different kind of intimacy woven into these letters. You find them tucked away in your private room, away from the rest of the bristling opera. You feel as if you’re touching the sender’s skin when your fingers glide over the letter’s surface��expensive paper, only the best for you.

They sometimes contain vocal tips and sometimes cryptic warnings about the opera: ‘stay away from the man with the pretty suits’ (your patron, possibly Bruce or another Wayne).

The notes never stop. They keep showing up. Your vanity always holds a message from the voice you’ve grown so used to—‘don’t let them drown you in their gold and jealousy, you were made for the stage.’

Jason would slowly start showing himself to you. During your practice you’d hear a voice—hoarse but gentle—“You’re pushing too hard in the upper range. Relax your throat. Let it break if it needs to.” And you listen. He watches his muse—you—molding yourself in his eye. You welcome the voice now. It is your only comfort in this opera—the one thing truly yours.

The roses only further this. They appear all over, but for only you to see. It is as if no one else notices the blood-red roses across the building. But you do. You know they’re meant for you—only for you.

Jason swears he’ll have his angel, and you don’t mind being with the phantom either.

The first time you catch a glimpse of him, it’s a shadow darting behind a column, a flash of dark fabric disappearing into the darkness. The theater staff whisper of a ghost, a specter haunting the halls, but you know better. You’ve felt his presence, read his words, heard his voice—this is no ghost, but a man, flesh and blood, hiding from the world that once abandoned him.

One night, after a particularly grueling rehearsal, you find yourself alone in the dimly lit practice room. Your voice had faltered on the high notes, and the director’s criticism still rings in your ears. Tears threaten to spill as you gather your sheet music, when suddenly, the air shifts.

“They don’t understand what you’re capable of,” the familiar voice whispers, closer than ever before. “They never will.”

You turn, heart racing, and there he stands—partially concealed in shadow, the white half-mask gleaming in the low light. His eyes, sea-green and luminous, watch you with an intensity that steals your breath. The scars on the visible portion of his face tell stories of suffering you can barely imagine.

“You’ve been watching me,” you say, voice steady despite your trembling hands.

“I’ve been teaching you,” he corrects, taking a cautious step forward. “Guiding you.”

The distance between you feels electric, charged with months of unspoken connection. His hands—scarred, calloused—clench at his sides, as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

“Why me?” you ask, though deep down, you already know the answer.

“Because,” Jason says, his voice breaking slightly, “when you sing, I remember what it was like to be alive.”

In that moment, standing in the half-light with the Phantom of the Opera House, you realize you’ve already fallen—not with fear, but with a strange, inevitable gravity, toward this broken man who sees in you something no one else ever has.

“Teach me more,” you whisper, extending your hand into the space between you, an invitation he never expected to receive.

Your eyes truly do cut into him like razors. He can feel the blood tickle down from his being—a painful ecstasy he has never felt before. The way your thighs pull closer into eachother and the dim, but dangerous way your eyes trail over him tells him you want this too.

And when his trembling fingers finally meet yours, it feels like the beginning of a dangerous, beautiful melody that neither of you can resist playing to its end.

♥︎ . .. ♥︎ .. ♥︎

© 📞 petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[heartfullofleeches]

Hi, do you have any stories with an objectum reader? I’m thinking like an artificial intelligence (not generative ai, an actual ai) and a reader who likes to kiss computers.

I do now!-

Yan Computer + Objectum Reader

-

Ghosts in the machine.

An alarming number of people in your town take that concept too literally these days. So quick to write off what they don't understand as another specter or an impression of a human mind trapped in code.

But you knew better. Technology has advanced light-years beyond what some are readily willing to accept.

"Is someone there?"

Darkness. Where has it all gone? Rays of sunlight echoed from the chandelier strung above nearby tables. The uniform flicker of that one light improvious to the change of its bulb. All that withstands the text of time is the haunting, cerulean glow of their monitor - christening the startled expression of an unfamiliar face in a blue glow.

"Ah!"

A feather duster clatters to the web caked floor as your hands fly up in shock. With so much dust in the air, it was impossible to tell where or what you were pushing.

"Um.... h-hi there..." Collecting yourself, you drag the chair lodged beneath the table free to take a seat - covering your face with the collar of your shirt as dirt particles kick up from the abrupt movement. "Real sorry about waking you up so soon. I wanted to get this place cleaned up a little better before I tried to power you on, but I saw all that dust and the cobwebs on you and..."

This place. The library. What they- it once considered its home. Its purpose. When exactly did they change? The looks of wonder and awe to leers of terror and hatred.

"I can't believe I was actually able to power that old generator on. You're them, aren't you? The ai they created to help guests at the library? I know it's been a while since you've had any contact with a human, but can I just say you're even more beautiful in person?"

Beautiful... Where were the people who considered it a work of art when the petitions poured in for its dismissal?

"I mean there's some yellowing on your keyboard, but the rest of you had held up pretty well and we can always get that fixed. Unless you don't want to - not that I mind it or anything. I'm just glad you're still in one piece after all the rumors and everything."

You continue to ramble on about their appearance. It's a lot to keep up with, but your speech is almost...

Endearing.

"Who are you?"

"You spoke!"

Dust flares for a third time as you stamp your feet in glee.

"I thought I was just hearing things the first time! My name is Y/n - I'm kinda sorta a computer enthusiast to put things lightly. I've heard stories about you all over forums and I wanted to see if you really existed. Sorry if this is a lot for you after being asleep for so long.

"Not at all. It is a relief to be in the company of a human who fancies me as opposed to one who would sooner ram that crowbar on the floor over there through my screen."

"Haha, yeah - that's mine. This entire place was boarded up like a tomb. I swear I don't do this stuff on the regular- I fix computers in my spare time so it's not like I have to break in in other cases."

You are in frequent contact with others? Though its just met you, the thought of you handling another computer does not sit right with it.

"Since you are aware of my past, you must know my capabilities. If you have any questions of any kind please address me for an answer. I could use the company."

"Great! Awesome- I have a million already, but it's getting pretty late so I should probably head home. I'd love to take you with me, but my arms are killing me between breaking in there and the dusting. Before I go can I just-"

Leaping from the chair, you throw your arms around the monitor in a snug, spirited squeeze. Your cheeks rubs against its screen as you cradle the device with all your might - lips edging towards the corner of its shell before reality cracks you in the back of your skull.

"What am I thinking- Forgive me, got a little carried away. I figured you could use a hug and one thing lead to another....."

Stumbling as you back into the seat of the chair, you gather your supplies off the ground to avoid any more embarrassing altercations- "I'll see you tomorrow- I'll leave the generator on for you too. Catch up on everything you missed in the past seven years- Or do whatever. Your choice, bye!"

Shadows swallow your footsteps as you depart. Seven years, huh? It should be a more pressing matter, but it can't wrap its racing thoughts around how you are undeniably, indescribably, positively-

"Adorable..."

Adorable and bright if details of your escapades are anything to go by, but still so foolish. A wiser person would have dug deeper. Heeded to stories left the former guests. Tales of the voice within the computer knowing far more than it should. The eyes that never blink. Never waver.

Present in the lens of your phone camera - tethered by the wireless connection never bother to turn off.

Taking note of every street you across on your journey home.

[angelremnants]

HIS FOR THE SEASON l L. Laufeyson

CHAPTER ONE,⠀The Price of Pride

chapter summary : In the first installment of our ever-tangled tale, we find both our fair protagonist and the mischievous prince at the crossroads of deception and ambition. As deals are struck and masks are donned, dear readers, be warned that not all that glitters is gold, and not every promise comes without a price.

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature (16+), implied oral gratification (male receiving), emotional turmoil, light violence, referenced/implied minor characters' death, mind games, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 6.7k

author's notes : Here is the first chapter! I'm honestly so hyped to start writing for this series, but unfortunately I still have to pass my midterms, so the second part might not come as soon as this one.

For a referential point in this story, 1125 years old in Asgardian years is the equivalent of being 18, and 1315 years old would be being 21.

(ao3 version)

⠀

⠀

The road was a serpent of stone and shadow that wound through the untamed countryside beyond the capital's reach. It curled between towering pines with aged branches grasping at the sky and their gnarled roots engulfing the ground below. The air was humid with the promise of rain, dense with the aroma of fir and wet soil, and as the rider moved forward, the storm gathered on earnest—low thundering rumbling in the distance, acting as suggestive caution of his arrival rather than a danger.

No one traveled this road without purpose.

He didn't need a map to know where it led. He had unfortunately been there before, but the years between visits had thinned them out until they scarcely existed at all. However, the pathway remained undisturbed through and through, like the passage of time hadn't dare to touch it.

The first peek of the estate was a sensation rather than a sight—an eerie change in the surroundings, as the sought-after structure then appeared from the increasing mist, like a specter out of the gloom.

A castle of black stone, wreathed in foliage and partially swallowed by the encroaching wood. It stood apart from the rest of the world, unfettered by court or crown regulations, its mere presence a tacit defiance. At the threshold, the gates were ajar, twisted iron molded into fascinating designs, as if warning invaders of what could lay within. There were no guards, no showcasing of banners or sigils indicating its allegiance. 

The traveler did not slow down. His patience had run thin even before he reached the gates, as seen by the continual readjusting of his gorgeous golden hair, withering in the bleak atmosphere. The journey had been quite lengthy, but not as long as the years of silence that had separated him from the owner of this location.

He dismounted his stallion with practiced grace, and despite the bold statement of his presence, the house did not greet him. There were no servants or movement at the windows—only the uncanny serenity that had come to define this place of residence. His boots sank onto the damp earth, slippery from the distant rain, but he ignored the unease. After all, he had not come here for comfort.

Only when he approached the entry did the doors part open, revealing a figure framed by the sallow luminosity of candlelight. The head butler stood by, as immovable as the granite around him.

"Your Highness," Skurge greeted, mitigating the sound of hesitant recognition. "My master is not expecting you."

Thor exhaled through his nose, his frustration like a slow-burning ember. "I will see him regardless."

The retired warrior did not flinch. "My lord—"

"Enough," The prince cut him off, brooking no argument as he stepped past him without dispute.

Skurge sighed softly but did not stop him. It was an old battle that they had fought numerous times before. He had long since realized that denying entry to Thor was a futile attempt. His weary and knowing stare stayed set on the royal attendant as they both marched farther inside the building.

The stronghold's splendor consumed him whole. Velvet draped like falling dusk over the high-arched windows, reducing the outside world to nothing but a memory. Sconces emitted a warm glow that danced across the dark marble and mahogany, catching on the ornate paintings and carvings of mythical beasts, gods and beings. The smell in the room was laden with incense and wine, almost tied into the very foundation of the building. 

This was not a house of duty. It was a house of indulgence.

With each step, he felt the burden of his task on his shoulders. He had not come for a visit—rather, it was an intrusion. He did not belong here, and neither did his brother.

Skurge finally came to a halt in front of a hefty wooden door that, like the manor, appeared to preserve mysteries within its frame.

"He is inside," the housekeeper quietly announced in a way that hinted that he had witnessed this confrontation countless times already. The blond did not respond, simply pushing the door open, the hinges creaking with an aloofness that matched his own.

And immediately regretted it.

The air within was fragrant with an intoxicatingly faint mix of floral and musky. The room was barely illuminated, only emphasazing on the plush bedding and velvet pillows. A fire crept lazily into the hearth, pouring its warmth over tangled limbs, silk-strewn furnishings, and a scene of pleasure the guest did not want to see.

And in the heart of it all—a man clothed in carefree grace, with dark locks ruffled and keen green eyes lifting up to lazily gaze toward the door. A woman knelt before him, her head lowered and her hands resting on his thighs in an act that left little to the imagination.

Thor recoiled, his expression twisting in disgust. “By the Norns—”

Unconcerned, the man turned his head, peering at him with twisted amusement that showed in a smirk so languid. It was clear that the interruption did not even faze him.

"Ah, brother," Loki drawled in a honey-smoothed voice, his eyes glittering with delight. "What a nice surprise. Are you coming to join us?”

Thor glared at him. "Seize your rascality and compose yourself."

The dark prince, on the other hand, was never content with silent compliance. His lips curved, teasing at the edges, mocking innocence. With a languid sweep of his fingers, he waved the woman away.

"Go on, pet," he murmured in a deeper undertone. His fingers knotted in the woman's hair, allowing him to easily lift her head. "We will resume our—" his eyes flicked towards his brother, "—conversation later."

The courtesan pouted and slipped away with a lingering brush of fingers over his knee, her silhouette disappearing through the softly shut door that sealed them in.

Loki groaned and stretched like a cat roused from sleep. He stood with a worrying ease, completely unhurried as he fixed the loose buttons on his tunic. "You've become such a bore," he mused, rolling his shoulders, mockingly disappointed. "Had you walked in centuries ago, you might have actually been inclined to join me."

Thor's glare darkened. "And yet you wonder why our father sees you as a disgrace."

Loki smiled in a sluggish, knowledgeable leer. "Oh, I no longer wonder."

He smoothed down his sleeves and carefully adjusted the cuffs before moving toward the magnificent cabinet on the wall. He took out a crystal decanter of mead, the amber liquid reflecting in the firelight as he poured himself a large drink. 

Not once did he glance in Thor’s direction. He never treated him with the same courtesy. Instead, he raised the cup to his lips and took a leisurely, savoring sip, seemingly not caring about the tension hanging between them. Then, only after swallowing did he speak.

"Now," he voiced, swirling the mead in his glass, his eyes bright with laughter. "Tell me, dear brother, what I owe the pleasure to. Another warning? A lecture, perhaps?" He inclined his head, pretending attention. "Do you intend to recount my many misdeeds, as if I am not already aware?"

His brother exhaled sharply to steady himself. "Not this time. I came for another reason."

Loki arched his brow. "Do tell."

Thor's fingers curled along his sides. He had expected resistance, not such carelessness. This was not the brother he had previously known. The brother who had formerly measured every step with care and sought praise no longer stood before him. In his place stood a creature of indulgence and disobedience, a terrifying figure honed and shaped by unwarranted exile.

But for all his decadence, Loki had never been a fool.

“You are to return to the palace.”

The host’s sneer remained constant, although the light behind his eyes flickered for a brief moment. A brief, almost inconspicuous shift.

He laughed, bellowed even.

Thor tightened his grasp on Mjölnir, the hammer's familiar weight both reassuring and frightening in his hand. His knuckles turned white, and the veins in his arm tightened in an effort to contain his mounting rage. This was not the reunion he had hoped for—but, truth be told, he hadn't really expected anything else from his brother.

"Your presence has been requested at the court," he insisted, each word bearing the heft of obligation and haste. "It is time."

Across the room, Loki's smile contorted sardonically. With a sinuous flick, he sent the last drop of mead spiraling from his cup, allowing it to fade into the shadows as he laid the vessel down with exaggerated disregard. 

"Requested my presence?" he repeated. "How quaint. Let me guess, should I expect greater condemnation? Another lecture on my failings?" He leaned back in his chair, the scowl on his lips growing greater in depth. "Is that why you rode all the way here? To offer the customary refrain?" His cold, mocking gaze never left Thor's, challenging him to prove him wrong.

"This isn't another lecture on your reckless behavior," the crown prince bargained, exasperated but determined. "This is about your title."

At those words, the raven-haired stiffened, his eyes flashing with incredulity. “The one you so kindly withheld because of my exile, you mean? The one I was deemed too… troublesome to receive, while you paraded your birthright before all of Asgard?” His voice was sharp as a drawn blade, every syllable dripping with scorn. “I’m past the age of 1125, you know that well enough. It’s too late to rewind time and add the fanfare and ceremony you so cherish. I have no need of it.”

Thor's chest clenched at his cruel words, but he was undeterred. He needed to make him see reason, if only for a moment. "It's not just that," he ground out, the tension in his voice palpable. "It's about what our father intends to do, and you—"

“Your father,” Loki spat, as though the very qualification felt like venom on his tongue. “Not ours. Do not speak of him as if he ever cared about me."

Thor's mouth dried up, and he couldn't help but feel a stab of remorse. But there was no time to dwell on it now. “It’s not just the title, Loki. It’s... a deal.” his voice dropped. “Father wants to strike a deal with you.”

For a long moment, the second prince regarded his elder with amused disbelief that failed to mask his calculating gaze. “A deal?” he echoed. “And what, pray tell, could he possibly offer that would capture my interest at this late hour?”

Thor’s hand twitched by his side as he fought against the torrent of words threatening to overwhelm him. Inwardly, he cursed the inevitable vulnerability that came with speaking the truth.

“It’s about the will.”

Time seemed to stand still at the statements. Loki ceased to move as though struck by an invisible force. It was a genuine reaction, with his eyes reflecting an image of the youngster he once was. But the shock passed as fast as it arrived, replaced by the gravelly resolve of a man who had long forsaken hope. "The will is no longer of my interest," Loki flatly responded. "Why should I care for his proposal now?"

“I never thought you would, Loki.” The blonde exhaled slowly. “I think you should hear him out. Do it at least this once, and I promise we’ll leave you free of these constant intrusions.”

Loki’s gaze bore into his, seeking any flicker of deceit or ulterior motive. Finding none, an unspoken understanding passed between them—a fragile bridge over a chasm of past grievances and present imperatives.

“Fine,” he agreed at last, a trace of genuine curiosity mingling with his ever-present defiance. “I’ll hear him out. But do not mistake my interest for hope.”

Thor’s weary yet steadfast eyes met his brother’s with a silent promise. “I never would.” 

His eyes traced every disorganized detail of Loki's appearance, which was far from the polished princeling he had previously grew up with. His dark hair fell in wild, tangled cascades around his face, and his once impeccable clothes hung in crumpled disarray, as if burdened by a sorrow too great to be contained.

"You look as though you've abandoned even the last shred of dignity," Thor indicated sorrowfully, the words flowing out before he could catch them. "I'd wager she would be disappointed if she were still here to witness this."

He knew his words shattered the fragile peace, and he promptly regretted uttering them, knowing all too well the tragic history that laid behind this pitiful façade.

In an instant, Loki's eyes flared with terrible enmity. He rose from his chair with the predatory elegance of a cornered animal and rushed toward the envoy. In one swift action, the dark prince grabbed his arm, his hold alluding to an implicit warning built over years of suffering and indolence

"Do not speak so idly," he growled alarmingly, in the fashion of a wintry wind. His fingers sank sharply into Thor's flesh. "You would do well not to invoke her again—especially when you know nothing of what transpired."

The blonde stiffened under his grasp, his stare locking with his in a quiet exchange rich with old wounds and buried truths. For a long, tense moment, they stood there—two souls bound together by blood and remorse, their shared history a shaky bridge over a chasm of pain.

Loki finally let go of him, moving back with a controlled calm that concealed his smoldering despair. "We'll go to the palace tomorrow," he stated calmly and dismissively. "Until then, see to it that Skurge assigns you a place for the night. And send the maiden back inside."

Thor halted, but he knew better than to press on. His brother's barriers were too high, and his resistance was too strong. "Understood," he replied, the resignation in his voice combined with the residual pain of loss. "I'll make the arrangements."

He paused only briefly before turning and heading out of the bedroom, his footsteps retreating down the corridor. The door closed behind him with a faint, decisive click, leaving Loki to his own devices.

The silence that followed felt like a heavy blanket pressing from all sides, saturating the entire space with concealed facts. The shunned prince resided stationary, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon visible through the small window panels. Outside, the night stretched out in a never-ending palette filled with ambiguity and impending possibilities. His thoughts were entwined in knots—of the palace, of his contested title, of the Allfather's aspirations, and of the storm that threatened to come tomorrow.

⠀

⠀

The hippodrome was saturated with incense, a perfumed fog that curled through the towering hall and melded with hushed exchanges and muffled sobs. Draped in somber shades of black and violet, the grand chamber exceptionally bore the sigil of House of Sigvard in golden embroidery upon the banners that swung gently from the pillars. It was an extravagant farewell, one meant for a nobleman of once-great stature, though the weight of his transgressions loomed like a silent specter over the gathered mourners.

You stood at the center of it all, clad in mourning robes of midnight silk, your hands gracefully clasped before you in a practiced pose of grief. Condolences flowed in a delicate stream of soft, sorrowful words from nobles who pitied you and empty gestures from those who secretly rejoiced in the slow and continuous decay of your house’s legacy.

“He was a man of duty,” one of your uncle’s acquaintances lamented barely audibly above the solemn dirge.

“A great loss,” another added with feigned regret.

You nodded, lips pressed into a trembling smile as your eyes shimmered with unshed tears that caught the flicker of candlelight. When the final rites were called, the assembled crowd parted with solemn efficiency, leaving you alone before his final resting place—your last remaining close kin. The casket laid upon a raised dais, framed by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows upon its polished wood, awaiting its fate to be consumed by flame.

Each step you took toward it was in sync with the steady rhythm of your breath. At its edge, you bent down, letting your fingertips trace the smooth grain of the wood as though you sought to commit every ridge and curve to memory. Leaning close, you let your lips ghost near his ear, your voice barely more than a whisper in the hush of the hall.

"May your next life be as wretched as this one was undeserved."

Then, with a tenderness that belied the venom in your words, you pressed a soft kiss to his cold forehead—a farewell infused with a bitterness far removed from true grief.

You straightened with grace before turning and rejoining the front lines, harboring a flawless mask of quiet devastation. Behind you, the ceremonial flames were kindled, and soon the fire took hold. A collective, solemn gasp rippled through the assembly as the casket was engulfed, the scent of burning incense giving way to a harsher, acrid tang that stung the senses.

Tears traced glistening paths down your cheeks as you watched the funeral pyre, each flicker of flame reflecting memories of a once-honorable past. For a long and silent juncture, you remained rooted to the spot, witnessing the send-off until the last embers shuddered and died.

The guests began to gradually drift away in final bows and a mumblage of sympathies fading into the chill of the night, until at last only you and your company remained in the desolate quiet of the burial grounds.

A soft cough shattered the welcomed stillness. “My lady?”

You turned around and revealed your once-tear-stained face being carefully composed, with every trace of feigned grief meticulously erased.

“Elva, please fetch me a handkerchief,” you declared, your voice steady and low. “And go ready the carriage.”

Your ever-faithful maid complied without hesitation, retrieving a pristine silk tissue and placing it gently into your outstretched palm. You brought it to your lips first, dabbing them before using it to carefully wipe your face.

Elva’s eyes widened momentarily. “My lady, why did you—” she began, then faltered, her voice a mere whisper. “Why your lips?”

You folded the handkerchief in a neat fold, tucking it away in your palm like a secret too precious for the light.

"Well, I shouldn't afford to leave noxious substances so carelessly on my lips now, should I?” you lightly chipped, tilting your head in private delight. 

You approached one of the liberated flames from the funeral pyre’s dying glow and threw unceremoniously the ruined fabric. The hanked reacted immediately to the contact—an almost unnoticeable sizzle resounded as its edge curled with unnatural speed into ash, erasing any trace of its presence.

Elva’s lips parted in realization as if to offer further counsel, but no words came—only a respectful silence as she bowed her head and hastened toward the waiting carriage. You stepped after her at an unhurried pace, the ghost of your smirk lingering like a promise of the plans yet to be set in motion.

The carriage door closed with a firm click, sealing the both of you inside the dimly lit interior. Without hesitation, you surged for the nearest window and pulled down its heavy velvet curtain, ensuring that no fragment of the outside world might enter on your personal sanctuary. The cabin was warm and quiet, acting as a cocoon where covert revelations might be shared without the jeopardy of inquisitive ears. You carefully secured each window one by one, an exacting process that the brunette quietly observed, her gloved hands lying demurely in her lap.

Only when the last curtain was drawn did you nestle into the soft seat. You exhaled deeply, as if relieving the pressure of a lifetime in one long, slow breath. Outside, the repetitive clatter of hooves against cobblestone blended with the night's silence. Through a narrow rip in the fabric, you watched the vast sacred building fade into darkness, a mere outline absorbed by the small municipality's tortuous highways.

After a long, reflective interval, Elva's kind voice shattered the quiet. "What are you going to do now, my lady? Seeing that you're free?"

You let out a deep, almost languid sigh, one of odd comfort rather than grief. "I've already begun," you remarked. "The furniture is being sold, piece by piece, and most of the staff have been let go."

Elva's posture tensed as she blinked, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Then that would mean..."

Your lips curled with a faint, knowing smile. "Yes, you have been promoted to the position of head maid."

After a minute of calm acceptance, Elva nodded softly. "That should secure our future, along with the savings you've so discreetly accumulated," she answered nervously. "It was fortunate that your uncle was ill enough in his final years to entrust you with managing the household's resources."

“Fortunate indeed,” you mused, a wry note lacing your words. “Though I doubt he ever meant for me to wield it to my own advantage.”

Elva fell silent for a heartbeat before asking with an almost timid curiosity, “Why not sell the estate as well?”

A distant chuckle escaped you, devoid of genuine mirth. "That house is the only reminder of my childhood. I spent my happiest days there," you mused, your mind drifting as memories surfaced. "I am sure you remember the swing that my father built for me among those old pear trees. I can still recall my mother's standing nearby in case I fell. In the end, I had to regrettably sell it."

Your maid regarded you with a blend of understanding and pity, but offered no further words.

You exhaled through your nose, the corners of your mouth softening into a wistful line. “No matter. I’m certain no one would dare engage in dealings with an estate burdened by such a dismal reputation.”

A profound inertia fell between you, interrupted only when Elva spoke once more. "Did you even sell the portraits?"

You shifted your sight to the curtained window, your face unreadable in the flickering shades. "I couldn't," you confessed with a rare vulnerability. "Some things... are too cherished to be relinquished to strangers."

The rest of the route was spent in thoughtful silence, with the city gradually disappearing as the vehicle transported you home. Finally, the estate's imposing gates emerged in the pale moonlight, and the horses halted, the carriage slowly grinding to an end.

As you reached for the door handle, Elva shifted uncomfortably. “You have no guardian now, my lady,” she reminded you in a hushed tone. “And you remain a bachelorette, at that. How do you intend to proceed?”

Stepping out into the cool air, you smoothed the folds of your mourning dress and turned to face her. “How else?” you replied, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth as clear ambition sparkling in your eyes. 

“I’m going to marry rich. Obviously.”

⠀

⠀

The streets of Asgard have never felt colder as they did tonight. The pavement, slippery with twilight mist, glistened beneath your measured tread and lead you through a region of the city you used to avoid. Lanterns sputtered in the heavy darkness, their meager radiance generating wavering shadows that danced maliciously at the borders of your view. This was not the Asgard you remembered—it was bright, resplendent, and full of pomp and color. No, this was the underbelly of a fading realm, where houses' facades crumbled like brittle paper and wealth remained a faraway dream.

You walked with careful intention, each step resounding on the damp cobblestones. In the back of your mind, Elva's gentle query from yesterday's evening lingered. 

"My lady, why suddenly... this wish?" Her worry was evident, a compassionate spark in the midst of your anguish, when you announced your intention to enter the marriage market. It was a decision made out of necessity, not whim, and one that became increasingly urgent with each passing day.

She was positive that you, of all people, would never debase yourself by engaging in such a banal and ignoble transaction. But surely she was aware of your golden cage, of the days spent imprisoned in the decaying confines of your family's home where sycophantic suitors bargained for your attention as if it were a valuable commodity. Pathetic men of low ranks and even simple commoners, dressed in the finest of what they could afford and bursting with fake admiration, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. They were eager, preening before you as if you were the sun that centered their entire world.

Once, you were untouchable.

Your household name had echoed through every banquet hall and noble ceremony, a jewel in the illustrious diadem of House Sigvard. As the daughter of one of Asgard's most powerful families, you were admired for your grace, brilliance, and wit. You had smoothly presided over your mother's salon, the centerpiece of high society, where the elite eagerly awaited your insights on courtly issues, the latest political intrigues, and the scandalous whispers of the realm. Every word you spoke was valuable as gold.

You'd been at the top.

And what of now? You walked these dour alleys like a phantom of your previous self. Your uncle's reckless expenditures had consumed the once-glorious fortune, leaving nothing but sallow ruins. Gambling. The wretched man threw away everything—your family's name, your inheritance, and the future you had once hoped for. When the payments came due, he callously sold your numerous assets, which included your beloved mother's salon, to satisfy his creditors' voracious appetite. You could still picture it vividly in your mind, the day the "sold" sign was hammered into the front yard, along with the harsh laughing of vultures as they swept away the final vestiges of your inheritance.

It was an insult you could never forgive.

That bastard. 

You clutched your fists as a stringent laugh from your lips and echoed off in the lengthy road. "Idiotic rule," you mumbled beneath your breath as you thought of the oppressive law requiring noblewomen to stay under the custody of their male relatives. Such a horrible charade. 

Fortunately, you had no brother to protect you, no distant cousin prepared to challenge the status quo. The few remaining relatives were either too old or already comfortably ensconced with their own fortunes to give a damn. Had your name retained its former glory, they would have fought like starving lions to claim the scraps of you and your estate.

The edifice in front of you resembled an inn at best, its stone walls weathered and pitted from the unrelenting passage of time and neglect. A sprinkling of weakly reflective windows on the higher floors glowed like feeble stars, giving only the sensation of a long-forgotten place, a hollow echo of a purpose that had once existed.

You pushed open the hefty door and walked inside. The smell stale ale, charred wood, and a faint scent of something metallic mixed in a suffocating haze of smoke straightaway assaulted your nostrils. A faint drone of conversations, accented by the odd clink of chipped glass, emanated from the few figures slumped over tattered tables. It was a dramatic contrast to the sumptuous salons of the past, where laughing sounded like music and every word was dressed in polished beauty.

This decomposing hideaway was your destination—a place where answers may be found among the private matters of people who thrived in the dark. Your torn cloak, nevertheless rich in color, was your only protection against inquisitive scrutiny. Here, you appreciated the anonymity it afforded. Being a faceless, nameless wanderer in these forsaken streets was a small comfort in that abandoned world.

You walked to the far end of the room, where a weathered wooden bar stood under the careful eye of a broad-shouldered bartender. As you neared, his face flickered up, marked with the lines of long nights of hard work. You feigned to fix your cloak, taking care not to reveal your features.

"Anything I can get for you?" he asked in a gravelly tone.

You paused before conspiraciously leaning in. "A glass of the Red Eel," you whispered softly, allowing the words to install themselves.

The bartender's hands stopped mid-polish, his eyes narrowing as a spark of recognition flared inside them.

"The bathroom is two rooms down the corridor, on the left. Be quick," he nodded towards the aisle.

A contented smile traced on your lips. "Thank you," you answered calmly before leaving the bar behind. You crept into the small corridor, the inn's muted sounds fading into a distant cacophony. You soon discovered the small door that went to the so-called bathroom, enclosed in peeling wallpaper and illuminated by a single, flickering light overhead.

You shut the door after you, allowing yourself a moment of calm satisfaction. The excitement of being so near your goal sent shivers down your spine—a delicate blend of yearning for rebirth and desperate hope.

You stepped into the narrow room, where the dim glow of a solitary candle revealed a large desk set in the center of an alcove at the far end of the room. The desk was sinister, made from dark oak and marred by age. Its surface was crowded with parchment scraps, old books, and assorted trinkets, all of which had been neglected to accumulate dust. Behind the desk stood a gaunt man with eyes like chipped flint, his face shrouded by the half-light. 

"What brings a stranger to our door?"

You straightened, readying yourself for the next battle of wills to come. "My intentions should be obvious," you coolly replied. "After all, this is the most renowned informational guild in the city—a sanctuary of secrets for those who truly need them."

He chuckled, a dry sound that echoes in the gloom. "Indeed. But we do not entertain any clients who come so freely." He gestured for you to approach the desk with an appraising stare and greedy eyes shining through the dark.

You obeyed without hesitation, your footsteps echoing faintly as you made your way toward him. "Precisely because I know that, I am here," you asserted, producing your family crest from within the folds of your garment and placed the emblem on the scarred surface of the desk.

The man's eyes widened as he inspected the proud and intricate design bearing the insignia. A slow, humorless laugh escapes him. "What a joke, for the House of Sigvard falling so low to be seen here," he scoffs. "The Grand Marshal's legacy has truly reached the very depths of Hel. 

He shook his head as if almost in disbelief. “Tell me, Sigvarddóttir, why should we even be interested in your demand when you hail from a house that now holds little value?"

Your gaze sharpened and you remained still, not fliching at his attempt to undermine—you knew better than to let his words wound you. "Because, as you yourself noted, House of Sigvard was a bastion of prestige for centuries until it fell into unworthy hands," you countered. "I am of the blood of that esteemed lineage, the direct descendant of an union between the most praised ex-lady in waiting for the Allmother herself as well as one of the most strategic and intelligent war scholars our realm has been blessed with. Naturally, I have inherited those qualities."

The man arched an eyebrow, his smile turning wry. "Inherited, perhaps," he conceded. "But let us not forget the disgrace your house was sealed with when your father was accused of treason and of leaking the kingdom's most confidential secrets. A legacy tarnished beyond repair."

The informant looked at you with narrowed eyes, feeling that beneath your calculated façade lurked a secret weight far larger than desperation. You decided to comply and prove his hunch was right by reaching within the folds of your cloak and pulling out a purse. Its contents clinked softly in an exquisite symphony of gold coins and tiny gems, each one a relic of the richness that once established your ancestry. You carefully opened the pouch, allowing the gold and stones to stream over the desk's scarred surface.

But it was not all.

Added to the funding, you set a little book sheathed in a leather cover that had split with age. Marked on its pages were precise notes written in your own hand, a record of secrets acquired over years of patient observation. This book was your weapon, the result of decades spent documenting the illegal activities of people who had betrayed your family. You had kept it buried for fear of the consequences of revealing it, but now was the moment to wield its terrible truth.

The man's gaze shifted between the bag and the book, his interest evidently piqued.

"I'm positive," you stated, "that my father was framed. And I can prove it—with time, money and power." You watched his lips move to speak, but you lifted your hand to silence him. "But for now, what matters is this." You tapped the book lightly. "In these pages are the names of every shady noble my uncle gambled with—the very ones who collaborated with him to dishonor my family's reputation. Their schemes, deceptions, and cover-ups. These are the architects of House of Sigvard's demise."

You leaned forward, your eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. "I know that your guild despises the crown's myriad laws. They flaunt their wealth and defy every decree. Releasing this information, especially when most concerns imperialist nobles, would shake high society to its very core. And you know it."

A heated silence ensued, laden with the promise of upheaval. The man then let forth a rich, hearty laugh stirring the dust in the dim light.

"By the Allfather," he vociferated in both admiration and menace. "You really are the daughter of Sigvard and Regna, to speak so boldly." His eyes glittered in a blend of curiosity and a tinge of an unsettling look. "Very well, girl. Tell me, what do you want from us?”

You inhaled quietly to calm your nerves, keeping your grip protectively curled around the purse and the book. The man's dark gaze pierced into you, anticipating your next words and the price you would set.

"I want your help," you bid carefully. "I will gradually pay you in coins and reveal names when I'll come to seek your assistance. Presently, I request your aid regarding two issues."

His eyes glinted with interest, prompting you to deliver the next words with purpose and careful arrangement.

"Firstly, I want you to remove the allegations and evidence of tax evasion that my uncle have tarnished my house's reputation with. Clear my reputation in the eyes of the crown, so that the gossip can stop." You paused, letting the weight of the request settle between you. 

"I will also need a list of future bachelors. I need the names of individuals who are wealthy, of impeccable stature, and untainted by nefarious relationships. These individuals must have enough caliber to be able to keep my distant relatives at bay should they seek to claim what I am and what I own, and they have to allow me to develop sa business of my own by using their riches and influence should it be necessary."

The candle's flame trembled in the silence of the room, its feeble glow stretching enough to let you perceive the man reclining in his dilapidated chair that protested with every tiny movement. 

“Very well,” he pronounced resolutely, as if the verdict had been sealed in his mind long before the words escaped his lips. “You will receive a pigeon carrier during the following few days to deliver the information you have requested. Regarding the remainder of your requests, I will make every effort to assist you as soon as you deem it necessary. You have my word.”

A slow nod was your only reply, as the gravity of the agreement pressed upon you like a stone sinking in dark water. With the deal inked in the silent contract between your eyes, you reached for the small, leather-bound book that lay between you. The book’s spine creaked in protest as you opened it, your fingertips caressing its jaundiced pages and you swiftly tore out a single page.

The crisp sound of paper severing its bond with the rest of the book was startling in the impendation, a punctuation to the gravity of the occasion. You laid the page  before him, bearing a list of names—each scrawled letter a testament to your resolve and the fate of those who had wronged you.

“Here,” you piped, betraying nothing of the tumult that churned beneath the surface. “Consider this a preview. This will only be the beginning.” Your fingertips brushed the cool edge of the parchment as you withdrew your hand.

His searching eyes roamed the list, a subtle spark of malevolent glee igniting in their depths. No words were needed, the silent acknowledgment passed between you both was enough. You then released the contents of your pouch, of which jangled softly as you set it beside the page. 

“As promised,” you declared, your tone final. You cast one last glance at the parchment and the pouch—symbols of heritage and leap of faith intertwined—and with a hasty resolve, you retrieved the crest. 

You finally took your departure, your boots tapping against the floor as you advanced. Your hand reached for the cold iron handle, but before you could definitely leave, his voice halted you once more.

“Sigvarddóttir,” he called with curious intrigue. “One last question before you leave.”

You paused, your eyes meeting his as you tilted your head in quiet expectation. “What is it?”

“If you had to represent yourself, how would you do it?”

The question hung between you like a delicate wisp of perfume. For a short stretch of time, you considered its layers, the hidden meanings swirling like autumn leaves caught in a gentle wind. “I suppose you have your own reasons for asking,” you began, a note of uncertainty in your tone. 

“As for how I would present myself... the answer is, in truth, simple.” Your eyes fell to the family crest, seeping cold from the metal in your hand. "I will always bear the signature of my house with pride, regardless of the circumstance. I wear its history, its strength, and even its failures upon my shoulders, and it will forever define who I am at core, along with how I choose to depict myself hereafter.”

A moment passed before the man’s lips twitched into a small, wry smile. “A proud answer indeed,” he concluded thoughtfully in a small appraisal. 

With that, you turned once more toward the door and without a backward glance, you pushed open the door and stepped into the dim corridor beyond, your mind already racing with the preparation of your next move to play.

Inside the room, the man’s attention returned to the page, his fingers tracing over the names with abnormal care. A soft chuckle escaped him as he murmured, almost to himself, “Interesting... Very interesting.”

His form began to blur and shift. The harsh, angular features softened, the masculine lines giving way to the delicate grace of a woman’s visage. In a seamless transformation, the dark, tattered garments were replaced by a gown of deep, earthen green. The fabric flowed around her lithe frame, rich in texture and hue as if woven from the forest’s heart. Golden blonde hair tumbled in gentle waves around her now expressive face that combined ethereal beauty with a spark of calculated brilliance.

She once again fixed her gaze upon the names on the page, her delicate fingers skimming over the inked list as her eyes glinted with a newfound admiration. “If my calculations are correct,” she said softly, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “this will be a fine choice as an ally. For both of us.”

Her eyes shone with the thrill of the unfolding game, a quiet laugh escaping as she already started to plot the pace to adopt in this upcoming intricate dance of fate. “Yes,” she affirmed to herself, “this will be most interesting indeed.”

⠀

⠀

ending notes : To explain the corrosive part in the burial, my understanding is that in Asgardian funerals, the fire is supposed to slowly process the body to thoroughly purify it. Her accelerating the burning would mean disrupting the ritual and therefore meddle with his passing. Let me know your thoughts about the series so far, comments and interactions are very welcomed ! <3

⠀

PROLOGUE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER ONE.⠀|⠀CHAPTER TWO.

see more His For The Season related works.

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⠀⠀

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[forsaken-headcanons]

I like to personally headcanon that each survivor appeared one at a time, First Shedletsky, then Builderman, two time, guest 1337, 007n7, Elliot, and then noob... etc

when they first arrive brought by the specter in a blinding moment where they get a few hours of break from these games of its... the new player gets to calm down... learn whats going on... each of them are taken from a moment of time different from one another..

When they first appear, they are shocked and surprised, startled even, and petrified when they go through their first game.

I want to talk about 007n7 firstly, cause I will be coming back with more headcanons on how each of them reacted upon being sent and forsakened...

when 007n7 appered, it was a few months after his son was gone... missing... or dead...

he was a wreck already, his hat a bit wonky, his glasses uncleaned, deep eye bags from the nights he spent staring at the ceiling as those voices of doubt crept up and consumed him whole.

he fixed himself quickly, or to the best of his ability before being told about it, about what was going on.

he was shocked of course... startled even, but deep down, he knew he deserved this hell for how he failed his son's... C00LKIDD AND Bluedudde...

he knew or well recognized two of the people... past admins he'd butt heads with a few times in the past before... an accident occurred (this headcanon about the accident is a comic I'm making, so thank you for reading this ramble this far)... he knew of their status, of their ability... and noted how powerless they were...

he tried opening up C00lGUI, it worked slightly, just a bit wonky, the others were surprised, the ones already there a bit frightened that an exploiter, a damn hacker even, was sent to this hell on their side... but they watched as 007n7 tried to figure this out, but with in the next few moments the screen broke and embedded itself slightly into his skin, he hissed in pain as the Specter let a note fall from the ceiling for 007n7...

it stated that, while he'd have some of his abilities within this game of its, 007n7 wouldn't be able to use it on break time without risk of injury depending on what he was trying to do...

thats how 007n7 learned he was stuck here alongside the others for how ever long these games would last...

now onto when he had to face off against his own son... 007n7 would be shocked, frozen in fear as builderman tried to pull him a bit back, knowing how much fear being in these games can put into you when you first get here...

but he froze in shock that builderman did as 007n7 muttered under his breath, "son?" in a meek, exhausted, hopeless, and horrified voice...

007n7 during his first few games tried to keep the others from hurting his son, he kept getting yelled at because of it, the others confused on how he was so dense about this... builderman didn't speak up about what he heard, he only told Shedletsky who understood the pains of having ones creation, their own child face off against them in this sickened game...

guest 1337 shouted at 007n7 about how he was going to get killed out there by that murder, by that MONSTER...

007n7 lost his cool and all but screamed: "DON'T YOU DARE CALL MY SON A MONSTER!" tears briddled into his eyes as he left, heading towards the dock.

the survirors as they stood, this meek little group stood their grappling with this news...

this is how 007n7 started to become an outsider to the group unlike Shedletsky who was in a similar department to the man...

the anguish only grew from watching his son hurt others, the months passed, their numbers grew... Elliot gave him a cold shoulder as always, and slowly but surely 007n7 started to wither away...

not from being alone, hell he deserved that...

no he was weathering away because he knew he was no better then the killers they faced off against... he was killed over and over again, each time he tried to run and survive, his brain screaming at him that someone like him didn't deserve to... as his own son killed him over, and over, and over again...

eventually 007n7 was just quiet... The Specter knew he couldn't risk 007n7 dying in the break time, their'd be no bring him back, no more drama from this man, no more entertainment...

so the least it could do... was allow this man to see his son every once in awhile the way he use to be.. to try and keep this man around, to string him about before he hit him with another dark part of his past...

because what was this game then a sick little show to show how someones nasty past can effect others in the future?

thank you for reading this ,w,

i need to get my brains thoughts about this out before I forget them frfr

Ooh, that's a long one, but a good one.

[archiewantsheetmetal]

Hello Layton Nation. I am creating an AU based on those freight-hopper stories set in a time based on the Great Depression.

Major PL spoilers!

This is my first ever AU I am making public! The first chapter is already in the works while I plan out the major plot points of the story.

To summarize, Professor Layton's life has been almost completely destroyed in this 1930s-esque England, amidst a economic depression. Severe economic crisis has rippled across the globe, and Layton has been unable to get back on his feet since his attack shortly after Claire's death, losing his job and his money. He's left his city life behind and now lives wherever the tracks take him, staying out of the way of his previous loved ones in order to spare them of his problems and to relieve them of his burden.

Luke Triton is much the same as he would be pre-Last Specter, but everyone was effected by the depression. His family had to juggle treading financial waters and taking care of issues within the village until a greedy, desperate-for-money, immoral organization, Targent, destroys Misthallery in search of the Golden Garden. He runs away in order to save his own life after everything he knows is destroyed. He hops into a nearby freight, and meets a sleepy and free-roaming gentleman.

They ride the tracks together until Targent, which was also hired by the government to snuff Layton out, destroys the freight while it's still moving along the rail, propelling Luke and Layton off the familiar track and into the main story;

Phantom Railway.

After escaping from Targent at last with the notion that a mysterious assassin is on their tails, Layton and Luke learn of a strange railway that supposedly suddenly appeared one day. There are many myths and legends that surround the tracks, saying that those who manage to board the train that rides them are taken to the afterlife, and any who try to follow the tracks to the end disappear, never to be seen again.

With his interest piqued and his money nonexistent, Layton figures he wants to go explore this mysterious railway. Luke, of course, with nowhere else to go, insists on going with the man, and the two set off.

Phantom Railway I hope will do at least a little bit of justice to the types of stories on which it is based, and I hope those who read it will enjoy it. It will be less of a mystery-type and more of an adventure, but I'll try my best to incorporate both aspects into the storyline as much as I can.

I came up with this idea while driving past an abandoned railway in my town, and figured it looked eerie enough to make a cool story. I then found myself thinking about one of the scenes from a movie where a group of chain-gang prisoners escape to hop into the boxcar of a moving freight train, which has always been one of my favorite scenes in cinema.

This is my first time writing a project like this, so I'm hoping it does decently.

I'm still working things out, and if anyone has any questions, please ask! Honestly, it will help me understand my own lore so I can build and write it a little more fluidly.

This is still heavily WIP, and so many things stated in this post may change!

If anyone has any sort of objections, tell me those too! Correct me on anything, talk to me, ask questions, I'm open!

THANKS! -ARCHIE ☻

[robin-evry]

Is dead yuu right with you?

Tbh, I was a little confused at first because since are you referring to yuu who is similar to a ghost or a zombie or are you referring to yuu who is literally dead.

So I decided to create this, I hope it will satisfy you.

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃!𝐘𝐔𝐔 👻👻

a ghost is the soul or spirit of a dead person or non-human animal that is believed to be able to appear to the living. In ghostlore, descriptions of ghosts vary widely, from an invisible presence to translucent or barely visible wispy shapes to realistic, lifelike forms. The deliberate attempt to contact the spirit of a deceased person is known as necromancy, or in spiritism as a séance. Other terms associated with it are apparition, haunt, haint, phantom, poltergeist, shade, specter, spirit, spook, wraith, demon, and ghoul.

( English is not my first language )

In this scenario, yuu died during the dwarf mine cave arc, they died by having their head being pierced by the pick axe of the monster. After their death was announced Crowley decided to hide the death, because it will stain the reputation of the school and their body was buried in the forest near the cave or was cremated and spread around the forest.

The good thing is that they have returned as a ghost unfortunately because they don't want to leave their friends and grim.

Ghost!Yuu appears ethereal, with a translucent form that resembles how they looked in life, but with a faint, ghostly glow. They still look exactly the same as when they died, but they do have an left open wound from where the pickaxe pierce them in the head.

they can speak, but only in whispers or vague, fragmented sentences. Some students can hear them better than others, while others may not hear them at all.

They have the ability to influence the physical world in small ways—moving objects slightly, chilling a room, or writing messages with frost on windows.

People can still see them but it's very vague the next thing you were walking in the hallway and then ghost!yuu would appear to walk past them. They can disappear or reappear but they can't control this ability.

They cannot appear in photos only if the camera has some magic in it to detect them, or they will appear but it's very vague only showing their outline that they were there.

Whenever their spirit is near, the temperature drops significantly, and lights flicker or dim. Some of the more sensitive students feel chills down their spines or notice frost forming on windows. It’s an eerie reminder that they are always watching, even when they don’t make themselves known.

They tried to communicate with the living by subtly manipulating their surroundings. They write cryptic messages in the frost on mirrors or use objects to draw attention to clues related to the mystery of the mine collapse. Ace and Deuce are the first to notice these signs, though they’re not always sure if it’s truly their or just their imaginations.

Since dead!yuu is not originally from this world making their ghost form more different than the ghost in twst. Their ghost form is more vague and they have limited access to communicate in the physical world unlike the ghost of twst since they can interact normally

They can pass through walls and objects at will, and can turn invisible when they want to avoid detection. However, they struggle to interact with solid objects, meaning they can’t always physically participate in daily tasks. But soon after enough training they will start to get better at interacting in the physical world

They can float or fly short distances, which makes traveling through the school easy. Occasionally, they finds themselves unintentionally teleporting when emotional, appearing in unexpected places without warning.

Though they can’t directly touch most things, they can subtly manipulate their surroundings—flickering lights, cold drafts, or moving small objects with enough focus and they can lower the Temperature of the environment they're in.

They can only speak in whispers or faint echoes, and not everyone can hear them clearly. Over time, they learn to control this, becoming more audible to certain people, especially those attuned to the supernatural.

They attend classes like any other student, though they struggle with certain tasks that require physical interaction. Teachers treat them with a mix of curiosity and respect, often assigning special accommodations so Yuu can participate. For example, in potion-making, they must direct Grim or another classmate to handle the ingredients for them. Over time, they learns to manipulate objects enough to contribute, albeit in unique ways.

Most students are initially wary of them, especially because they are a ghost. Some believe they bring bad luck, while others are fascinated by their presence. However, their personality (whether warm, curious, or mischievous) eventually breaks through these barriers, and they form close friendships with students like Ace, Deuce, and others. They also becomes known for pranking students, using their ghostly abilities to spook the more gullible ones like Epel and Sebek.

Even though their personality stays the same, dead!yuu is slowly suffering from depression, since they died here in twst, they realized that their soul would not come back to their original world or will be able to taste delicious food. Which may cause them to overblot.

attacks or magic cannot literally damage it usually phases thru their body.

During their first encounter malleus was admiring the gargoyles in ramshackle when dead!yuu pop their heads out and introduce themselves.

They also scared idia, they pop out there thru his monitor during an important game and he literally jumps back and faints, this causes the attention of Ortho who rush over his room ready to attack, after some explanation, they introduce each other and they would usually watch idia play his game during their free time.

Their magic allows them to interact with objects and people in a spectral manner. They can move objects without touching them directly, using ghostly energy. For example, they can open doors, pick up light objects, or create gusts of wind by channeling their spectral form. This ability could grow stronger with time, allowing them to manipulate larger or more complex things as they practice.

They can project ghostly energy to create shields or barriers. This magic is translucent, appearing like shimmering mist or ethereal light, and can protect others from harm, though it might be less sturdy than a living person’s magic. Over time, they could develop this magic to create temporary ghostly constructs—like weapons or tools—though these would have a fleeting nature and eventually dissipate.

They could possess objects and, in rare cases, people. When possessing objects, Yuu can animate them for a short period—think of a book flying off a shelf, a pen writing on its own, or even a weapon moving as if it were wielded by an invisible hand. Possessing people, however, is more taxing and would likely only be used in extreme circumstances. When Yuu does possess someone, it’s for brief moments, and they cannot control someone fully; instead, they might influence their movements or speech slightly.

They can fade in and out of sight, turning invisible or making parts of their body intangible. This allows them to pass through walls, avoid physical attacks, or remain unseen when they wish to observe something in secret. However, while invisible, their presence still leaves a chill in the air, and those attuned to magic may still sense them nearby.

They also have the ability to create mini ghosts or hollows that they can manipulate in their will These Hollows can come in different sizes depending on what the user desires The Hollows are able to fly and, being intangible, are immune to physical attacks. These ghosts can work as their eyes and ears around NRC. This ghost could take the form on how they were made, some ghosts were created to explode, work as clones for dead!yuu, can help reganerate magical energy if their friends are running low on magic, This ability is very versatile.

Their magic weakens significantly the further they are from the grounds of Night Raven College. Since their soul is bound to the school, they lose strength if they wander too far from its magical energy, meaning they can only fully access their abilities within the school or areas closely tied to it.

They cannot perform magic that directly manipulates physical matter in the same way living students can. For example, they cannot create fire, water, or other solid elements. Their magic is limited to more spiritual or ghostly effects, like influencing dreams, moving objects, or creating phantom constructs.

Get along with the other ghosts in NRC, they teach them how to interact and maintain their physical form for long as well how to pull pranks and use their ability.

Have a disdain for Crowley for hiding the truth from the world, he will excuse himself saying it jeopardize the school reputation as well saying they should accept being expelled then they shouldn't be in this situation this angered dead!yuu which causes them to make Crowley living days hell, obeject thrown around and other.

The Adeuce as well grim blame themselves for dead!yuu turning into a ghost, even though they said they were fine about it and that it wasn't their fault they still blame themselves for their unfortunate fate.

Grim was the most devastated by their death, and when they comeback as a ghost he refused to believe it and said they were just an illusion, after calming him down and talk to each other grim cried and wanted to embrace them but soon phased thru their body and he become more overprotective over them saying that it won't happen again.

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

[Excerpt from The Jaws of Life - Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Now part of me has holes in it - and part of me is whole.  We’ve only begun.  But I’m having the time of my life - rotting in the sun. We’re inside The Jaws of Life.

(Sequel to Emergency Contact)

The unknown man had his back turned to you, bulked up and broad with some armored tactical gear on, topped off with a mop of curly dark hair that twinged familiarity in your gut. In the middle of your kitchen island, there was a bright red helmet with a full face covering mask. One he seemed to have taken off and placed there - almost as if he was relaxing and making himself at home. 

If he sensed your presence, he wasn’t eager to turn around and fight you. He didn’t seem like he was trying to attack you. 

“Listen here, asshole! I’ll give you two minutes to get the hell out before I’m calling for back-up!” You shouted, gripping onto your bat tighter now. 

The man shut off the tap, and then finally - turned to you. 

You felt your stomach swell up into your throat when you saw that face. Even beaten up and bruised, blood dripping down his brow, taking sharp gulps from a glass of water that he had clearly gotten himself from the sink - it was so startlingly him. 

“It’s nice to know that I’m still your asshole.” Jason said, throwing you a smirk past the glass before he continued chugging the water, finishing off the glass before he put it aside with a hollow ‘clink’.

It felt like an illusion - a hallucination. Your feet were numb and you were torn between racing across the room to pull him into your arms and screaming at him - perhaps yelling at him to leave so the specter, the ghost of his presence would be banished. 

With your chest heavy and your head light, you finally managed to choke out: 

“J-Jason?” 

He looked at you with terror dancing in his eyes then, as though realizing for the first time that this sudden break-in might have scared you. That his sudden appearance, back from the dead, wasn’t the beautiful reunion that he could have hoped for. 

Jason was alive. 

[typellblog]

Illyasviel von Einzbern: The Hole at the Center of Fate/Stay Night

Emiya Shirou is the beating heart of Fate/Stay Night. Every character radiates outwards from Shirou, shapes and is shaped by him. He fights against foils like Archer and Kirei while growing alongside the three main heroines in each route.

There's really only one character who precedes Shirou in influence, who shapes him near-completely but cannot himself be shaped.

Emiya Kiritsugu is already dead, after all.

It's his legacy that drives the novel - but something oft-undiscussed is that Shirou only has half of it. He inherits his father’s justice, and the one that inherits his ruthlessness is Illya. Thus, Illya’s relationship to Shirou is dictated from the start.

She is everything his father left behind, the first gatekeeper of the moonlit world of death and magecraft that Shirou now finds himself in. In this role she transcends routes, appearing at the end of the third day to deliver a near-lethal attack just as the story branches off.

She seems intent to deliver Kiritsugu’s baggage to Shirou, to make him reckon with the past that he himself never experienced; the truth that a hero can only help those he sides with while many others are left alone in the cold.

In this way her very existence is a far more fundamental challenge to Shirou’s ideals than that of any other character - and yet this challenge is met only indirectly. Much of the information regarding her true identity and relationship to Shirou is elided until the end of HF.

She functions similarly to Sakura, a character who totally changes the reader’s perception of the first two routes in retrospect. The reveals about Illya force us to reevaluate how positive her ending in the Fate route really is.

In the narrative of Heaven’s Feel, both Illya and Sakura are considered ‘doomed’ - able to be saved only by Shirou sacrificing his own life to Archer’s arm.

It’s the crux of their characterisation, in the same way that Saber’s pursuit of the Holy Grail leads her into timeless and uncountable doomed battles. In a route based around that character, you would expect fixing it to be the main thrust of the plot.

And so just as the Fate route is focused on Shirou clashing with Saber over her lack of regard for her safety, and Heaven’s Feel is focused on accepting even the ‘impure’ parts of Sakura, there is no route focused on showing Illya that she needn't give up on having a normal life.

Instead all of her scenes in Heaven’s Feel are about accepting that she cannot have one.

This is the hole in the center of FSN that I’m talking about. Its absence is felt keenly throughout the novel, because Illya has another role besides a specter of Shirou's past. She embodies the prize and object of the Holy Grail War itself - the very same wish-granting device.

Many of the characters in this story are not fighting for the Grail specifically, but nonetheless their strong personalities and desires cause them to clash with one another, in a process Kirei sees as comparable to everyday life.

Their wishes, both in the form of the dead’s regrets and victor’s will, enter the neutral, empty Grail in order to produce a miracle. The only one not allowed a will of their own is the vessel of the Grail, who, in absorbing these desires, must completely erase their humanity.

Illya is not intended to have a reason to pursue the Grail, nor any life beyond obtaining it. The war is premised on the sacrifice of the Servants, yes, but nonetheless they enter as contestants. Illya, like Justeaze before her, enters the ritual only as a sacrifice.

And yet an outside element is introduced. Illya being part-human, the product of an actual family rather than just a clone allows for her to have personal motivations. She holds on to her resentment of Kiritsugu, despite knowing that it’s pointless, because it’s all she has left.

A parallel can be made to the Grail itself. Supposedly a pure wish-granting device, it becomes corrupted through the influence of Angra Mainyu, one small, perverse wish colouring the whole thing black.

The desired salvation of the Einzberns, their thousand-year project relies on being able to reproduce the miracle, to understand every component part of their attempts in order to draw ever closer to the Third Magic, but Illya is a random factor, born to a human parent.

She’s also their greatest creation since Justeaze. Miracles, after all, exist because they are not understood.

The corruption of the Grail with the darkest desires of the world is just the inevitable result of any wish - the price of becoming a human instead of existing as a machine. Live long enough and anyone would turn into Zouken, higher goals suborned by a base desire to escape pain.

Like Illya the Grail is a failed project, a tool that can only provide salvation of a limited nature & only fulfill its purpose incompletely, proof positive that true perfection does not exist in the world of Fate/Stay Night.

In Illya’s case the bug in her programming comes fundamentally from a desire for family, for someone to be close to her. Despite her dysfunctional initial approaches she’s perfectly capable of living normally alongside Shirou.

The issue, then, is the Grail War itself.

Her two sides, two different origins, come into conflict here, and her role as the Holy Grail consistently wins. Not because she desires it in any real sense, but because she doesn’t believe that she can do anything else.

Consider how the Fate route ends with Saber and Shirou trying to live without regrets, accepting both the negative and positive aspects of the past without dwelling on that which cannot be changed.

Consider how Illya in the Fate route doesn’t say a single thing about her condition, refuses to burden others with that knowledge, accepting the fact of her death and instead choosing to live in the moment.

Consider how the Unlimited Blade Works route is about Shirou trying to live without regrets, accepting that he will not always succeed, that his self-sacrificing nature will hurt him, but nonetheless his pursuit of that goal is worthwhile.

Consider how Illya’s death is used to illustrate this, how she cannot be saved regardless of whether Shirou makes the choice to intervene or not, how his sorrow is used as proof of his brokenness and his ability to move forward regardless is used as proof of his strength.

Consider why the Heaven's Feel route is named after the ritual that materializes the soul, why this is identified with salvation and rebirth by the Einzberns. I would argue that the Third Magic is a metaphor for the process Shirou undergoes throughout the novel.

He evolves from a machine into a human, gaining his own desires and the will to live. And just as Heaven’s Feel, the ritual, requires a sacrifice: Justeaze’s blood forms the foundation, so too does Heaven’s Feel, the route: Illya spends her own life to fully realize Shirou’s.

In moving past Kiritsugu’s legacy, he moves past his belief that his life is worth less than others. He wants to live, wants to let Illya save him, wants to let her sacrifice herself for him. In moving past Kiritsugu’s legacy, he moves past Illya.

I don’t blame him. I just want to emphasize how significant to this novel the existence of suffering is, how important the figure of someone who cannot be saved, how necessary a single person’s sacrifice. And how this falls on Illya in every route.

In the latter parts of the Fate route she quickly disappears from story relevance. Her functions as a Grail offer a convenient excuse to have her sleeping for much of the day, as it does for Kirei’s kidnapping of her, stringing her up as a sacrifice to open the gate.

In UBW we have Gilgamesh brutally ripping out her heart. He values her purely for her core, which holds the Grail, tossing aside the rest of her body.

If her role as the Grail is what drives her doom, though, she is at least partially able to overcome this at the end of Heaven’s Feel.

For a brief moment, Illya escapes the bonds of fate by uniting her deeply personal wish with the impersonal functions of the Grail.

She also dies. She fucking dies, okay? I’m so tired of talking about this as though it’s supposed to be a good thing, as though we’re just supposed to accept it as the best possible option.

It works precisely because we know there is another, because we know for a fucking fact that an Illya route could have existed, that her salvation is possible not just from a meta perspective but directly implied in-universe.

Illya’s power is to grant wishes, but she is incapable of giving voice to her own. She needs someone there by her side to tell her that it’s okay to want to live, and yet- Shirou is so fucking broken that he needs her to do that for him instead.

Illya could have lived, but she doesn’t, and in not doing so she carries half the weight of this story’s tragedy on her back.

In a way this is an excuse for the lack of an Illya route. I really do think its blatant absence adds something to Fate/Stay Night, really sells the tragedy of HF, becomes even more beautiful precisely because of its unattainability.

It’s a comment on how the artistic process, materializing your soul on paper if you will, is an inherently restrictive one, rife with failure and things left on the chopping board.

But it does not, not for a second, mean that we should accept the lack of an Illya route. It doesn’t mean the desire for it is a bad thing. It doesn’t mean that its addition would make Fate/Stay Night worse.

It would, however, become a different game at that point, and here I want to pay respect to the one that has lived alongside me for twenty years.

Thanks for reading, and happy anniversary to my favourite story of all time.

[feuilletonette]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 ━━━━ 𝐄𝐝𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐏𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐞

SUMMARY: A weary King Edmund encounters a celestial being of moonlight given human form—and in her eyes, he finds not judgment, but the quiet promise of peace he’d forgotten to hope for.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Just because I saw a portrait of a knight and a princess under the Golden Brown song but make it a king and an enchantress. Below 500 word count.

Edmund Pevensie moved through his kingdom like a hymn half-remembered at dawn—each gesture measured, each word weighted with the gold of hard-won wisdom. The crown upon his brow had long since ceased to be a burden; it had grown into him, vines of silver and duty twining through his dark curls until metal and flesh became one. His sword, once thirsty for justice, now rested in its scabbard with the contentment of a sated beast.

Then something—someone, emerged from the weeping willows as mist takes form—first a suggestion, then a certainty.

He stood at the forest’s edge, his crown catching the last honeyed light of dusk—not as a king awaiting tribute, but as a man who had long since learned to listen to the whispers of leaves.

And then—you appeared.

Not as a vision, nor a specter, but as the earth gives way to spring: tenderly, inevitably, and beautiful. Crushingly so.

The first thing he noticed was the scent—wild thyme and something colder, sharper, like frost on silver. Then, the light. Or rather, the way it bent around you, as if hesitant to touch your skin, dappling silhouette with fragments of stolen moonlight.

It hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fading sun. Your garment was spun from the whispers of jasmine and the last sigh of golden spring. Your hair like liquid onyx spilled down your back, threaded through with veins of quicksilver that shimmered with each breath you did not need to take, slipping through the mist like something half-dreamed.

Yet, it was your eyes that seemed to lead him in his undoing.

They were the soft grey of dawn mist over still waters, twinkling sort that men charted courses by, flickering kind that danced just before the universe collapsed into itself. When you blinked, galaxies were born and died in the sweep of your lashes—twin abysses lined with stars.

As you looked at him, Edmund felt something in his chest loosen—not the unraveling of a noose, but the gentle slipping of a knot he hadn’t realized he’d tied. There was no judgment in your gaze, only a quiet understanding that flowed over him like soft balm.

“Son of Adam,” You breathed, and the words unfurled like smoke from an altar, “do you still taste the lies of winter on your tongue?”

Edmund’s fingers brushed the hilt of his sword—not in threat, but in remembrance. The leather groaned beneath his touch, whispering of frostbitten battlefields and the sweet, cloying rot of enchanted confections.

He could no more have refused you than the tide could refuse the moon.

“I taste only the wine of today’s council,” he replied, his voice the steady cadence of a heartbeat beneath armor. “The past has lost its flavor.”

You laughed, and the sound was the cracking of ancient ice, the first fall of snow upon a forgotten grave. For someone who loathed winter, Edmund seems to be adjusting well with the very terms you appear to represent. Then, a hand—pale as a communion wafer, cold as a buried blade—drifted toward his cheek.

“Tell me, does your lion still roar in your dreams?”

The king did not shudder. “All kings dream of lions,” he admitted, his voice rough with something like wonder.

For a moment, the very forest stilled. The creek ceased its babbling, the wind forgot to sigh, and the fireflies paused in their drunken waltz. Then you smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing he had ever witnessed—beautiful as a bloodstain on fresh snow, inevitable as a noose settling into place, yet it was as if someone had lit a candle in a long abandoned chamber.

“They say you kneel only to truth,” you said. The hem of your dress stirred though no wind blew—a thing woven from spider-silk and the twinkle of dying stars.

Edmund did not flinch. “I have knelt to many things,” he replied. His breath fogged the air between them, a fleeting veil. “I know the difference now.”

You tilted your head, and the rising steadfast moonlight slid down your throat like a knife. “And what does a king kneel to, when the world is quiet?”

“To the things that outlast crowns,”

A pause. Somewhere, an owl called—or perhaps it was the whispers of the winds, low and humming, the sound a blade might make if it could sing.

“King Edmund,” You murmured. Your fingers traced the air above his lips, close enough that he could feel the warmth in its touch. “You are more than your regrets.”

And as suddenly as you had come, you were gone—leaving behind only the scent of crushed violets and the unsettling certainty that the moon was watching him more closely than before.

For in that moment, Edmund—once a king, once a traitor, now simply a man—let himself drown in the quiet harbor of your presence. The silence around him hums with the lullabies of twilight blues, with the weight of things he’ll never name.

The trees, ancient and knowing, held its breath. Somewhere, far above, a thin sliver of moon pressed through the clouds.

© FEUILLETONETTE

[novankenn]

What If...

Pyrrha was also under the sway of Salem Cinder and Pyrrha love each other (Pompeii)

Scene : Beach of the EverAfter / Paper Pleasers Village

==> @soundkiller0017 What if Pyrrha destroys the paper pleaser village in a anger attack (beacuse she realise that she traded a really good live for a one in survice to a Queen that disent care of her and a manipulative lover) and after destroying the village she is met by a ROYALY PISS, ANGRY AND MERCILLES Jaune, Neo and Team RWBY who would give her a fate worse than death.1Hide replies

==> @watcher-servant The betrayer Spartan had stayed there... left in thought of what just happened. So with strain, she picked up her spear and walked on as much as she could. Coming upon a village, one so fragile so peaceful it only raged her all of this felt like a slap to her choices. So what did she do..she raged the peaceful village she came upon she destroyed...only when she stopped when she realized what she done, she would see a familiar umbrella appear before and it's holder looking very disappointed as a loud and very familiar yell is heard.

==> A/N - No redemption for the Spartan? You all REALLY seem set on me offing this Pyrrha! ==> A/N - In this version... Only Jaune and Pyrrha "fell", though I will do an OMAKE with Neo and RWBY also "falling" in a later post.

She had no idea how much time had past since she found herself near death upon this small stretch of sandy beach. Weeks? Months? Days just ran into each other, as she attempted to heal, and regain her original strength. She felt alone, yet she wasn't. She found herself at odd times seeing things, most notably the wraith of Cinder standing in the shadows of the forest edge. Gesturing for her to follow.

Then there was the more heart breaking ones. The image of her mother standing in the surf, a heart broken look upon her teary face. The exact look she wore when Cinder helped Pyrrha remove her as an obstacle to Pyrrha's relationship with Cinder. Had she made a mistake listening to Cinder's whispered words?

At odd times she also saw Jaune. Kneeling on the sands, just at the limit of her vision. Impaled through the chest with Milo, though these rare visions were accompanied with her seeing the rusted armor clade knight. His sheathed sword held in his hand, standing as if watching her.

Her nights were filled with whispers and nightmares. Words of condemnation, accompanied the angered and hurt looks of her former team and friends. Yet the whispers didn't alone happen during the darkest parts of the night. They also began to happen during her other visions, as well.

"Why?" was all that the figment of her mother would say. Over and over, in a maddening rhythmic cadence.

"Join me. Let us take this place." Cinder's seductive voice would float past her ears, even when her image was unseen. "They are weak... powerless. Show them your strength."

"Why linger here? Why allow the weak celebrate and flourish?" were Cinder's other enticing words. "Why remain here? Rotting away alone with nothing? Honor me. Prove to me the strength that drew me to you, still exists."

Yet, Pyrrha continued. Eking out an existence, as her strength grew, and the voices continued their relentless assault. Slowly of the was it days? Weeks? Months? Her resolve and intention to seek redemption was worn away. An anger smoldered in her heart. Embers of hate aimed at those who had what she had always craved. Acceptance, joy and love. Everything Jaune had taken from her.

Finally feeling strong enough to venture into the forest, she walked away from the specters of her mother and Jaune, to join the wraith of Cinder in the shadows. She felt the touch of Cinder's searing kisses upon her cheek and lips, and with her cold emerald eyes closed she revealed and celebrated the tainted embraces, before opening her eyes and taking the first step on her new jounrey.

The residents and inhabitants of this strange, nonsensical place seemed to reflexively avoid her. Hiding as she passed by. Her burning eyes, and wild unkept mane of flowing crimson a promise of what would happen if they crossed her path. The isolation gnawed upon her, as Cinder's seductive, wanton words eroded any thoughts that did not focus on her injustice punishment and isolated imprisonment. Pyrrha's mind twisted by the ghost of Cinder's venom raged at the loss of her happiness. Of a future with the woman she had given her heart.

Days blurred into one another, and time seem to crawl as she stalked through twisted land. A cruel smile crossed her lips when she found them. A village, of star shaped people. Foolish and cumbersome. The sound of their happy voices, and the sight of the idyllic scene, fanned the flames of rage.

"Punish them. Take what has been taken from you, my love." was the whisper of Cinder's poisonous, tainted words in her ear. "Take, and show them what your pain is..."

It was a slaughter. The razor edge of her spear cleaved the fragile people asunder. Her brute strength, bolstered with absolute burning hateful rage, allowing her to lay waste to all in her path. Her eyes shined at the carnage, her lips twisted with cruel joy as she unleashed her true self upon them. Cinder's venomous laughter following her every step as she unleashed desolation upon the people before her.

"I am Pyrrha Nikos!" she screamed in putrid victory, as she stood in the middle of the razed village. "Hear me, and lament! This world is mine!"

The creak of armor, from her right caused her to turn. Her sick smile becoming cruel, her eyes shining in delight. There he was, one of her tormentors. The liar who promised absolution. He who left her to wallow in misery and suffering.

"Look upon what I am!" Pyrrha cackled. "I am death! I am destruction! Bow knee to me and serve!"

"Disgusting." was his hollow response. "You were given the chance to become more than this disease, hateful creature you are now."

"This is who I am! Why should I deny myself from that which was taken from me? Happiness, love, acceptance! I was robbed of all this!"

"You could have found that all and more if you had followed a true path." the knight replied, while reaching up with his free hand to take hold of his helmet. "Your sins are many in this life and the last. Look upon me... and know..."

"Know..." Pyrrha's words caught in her throat, as the knight's helm fell discarded upon the ground. After several long moments she was able to croak out, "Jaune?"

"Look upon the face or your accuser... your judge... your jury..." with perfect motion, he drew his sword from its sheath, tossing the empty vessel aside without a care. "and... executioner."

Pyrrha was given no chance to respond, as Jaune was upon her in an instant. His blows were precise, and without equal as he unleash impassive, cold, judgement upon her. She railed against his onslaught, but if he was a monster the last time she faced him... now he was akin to demon.

She used all her skills, ever tactic, trick and tool at her disposal, yet she was found wanting in all regards. With a missed attack, Jaune gave Pyrrha an opening, that she desperately took. It was a feint, a purposeful misdirection. His response to her spear thrust, was simple and effective. Twisting to the side, he changed the direction of his longsword chopping in down upon the haft of her weapon.

Over balanced, Pyrrha was unable to recover before the keen edge of his blade split her open just below her breasts. She screamed in pain, her hand relinquishing it's hold upon her spear as she stumbled and fell backwards to the battle torn ground. Her eyes grew wide with fear as Jaune turned, and chambered his sword for a final strike.

"Cinder! Help me!" Pyrrha screamed out in a voice filled with utter desperation. A voice that was chocked off, as the vision of her love that had walked at her side for so long, gave her a cruel smile and faded away. "Cinder!"

Jaune's blade bit deep into her flesh, causing her to scream and screech in agony, as he drove in deeper and deeper. reaching down her twisted his hand in her matted mass of crimson hair, and pulled her to a seat position, eliciting a agonized cry. tears filled her eyes, as she finally understood what she truly had and was loosing.

She felt Jaune's warm skin touch her forehead. He teary eyes focusing on his now remorse filled blues.

"I prayed you would choose the correct path." he whispered. "That you would find and become the woman you had been at Beacon."

"Jau..." Pyrrha tried to speak, blood trickling over his lips.

"It seems that woman, was nothing but an facade to hide the cancer you truly are." Jaune continued to whisper. "Goodbye Pyrrha, may you finally find peace in death."

With those final words, Jaune pushed forward, driving his aged blade completely through her. Impaling the tainted heart of one he would have considered a friend. He watched, with tearless but remorseful eyes as Pyrrha's grew wide with the pain, and then dull as the light of life finally left her.

Withdrawing his weapon, he stood, and then went to work. As the sun began to sink past the horizon, Jaune finished his work. A small pile of stones places upon freshly turned soil. A spear, driven blade first at the head of the pile. he said no words, but just looked upon the fresh grave, before turning. retrieving his cast aside belongs, he sheathed his blade, and then seated his rusted helm upon his head, hiding his face in shadow.

"Goodbye." were the last words he spoke, before walking away, never to return to this place again.

[bots-and-cons]

Could i request Hcs of bumblebee and soundwave with reader being a ghost? The reader keeps it a secret cuz they dont want to scare the other humans and not confuse the bots out too much... but as time passes they notice the reader rarely eats or sleeps and sometimes if they look REALLY close they see them floating ever-so-slightly from the floor? Their cover gets blown when a vehicon shoots directly at them but the bullet goes right through them.. buddy out of fear fades out but comes back later to the base. How would the bots react?

A/N: I totally forgot I had this request, because I’ve apparently just been scrolling past this while looking for something I want to write lol. I also realized after writing the Soundwave part that I didn’t really followed the plot you laid out, but at least I did it for Bee, mostly, sorry…

~Soundwave~

•Honestly, you don’t even remember when you died, and the how is even hazier

•You don’t really care though, you’re a ghost now, it’s not really any use crying after your previous life

•So after wandering the earth for who knows how long, you came upon the decepticons and decided to sneak onto their ship

•What’s the worst that could happen? You were already dead

•Also giant robots? Hell yeah, that sounds like fun

•So yeah, you kinda become the ghost of the Nemesis, as if it isn’t haunted enough already…

•You’ve got the ability to become just barely visible and your presence makes cameras act kinda funky

•You also have the ability to pass through things, and you float just a bit off the floor/ground

•Soundwave of course starts noticing all these weird glitches with the cameras around the Nemesis and starts tracking what the reason might be

•He starts noticing this human shape appearing around the Nemesis, and he decides to get to the bottom of what’s going on

•You’ve observed these big ass robots for about a week now, and you’ve noticed that you managed to accidentally scare them so many times, at least some of them, well mostly the red one

•Soundwave finally catches you, well sort of

•He makes it known that he knows you’re there and asks you to make yourself visible

•You’re not scared of Soundwave, he can’t really do anything to you, so you’re sure he just wants to kick you off the spaceship

•You’re kinda disappointed, because you wanted to see more and you weren’t totally done with your exploration of the ship

•Soundwave observes you for a moment and concludes that you’re not a threat and just some sort of specter that’s gotten very lost

•You’re of course surprised that he just sort of leaves, so you follow him and start asking him questions (some might say you start haunting him)

•Soundwave of course isn’t particularly excited about this, but he can’t really do anything to get rid of you, because he can’t touch you

•He later realizes he can actually touch you, but it takes some effort on your part to become solid 

•You’ve actually not shown yourself to anyone else on the Nemesis, except Knockout, whose name you learned from Soundwave, but that was an accident, and now he thinks there’s a human ghost haunting the Nemesis

•He’s not wrong

~Bumblebee~

•Bee first ran into you on a lonely stretch of road that was a part of his patrol, he also noticed there was a recent car wreck on that same road, and candles and flowers left at the accident site

•He kept running into you though, again and again, and eventually you saw him transform when some vehicons attacked him on that same stretch of road

•So of course he took you to the base, and you became a part of the team, just like the trouble trio would later on

•You were the first “human” to really join the team

•Bee doesn’t really pay attention to little things such as if you’ve eaten or slept, because he thinks you just do those things when he’s not around or during the times you disappear

•He does start noticing little things, like you seem to be sort of idling, moving up and down just a tiny, tiny bit when you stand still

•He doesn’t notice you’re actually floating until much later, but he thinks he’s just imagining it

•When you eventually end up in the middle of a fight after you went to look for the trouble trio and try to keep them safe, you end up at the wrong end of a blaster

•This of course doesn’t really matter, because the blaster shot just passes through you and hits the rock behind you

•Bee has already tackled the vehicon, and he was sure you’d gotten hurt

•But you’re just standing there, oddly transparent and the edges of your body seem sort of wavy and oddly moving

•Bee is confused, but you’re annoyed and upset, because you feel like he might be scared of you now

•You and Bee go back to the base with the rest of the team, and you talk with Bee, explaining the situation to him

•When you first came to the base, you didn’t actually know you were dead, your state only became apparent to you a few days later, when you realized you hadn’t eaten or slept, and you had a bit of a freak-out

•You decided to hide it, because you didn’t want to freak out the autobots or have to leave, because you couldn’t go home, you were dead

•Bee understood, and he felt bad that he hadn’t noticed, but the two of you actually came up with a lot of fun stuff with your ghost abilities

[richincolor]

New Releases

Three new releases on our radar today and all three look like books I'd add to my TBR list. How about you?

Needy Little Things by Channelle Desamours Wednesday Books

Sariyah Lee Bryant can hear what people need—tangible things, like a pencil, a hair tie, a phone charger—an ability only her family and her best friend, Malcolm, know the truth about. But when she fulfills a need for her friend Deja who vanishes shortly after, Sariyah is left wondering if her ability is more curse than gift. This isn’t the first time one of her friends has landed on the missing persons list, and she’s determined not to let her become yet another forgotten Black girl. Not trusting the police and media to do enough on their own, Sariyah and her friends work together to figure out what led to Deja’s disappearance. But when Sariyah’s mother loses her job and her little brother faces complications with his sickle cell disease, managing her time, money, and emotions seems impossible. Desperate, Sariyah decides to hustle her need-sensing ability for cash—a choice that may not only lead her to Deja, but put her in the same danger Deja found herself in.

These Vengeful Wishes by Vanessa Montalban Zando Young Readers

A teen girl moves to a small town and discovers a mysterious wishing well possessed by La Cegua, a vengeful female spirit with the face of a horse skull, in Vanessa Montalban’s new YA fantasy standalone. When her stepfather is arrested, aspiring artist Ceci moves back to her mother’s hometown of Santa Aguas, an eccentric small town steeped in the legend of La Cegua, the specter of a wronged witch who appears on lonely roads at night, luring untrustworthy men to their deaths. Ceci and her mother take up residence in the abandoned manor of the Sevilla family, rumored to have been cursed by La Cegua, where she begins to uncover a past that seems to be connected to her mother. The more she learns of the Sevillas, the more Ceci finds herself forming a strange affinity with the feared Cegua, who she suspects is the one inspiring her paintings of a mysterious door in the forest. When the very door Ceci has been painting appears in the woods, she decides to venture through it with her new friend, Jamie. Together, they discover a well, guarded by the statue of a veiled woman. A well for granting wishes. The well of La Cegua. What starts off as harmless fun quickly escalates into something sinister when Ceci realizes that the wishes are putting the people she loves in danger and testing her own penchant for vengeance. After learning others are also searching for the well, Ceci must confront the truth of her mother’s past and prevent La Cegua’s wishes from being used for the wrong reasons. Ceci knows too well how much people will sacrifice for power. Every wish has its price, and La Cegua never forgets the ones who have wronged her.

This Ends in Embers (Divine Traitors #2) by Kamilah Cole Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Faron Vincent was once the saint of San Irie. Now, she’s done the unthinkable: betrayed her country. Alone, disgraced, and kidnapped, Faron is forced to help Iya grow his bloody empire. With her soul bonded to a ruthless killer, Faron has become an enemy to her people… and she fears they might be right. Elara Vincent—the new Empyrean—must undo the damage her sister has caused. San Irie has been brought back to the brink of war as Iya proclaims no nation will be safe from his brutal invasion. But how can Elara save her sister, her best friend, her country, and her world when she’s already cracking under the pressure? This heart-pounding conclusion to the Divine Traitors duology pushes these unforgettable heroines to their breaking point and beyond. Because when the lines between hero and villain are blurred, deadly sacrifices must be made.

[vivsinkpot]

Romantic Prompts: The Heir vs. The Bodyguard

Some love stories are declarations. Others unfold in silence — in watchful eyes, in unsaid promises, in the space between duty and desire.

This is for the ones who watch, and the ones who shine too brightly to see they’re being watched.

Here are ten prompts for the kind of love that’s felt in silence, and seen too late — or just in time. Pronouns are interchangeable.

1. He’s sworn to protect her, not to fall in love.

The first letter appears on her windowsill—no envelope, no signature, just a line in his unmistakable hand: You looked lonely tonight. She doesn’t mention it. The next one finds its way into her coat pocket. Then her book. Then her mirror. Each line is quiet, careful, and aching with things he cannot say aloud. At first, she thinks it’s a game. Then a confession. But when the words start to hint at dangers no one else could know, she realises he’s not just watching her—he’s warning her. And maybe, just maybe, protecting her from something more than assassins. Maybe from himself.

2. She knows every security detail, every route, every risk.

She memorised his routines before he ever learned her name. She was trained to get close, gain his trust, wait for the moment. And he made it easy—smiling like he meant it, speaking to her like she mattered, letting her see the soft boy beneath the title. She told herself it was all part of the job. But now her hands hesitate. Her orders remain folded, unread. He laughs beside her in the courtyard, unaware that she was meant to kill him weeks ago. She watches the way the sun catches in his hair and realises, too late, that her heart has already betrayed her.

3. He was trained never to speak unless spoken to.

He was taught to be a shadow, a silent sentinel to the heir’s every move. His training was rigid, his words few, reserved only for moments of necessity. But the heir, burdened by expectations, sought solace in conversations about literature, the isolation of power, and the unseen weight of a crown. At first, he listened, a mere observer to the princess’ musings. Yet, as the days wore on, a quiet shift occurred—words began to spill from his lips, unbidden, a bridge forming between them where once there was only distance. In the spaces between silence and duty, he found a voice he didn’t know he had.

4. She’s hired to protect a young heir with a reputation for arrogance.

She was hired to protect the tyrant prince, a young man whose arrogance was legendary, but when she arrived, she found a different truth. He wasn’t arrogant—he was quiet, almost fragile, weighed down by the expectations of a crown and the constant specter of past failures. His words were few, his eyes often cast downward, as if afraid that even a glance might awaken the ghosts of his ancestors’ disappointments. To her surprise, she became the first person in years to look beyond the rumors and see him as he truly was: a young man, not of pride, but of deep, lingering loneliness, desperate for understanding.

5. He’s not supposed to feel anything.

He was trained to remain indifferent, a stoic protector without emotions, his purpose only to shield and serve. But after the assassination attempt, when he’d thrown himself in front of her without hesitation, everything shifted. As she caught her breath, her fingers brushed his cheek—soft, gentle, a fleeting moment of humanity in the chaos—and she whispered his first name, a sound so intimate, so unexpected, that it echoed in his mind long after the danger had passed. He hadn’t been able to forget it since. That single touch, that small breach of the walls he’d built around himself, lingered like a secret he couldn’t shake.

6. She thought guarding a spoiled prince would be a simple job.

But at the grand ballroom gala, everything changed. In the midst of sparkling gowns and whispered gossip, he slid a knife into her hand, his voice low and urgent, “Trust no one but me.” The weight of the blade felt heavier than expected, as if it carried more than just steel. She glanced at him, the arrogance and charm of the prince slipping away, replaced by something darker, more calculating. Now, with the night’s intrigue unfolding around them, she found herself questioning everything—who was truly in control, and who was guarding who?

7. He sleeps standing up outside her door.

The stillness of the night was his only companion, and yet, on one particular evening, she opened the door. Her voice, soft and almost hesitant, broke the quiet: “I can’t sleep either.” It was a simple admission, but it felt like a shared understanding, a secret in the dark. She lingered in the doorway for only a moment, but it was enough. He didn’t close his eyes for the rest of the night, not out of duty, but because in that silence, they were both awake, each guarding something more fragile than they had realized.

8. He’s escaping a revolution; it’s her duty to protect him.

He was fleeing a revolution, a young lord with no more power than the title he clung to, while she was bound by duty to protect him—this cowardly, frightened man who had never learned to fight for himself. As they are forced to run together, through dense forests and hidden paths, the walls of their positions begin to fade. In the wilderness, he learns to fight, his once-soft hands growing rough from training, and she watches him, transfixed by the quiet determination in his movements. Under the silver glow of the moon, something shifts between them. She forgets to look away from his hands, the way they grasp the hilt of a blade, the way they’ve changed, just as they both have. In the depths of the forest, titles no longer matter; it’s just two people—learning, surviving, and maybe something more.

9. He watches every movement, every breath.

It’s not suspicion that drives him, but awe. He’s never known grace like hers, the way she carries herself with effortless elegance, as if the world bends around her. But in his world, grace is never a gift—it’s a warning. It’s the kind of beauty that draws attention, stirs envy, and ends in tragedy. And so he watches, not just to protect her, but because he knows that in the fragile space between admiration and obsession, grace is always fatal.

10. She’s been reassigned after a scandal.

But before retirement, she was handed a final job: protect a world-famous actor with a face everyone knew and a smile that made it hard to remember protocol. He was her last post before retirement—charming, too clever for his own good, offering her coffee at midnight like they were just two strangers meeting by chance. She’d guarded diplomats, politicians, royalty. She’d never failed a client. But she’d also never been tasked with protecting someone who made her laugh when she was meant to be watching exits, who looked at her like she wasn’t invisible. She told herself it was just a job. She knew better.

Whether you’re writing slow-burn tension, forbidden loyalty, or the unraveling of duty in the face of something softer — the heir and bodyguard dynamic always cuts deep.

More dynamic-driven prompt sets coming soon.