#him. it's the first 'person' that's ever truly cared for him. And even if it has flaws and his life was ruined by things beyond his

[mattnott]

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍

mattheo riddle x fem reader

SUMMARY. in which mattheo seeks power and needs your help to perform a blood ritual. WORDS. +6.3K (ups). english is not my first language.

WARNINGS. smut, mdni, porn w//plot, mean mattheo, aged up characters, friends to fuck buddies, blood play, blood kink, cuts, spitting, nipple sucking, oral sex f!receiving, pussy drunk mattheo, handjob, dirty talk, biting, marking.

navigation -> masterlist

He was insane. Truly insane. Almost unhinged. Mattheo Riddle was the definition of impulsive thoughts turned into reckless actions, actions that always led him to trouble. He was raw, magnetic, and dangerously unpredictable, the kind of person who attracted attention without even trying. Every move he made, every word he spoke, every breath he took was saturated with confidence and superiority.

He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.

Mattheo was like a storm no one could outrun, an enigma without resolution, and that was exactly what made him so intoxicating. There was something in his presence that pulled people toward him, whether in admiration or fear, and no one could quite decide if it was for better or worse. He wasn’t just hard to ignore; he was impossible to overlook. He demanded attention simply by existing, and it was maddening, the way he could dominate a room with nothing more than a simple glance.

It could have been for a lot of reasons. Maybe it was the way he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, the sharp, biting comments he always seemed to have ready, words that stuck like blood on stone.Or maybe it was the fights, the way he seemed to throw himself into them too often, always coming out with the same satisfied expression. After all, he was the only son of the Dark Lord, and that alone was enough to draw all kinds of attention.

Whatever was the reason, chaos seemed to follow him everywhere, like he thrived on it. Perhaps he didn’t care at all. No outsider really knew, and no one ever tried to figure him out. Nobody had the courage to do so.

Either way, there were always whispers about him, cruel rumors about his personality and massive ego, some saying he was just like his father, or maybe even a darker version of him, while others came from students eager to get close in obscene ways, hoping to spend a night with their bodies tangled in his. 

Yet Mattheo didn’t show that he cared, always pretending to be focused on his own goals, moving through the chaos unshaken and unbothered, though deep down, the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.

But you had seen enough to know the truth. He was cruel, ruthless, and everything people whispered about him, perhaps even worse. And yet, here you were, trapped in his chaos, each moment with him drawing you deeper into the darkness.

You were trapped. Absolutely trapped.

Perhaps it was in the way he looked at you, his deep brown eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away, leaving you struggling to keep your heart from racing, as if he saw something inside of you that you weren’t capable of seeing. Or maybe it was the way his words stayed in your mind long after they were spoken, carving their way into your thoughts like a knife you didn’t want to pull out, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were already in too deep.

If you thought about it more, you didn’t know what had brought you here. The main factor to why you were so attracted to an ongoing fire.

Could be the adrenaline from his strange proposal, or the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, his presence always glued to your mind. Could also be the need to be near him, the way your body moved toward his as if it had no will of its own, or perhaps it was the way he seemed to control your heart in a way you couldn’t even understand. It was twisted, even a little scary, but neither of you cared.

After all, you were friends.

You didn’t know when it stopped feeling like curiosity—just a lingering thought— but the doubt never really went away. Instead it became prominent, tight in your chest whenever he was around. There was something darker about him, something dangerous in the way he lived recklessly, only focused on his own desires, how he thrived on the attention he got, pulling you deeper without even trying.

And now, standing there, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever came next, there was no turning back. No escape.

The Room of Requirement was cloaked in dark shadows, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of flickering candles. Their soft, wavering light offered a fragile sense of comfort, though it did little to ease the tension hanging in the air. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of burning incense and something darker, almost unspoken.

Torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls, making jagged patterns that twisted and stretched with each almost shiny flicker. That night, the requirement room felt weird, unlike the form other students seemed to used—every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.

The faint metallic scent in the air lingered, sharp and heavy, mixed with something even more heavy, felt almost like a warning. On the stone floor, crude runes spiraled out in precise, jagged lines, their edges glowing faintly as though alive and energetic, pulsing in time with the biting silence as if they were watching, waiting to know what was about to take place.

In the center of it all stood Mattheo Riddle, the one person who seemed to take up every space in your mind, his dark robes draping loosely over his strong frame, giving him an effortless air of power, his features, defined and almost angelic, partially hidden by his messy curls that always fell into his pretty eyes.

The flickering torchlight danced off his hair with every movement, making it seem almost alive; there was something strange about how his appearance seemed almost angelic, yet you knew Mattheo’s true personality, making him all the more dangerous, like a trap just waiting for you to step in.

He could look still, even controlled, but there was nothing controlled about this. Nothing about him was controlled.

Mattheo looked at the dagger in his hands, his gaze drifting over the blade, but it wasn’t the dagger that had his attention. It was you. Your eyes were on him, and it felt like he was being torn apart with just that look. It wasn’t like the attention he was used to—no fear or admiration in it.

No, this was different. It was more like an assessment. The weight of your gaze was almost suffocating, as if you were digging into him, getting under his skin in a way that made him feel stupidly exposed and making him feel a strange sensation tighten in his chest, choking his throat in ways he couldn’t understand, and he hated it.

He hated how you made him feel like this—torn between wanting to get closer and wanting to run away from that. And even if it was good or bad; neither mattered. He didn’t want to know. The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.

And for him, that was awful enough.

He never quite understood why his heart raced when he was in your presence, as if it might break through his ribs, his flesh, and fall directly into your palms, fully out of his power. At times he couldn't help but press his hand against his own chest, trying to stop it, trying to hold it back, but it only frustrated him further.

Nevertheless, there were times when he nearly wished his heart would simply give way and land in your hands so you could do with it whatever you pleased, whether that meant crushing it entirely or holding it tenderly between your fingers. He wasn't certain which would provide him with greater comfort, but he was certain that if you gave him that satisfaction, he will never be the same again.

Mattheo sighed and shook his head rapidly, making a dramatic gesture as he attempted to avoid your concentrated, evaluating stare on him once more. He concentrated on the tiny silver dagger in his hand, trying not to hold it too firmly in his palm, but nothing could take away the sensation, and even if it didn't cause him any discomfort, the pressure that made it was obvious.

He let out another sigh, this time frustrated, rubbing his forehead, but couldn’t help releasing another, this time a relieved one, when he saw your attention shift to the two circles drawn around him, almost like some kind of illustration, and he couldn’t help but smirk knowingly as he noticed the change in your expression; at the confusion in your eyes and at your furrowed brows as you tried to make sense of the strange symbols, carefully etched inside the circles on the floor.

Mattheo looked away, quickly shifting his focus to the symbol at his feet. In comparison with the other symbols, this one was far more complex, with each line and curve being meticulous and precise. As he raised his chin in satisfaction with what he did, Mattheo couldn't help but widen his smirk into a full grin, an equal amount of pride and arrogance coming across his expression.

This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you. Even though you were there not completely voluntarily, you still had a place in it, whether you liked it or not. 

This time, it was Mattheo who looked at you with an intense, almost predatory gaze, his hand tightening once more around the blade in his palm as he kept his eyes on you. He was already preparing to take the first step toward the power he would gain from what you two were about to do. All he needed was your final confirmation and for you to step into the middle of the circle with him.

“Are you ready for this?” His voice broke the silence, low and almost a purr, making you look up at him. Ready? Fuck no. In fact, you were terrified. Every part of you screamed to run, to get as far away from this room and this stupid ritual as possible. But your body didn’t listen to your brain. Your heart didn’t either. Instead, you stayed still, frozen, your eyes locked with his own, already filled with amusement and something darker, like a challenge. 

You knew this was stupid. Hell, it was almost suicidal. A ritual to give him more power, cutting your own hand, spilling your blood, mixing it with his just to make him stronger. It was madness. More than that, even.

But then again, a part of you wanted it. A part of you wanted to leave a piece of yourself with him, to bind yourself to him in some twisted way. And for some fucked-up reason, you craved that. You wanted to be marked by him, to have a part of you inside him forever. Mattheo had already carved his mark into your mind, into the darkest corners of your heart, and now you wanted to do the same.

Stupid curiosity.

“Well?” Mattheo asked again, his voice dripping with amusement, though you could hear the faint edge of annoyance creeping in. He tried to hold onto his usual confident, relaxed demeanor, but it was slipping. “What’s it gonna be?” The same damn question. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to make him ask a third time. 

“I…” You paused, your voice cracking, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself under your breath as you felt his gaze digging into you, waiting for the answer he wanted. “I think I’m ready,” you finally said, taking a step forward, ignoring the part of you screaming to get the hell out of there. Yet your body moved faster than your mind, and before you knew it, you took an unconscious step closer to him, making his eyebrow quirk in amusement. 

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think?” he repeated, his voice thick with mockery. He almost laughed; if it were not for the situation you two were in.

“Fuck—” you hissed under your breath, cursing yourself again, and Mattheo’s smirk stretched wider. “I’m ready.” You corrected yourself, the words tasting wrong. “I’m ready,” you said again, this time to convince yourself more than him.

Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, and your cheeks flushed as his voice echoed in your ears. When he looked back at you, his eyes were softer than before, though the usual intensity remained, as if he was offering something that, despite not being comfort, somehow left you feeling relieved in a way.

He stretched his hand towards you, his voice calmer than before but still firm. “Let’s go. The sooner we start, the sooner this thing is going to end.” The sooner he would have control. Mattheo called you again, and you let out a soft sigh before taking that first step.

Each step you took was filled with hesitation, but your body didn’t seem to care. It moved toward the circle, fighting the doubt gnawing on your mind. When you finally stepped inside, you couldn’t hold back a small sigh as your hand found Mattheo’s. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing as you saw the same smirk on his lips, the reaction causing a tug on your heart. He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel how much he enjoyed this, how much he knew the effect he had on you.

Sometimes you wanted to punch him. 

As soon as you took his hand, Mattheo’s confidence wavered slightly; his heart pounded just by your touch. However, he couldn’t hide the dark amusement in his eyes as he watched your flushed cheeks and how your body betrayed you. It was too easy.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the intricate runes carved into the floor with the tip of his dagger, his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there. “It’s going to hurt like hell.” He said it with such ease, as if the pain and the blood were just a minor part. You swallowed hard, the confirmation of what you already knew settling deep in your stomach. “At least for you,” he added with an eyebrow raised, his voice laced with amusement.

His words weren’t reassuring at all—not that you expected them to be. He didn’t care about calming you or making this easier to bear. That wasn’t his style, and it never had been. Mattheo thrived in chaos, in mess, and he wanted you to feel every bit of it. He wanted to pull you into the madness, to push you until you struggled to keep yourself together.

“You’re not exactly helping me calm down, you know?” you said through gritted teeth, barely stopping yourself from telling him to go fuck himself. 

Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence. “Glad to know, sweetheart.” He said casually, like it didn’t matter at all. “But who said I want you to calm down?” he murmured, and you might have thought he was joking if it weren’t for the fact that you had known him for years.

You scoffed at his lack of sympathy. It wasn’t surprising, though; his attitude was one of the things that drew you to him, even if it wasn’t exactly healthy. You watched as he lit more candles, the flame dancing with every step he took, highlighting the sharp lines of his features. He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one. 

After a few seconds, Mattheo stood up, still holding the dagger in his hand. He glanced at you, and for a brief moment, something in his gaze made his heartbeat almost thud down his ribs. He took a few steps toward you, and your eyes met. His dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and the weight of the air between you made your stomach twist. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, with a hint of mischief in his tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, the excitement creeping slowly.

“Take off your shirt.”

You blinked, shocked, and for a few seconds, all your fear vanished. “Excuse me?!”

Mattheo observed you, almost as if he were stripping you bare. “Your shirt,” he repeated, his tone annoyingly dismissive. He spun the dagger in his palm with flawless precision, taking a step closer as if your hesitancy pleased him. “Take it off,” he said almost coolly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

You crossed your arms, feeling your heart race as your face flushed with heat. “And why, exactly, do I need to do that?” You snapped, your voice sharp. You had fantasized a thousand times about Mattheo asking you to do this, but you never imagined it would actually happen, especially not now, in this situation. 

“For the ritual,” he said simply, tilting his head and giving you a smirk that bordered on taunting, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “I need access to your skin, sweetheart. The magic won’t work otherwise.” His words were smooth, but you couldn’t shake the feeling they held a hint of mockery.

You hesitated, studying him closely. There was something about his response that didn’t sit right, too casual in a way that felt almost taunting, like he wasn’t being completely honest. “You’re making that up,” you said flatly, letting your arms drop to your sides, your eyes narrowing as you searched on his face for a sign of truth. 

His smirk widened, and he continued to twirl the dagger between his fingers, his eyes locked on you. The sight of your flushed cheeks only seemed to make him think with his other head. “Am I?” He took another step closer. 

“Please, Mattheo, I know that’s bullshit!” you spat out, trying to ignore how his smug expression made your skin heat, though particularly of you couldn’t help but consider it.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, the tension between you nearly unbearable. His voice dipped, rough and almost deliberate, as his dark eyes shamelessly trailed down your body before locking onto yours again.

“Alright,” he murmured, a smile laying wickedly on his lips. “Maybe it’s not entirely necessary. But it helps. A lot.”

The dagger moved lazily in his hand, the sharp edge skimming his palm without cutting his palm. His gaze never left you, steady and intense, like a predator watching its prey. “And we both know you want this to work out, don’t we, sweetheart?” 

Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, a truth you hated to admit even to yourself. You wanted him to notice you—really notice you—the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize you had. But the sharp flare of anger clawed its way up your chest, tangling with the strange pull he always seemed to have over you, leaving you somewhere between furious and helpless.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head, the disappointment cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. You weren’t sure if it was aimed at him or at yourself for falling into this moment—this trap. Probably both. 

“And yet,” he said, taking another step toward you, “here you are.” He mocked you, making you bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off. 

The space between you two was basically nonexistent now, and Mattheo fucking hated it. Hated that it was him moving closer, like he couldn’t help himself. Hated how his body had a mind of its own, reacting to you in ways that made him feel like an idiot. The thought of you, without your shirt, without anything, was driving him insane, his imagination running wild no matter how much he tried to shove it down.

Fuck. He could already feel the strain in his pants, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. It pissed him off—how easily you got under his skin, how fucking hard it was to keep his cool around you. 

“Fine,” you bit out, your voice rougher than you felt, and Mattheo’s smile twisted with satisfaction, practically waiting for you to do it. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way his eyes were glued to you. Your fingers lingered at the hem of your shirt, heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to find the guts to go through with it. 

Mattheo’s smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving you, and for a moment, it felt like he was inside your head, reading you like a damn book. His gaze dropped low, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness. You seemed so fucking soft. “Need help?” he asked, voice dripping with mockery. 

“Shut up, Mattheo” you snapped, yanking the fabric over your head in one swift motion, a shiver running through your whole body. Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.

The second the shirt left your body, the air felt heavier, but you felt the coldness against your exposed skin and nipples. Mattheo’s expression shifted, his smirk slipping for a moment as his eyes scanned over you, taking in more than you were prepared to show. You cursed yourself for not wearing a bra under the thin fabric, your chest bare under the dim torchlight and his searing gaze. Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.

You couldn't help but feel trapped by his piercing stare as his eyes remained on you, shamelessly tracing your hard nipples. He seemed oblivious; nonetheless, his eyes burned with need as his mind wandered, thinking about the taste of his tongue on your nipples, sucking and biting until all you could think about was the feel of his wet tongue. He held the dagger tightly, only reacting when the blade cut into his flesh.

“Well,” he began, attempting to put the thoughts flowing through his head to the back of his mind, his voice rougher than before, “guess you were more ready than we thought.” He mocked you again, but it seemed like he was also mocking himself.

You could feel your cheeks burning, a mix of anger and something else boiling inside you. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to block him out, but the moment you saw the way Mattheo’s eyes were fixed on you filled with desire, your hands fell to your sides, betraying your own brain. You wanted this. You wanted him to see you, to really see you.

But as you realized you were staring at him in the same way, you quickly shook your head, trying to push down the desire and need, force some control back into your own voice. “Just get on with it,” you ‘snapped’, trying to hide how much it stung, how much you craved that attention. 

Mattheo’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, full with devilment. He took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and gestured toward the circle with a lazy flick of his hand. “As you wish.”

His expression didn’t shift, his confidence simmering just below the surface as he stepped even closer to you, trying not to look at your bare chest. His eyes flickered to the symbols on the ground, their faint glow reflecting in the depths of his gaze. Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care. He didn’t look at you but still waited for your reaction. You had already drawn one from him—only fair if he returned the favor, right?

You, on the other hand, swallowed hard, your gaze shamelessly tracing the lines of his abdomen and bare, muscular chest. The candles and torchlight cast sharp shadows across the scars etched into his skin, and you held your breath without meaning to. When he glanced forward slightly, his eyes still on the ground as he did so, he had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of your clenched fists, trying to control yourself.

This was going to be fun, at least.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke or moved. The silence stretched thin, both of you consumed by the same thoughts, the same dirty images racing through your minds. Your chests rose and fell heavily, both of you struggling to regain a normal breath. It was fucking madness. 

Mattheo quickly composed himself, standing at the point of the small symbol on the ground, making sure you mirrored his position on the opposite side. Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin. He gave a low sigh, words slipping from his lips in a language you couldn’t understand, his voice deep and commanding.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the symbols on the floor pulsed to life, glowing with an eerie light, while the candle flames flickered wildly, as though responding to his words. 

He looked at the dagger in his hand, a proud glint in his eyes before letting his gaze drift up to your face. His eyes lingered on your features, the softness of your eyes, the way your lips parted just enough to drive him insane. He almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch you, but he stayed still, his jaw tight. “Are you ready?” he asked, his lips moving without sound. “I am,” you mouthed back, the hesitation in your eyes impossible to miss. But he ignored it, choosing to focus on the way you stood there—no turning back now, and honestly? He didn’t want you to cover up. 

Mattheo gripped the dagger with steady hands, his brown eyes flickering briefly to the runes as if making sure everything was aligned. Without a second thought, he pressed the sharp blade to his palm, slicing through the skin with quick, practiced precision. The blood surged from the cut, dripping thick and dark onto the glowing runes below. They reacted violently, flaring brighter, more alive, as if the blood was feeding the symbols, feeding him. 

You held your breath, knowing you were next. But you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the ground, watching his blood drip onto the floor beneath both of your feet.

After a few seconds, he lifted his chin, pride in his eyes, his curls moving like the magic around the circles. He grabbed your hand without a word, pressing the dagger into your palm, his gaze never leaving yours. He was waiting, daring you to cut yourself just like he had. 

You felt his blood drip onto your wrist, the warmth of it sending a jolt through your veins. As the dagger pressed into your palm, a breath caught in your throat. The weight of the blade was more than you expected, and for a moment, your eyes lingered on the crimson stains left by Mattheo’s cut, almost hypnotic, tempting you.

Your heart quickened, your pulse echoing in your ears. You hesitated—for a moment. His eyes found you once again, a look that urged you to continue. The hesitation lingering in your heart suddenly dispersed; you wanted nothing but to mark him as yours.

With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did. The pain was sharp, fleeting, quickly replaced by the blood spilling down your skin, as the runes reacted violently to your action, their glow flaring in response. 

It was instantaneous. The moment your blood touched the floor, the room seemed to exhale, the light flaring brighter and the air humming with a charged, almost electric energy as the ritual began. But the reaction was brief, for Mattheo’s focus shifted.

Mattheo’s gaze was fixed on the cut on your hand, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if he was mesmerized by the crimson blood streaks trailing down your wrist, mingling with his the drops of his blood already on your skin. His jaw clenched, and you swore you saw him swallow hard as he continued to look, his chest rising and falling with a depth of intensity you’d never seen in him before. 

“Mattheo?” You called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your heartbeat quickening against your bare chest. Yet, it was enough to break his attention.

His eyes naturally met yours once again, vulnerability flickering in his gaze, though the rest of his expression remained unreadable, like a contrast to the hunger simmering beneath. But Mattheo didn't step back. Instead, his calloused fingers brushed against the blood on your wrist, smearing it slightly. The contact sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, neither of you remembered how to breathe.

“Mattheo…” you called out again, but this time it was almost a plea for him not to stop. He obeyed your unspoken request, his fingers tracing your skin as if exploring new territory, so gently that it almost made you forget the lingering sting in your hand. 

Mattheo’s hands moved deliberately, spreading the blood from the deep cut on your hand. He seemed oblivious to the matching wound on his own skin as he dragged the crimson trail up to your neck, smearing it across your skin. Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood. He let out a low groan at the taste, and you couldn’t suppress your own when you felt the warmth of his tongue against you. 

“It’s so sweet,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, the crimson of your blood staining them as he pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt almost inhuman. “So fucking sweet.” His teeth continued to drag along your skin, while his hand slid down your arm, seeking more of your blood. His fingers tightened around your palm, squeezing to draw out more of the liquid, making you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure as the burn surged through you. 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Mattheo whispered, biting your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin painfully. He didn’t care about the grunt of pain that escaped your lips, not when more blood joined the one already staining your throat. Right after his first bite, you moaned, your thighs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the wetness in your cunt. 

Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?” he murmured against your throat, pressing his lips to the marks he had left with his teeth. But when he noticed you hadn’t answered, he bit your neck harder than before and squeezed your stomach, causing more blood to spread across the area. 

You swallowed hard, locking eyes with him as you tried to form a sentence, but the only words that escaped your lips were a barely audible, “Yes, fucking yes,” which only made him laugh harder. He tightened his grip on your skin, sending a sharp sting through your own body. 

“Of course you do… such a fucking slut,” Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound, feeling his pants tighten around his cock as he tasted your blood again on his teeth. His tongue throbbed with desire, savoring the metallic taste. Holy shit, he could cum just from the taste of your blood. “But you taste so damn good.” 

He seemed to have completely forgotten the ritual, and you, too, had let it slip away. You didn’t want to remember, not when his blood stained your skin, not when your own blood marked him, and not when his mark lingered on you. 

Mattheo pulled back slightly, looking at your state and the way your plush lips were parted as you stared at him, your eyes filled with the same desire he showed. 

Without warning, Mattheo grabbed your cut hand with the one resting on your stomach, his blood mingling with yours as he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth. 

You let out a loud moan as you felt his tongue teasing the tips of your bloodied breasts, the taste of your blood on his tongue making him swirl around your breast more eagerly. The sensation only made him harder beneath his robes, each moan of his growing louder as he savored the taste of you. 

You were lost in the pleasure of his mouth, concentrated with the way his tongue lapped like a hungry animal. The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger. You didn’t hear nothing but the sounds of his mouth nor saw how he desperately reached for release, your body causing him to react out of character.

“Fuck...” he murmured, his hand releasing the softness of your skin as he reached down towards his pants. Fast, uncoordinated, he released his cock from the restraints, his bloody hands wrapping around his cock that dripped with precum. His movements grew faster, driven by the growing intensity of the taste of blood on his tongue.

You looked down, catching a glimpse through the small crease of his neck as he dragged his palm over his hard cock while sucking on your nipples. You couldn’t help but moan louder, your bloody hand gripping his shoulders as you tried to ignore how your body was responding—the wetness between your legs that you knew he could feel. 

“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.

“Fuck, your blood tastes so fucking good.” He moaned louder, and as he sucked harder on your nipples, his mouth closing around the bud tighter. Your chest was now covered in his bites, the marks of Mattheo Riddle, almost like a sign of ownership. Your body quivered against his hold, rubbing pathetically against him as you felt the tingle flutter in your stomach. You were close, lost in the daze, you had no idea whether it was from pleasure or the lost of blood—or both. You were desperately clinging to his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a spell.

The hold on his length tightened in his hand, and he came instantly. Another hoarse moan escaped his throat, and he pulled away from your chest for a moment, gasping for air. You gripped onto his shoulders once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. So sudden, so quick you fell against his hold as your body convulsed with pleasure.

Mattheo leaned against you, allowing himself a moment to relax. But when he noticed the blood still running down your throat from where he had placed your hand, he couldn’t help but let out a growl. He yanked your hair back harshly, making you gasp and exposing your throat, your scream barely escaping as he did so. 

“Mattheo…!” You tried to speak, but he didn’t care; he never did. He only pushed you further against him, your nipples pressed against his bare chest as he licked your throat, letting out another groan as he tasted the metallic flavor again. His tongue traced the line of your throat, dragging the blood up to your chin, before he licked it off obscenely, making you sigh at the sensation. 

Mattheo’s hand in your hair tightened, and in one swift motion, he turned you onto your back, pulling your hair even harder as your back arched against him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.

The kiss was rough and erotic, the fire burning from the inside making it impossible to avoid it. You could taste your own blood on his tongue, and it only made your cunt wetter, the intensity overwhelming. It was too much—more than you’d ever imagined.

You had pictured moments like this, where you and Mattheo would kiss, tasting each other’s tongues, but this was different. It wasn’t the fantasy you had dreamed of; it was raw, wild, and rougher than anything you could have ever anticipated. His teeth clashed with yours, and your tongue tangled with his, as he unleashed his most primal side. He was giving you a taste of the part of you he had consumed, and you were trapped, just as you always would be.

You didn’t care about the pain in your scalp, only the hand that held you.

Mattheo’s hands were rough, touching everything he could. His mouth marking you over and over as he swallowed every small noise you released. He was warm, too warm, a sting feeling in your mouth as he sucked and bit into your lips, the softness of your skin tethering as his mouth was once again filled with the sweetness of your blood.

He was about to lose his mind.

Mattheo sighed against your now split lip, “Stop me… Tell me to stop, and I will.” He wouldn’t; you both knew it.

You held him against you tighter; you were already too deep into him—all you wanted was to devour him, mark him enough to show everyone he belonged to you, only you. You wanted to inflict a pain he would never forget, a pain similar to the pain he caused you, so you did. Your hands wrapped around his neck, your mouth tracing his lips, then his cheeks, then suddenly the warmth of his neck. Mattheo gripped you hard; he made no sudden movement, anxiously awaiting your motive. You bit into his neck, sucking the flushed skin as your teeth marked him with the same strength he did to you. 

Another soft flow came into your mouth, you gasped, the metallic taste odd in your mouth but enough to send your heart thundering.

Mattheo whimpered, his dominant facade slipping as he sickly enjoyed the way you took control. You were so sweet, so delicate—you were completely the opposite. The idea he corrupted you twisted a sick, powerful thought in his brain. You were his. 

Your tongue reached towards his mouth again, finding yourself eye to eye with the man you wanted nothing more than to control. “Don’t ever stop; I need you.”

Mattheo grinned, his lips bloody, his brown eyes becoming dark as he suddenly pushed you towards the runes that glowed against your body. The symbols glowed, vibrating with the blood that dripped onto it. As he stood over you, he wished to capture the moment forever. You looked so fucking pretty.

He leaned over, his knees staining with the blood smeared against the cold tiles. His fingers moved quickly, desperately. He watched as your body spoke to him, reacting to every touch. Your breasts covered in his marks, his blood and yours on them that caused his cock to twitch violently.

He wanted more than the taste of your breasts; he wanted to taste the juices that gathered in the silk of your panties. He wanted to feel the way your cunt twitched and throbbed against his mouth, and damn, did he want nothing more than to have you fuck yourself on his tongue. The sweetest angel from Hogwarts all displayed for him, to hell with the ritual; now he just wanted to swallow you whole. 

Without warning, he hoisted your legs onto his shoulders with an almost violent urgency, a deep moan escaping his lips as he leaned closer to your wet pussy. The intoxicating scent filled his senses, making his bloodied hand tighten around your thigh, gripping it as if commanding you to choke him; a command you had no intention of disobeying.

Mattheo looked at your face, the dried blood around your parted lips, your cheeks flushed from everything he was doing to you, and your dilated pupils watching him anxiously. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, and you instantly bit your lip. Fuck, he was about to get hard again. 

“Please, I need you, Mattheo,” you begged, rubbing your hips desperately, trying to get closer to his flushed face. You needed his mouth, and he was more than willing to be a good friend and give you exactly what you wanted. 

“No need to beg like a slut, sweetheart,” he said, moving closer to your pulsing cunt, the light from the dunes making your wetness glisten even more. You held your breath as his warm breath ghosted over your slick folds. “I’m eager to give you what you want,” he murmured, leaning even closer, his nose brushing against your arousal as he took in your scent. Just as you were about to beg him to do something, his tongue was quicker—teasing, tasting, and finally giving in to the need to lick you.

Mattheo followed his instincts and hunger, his palms gripping your thighs even tighter, leaving bloodstained marks on your skin just as he had on the rest of your body. The sting of his own cut burned with the pressure, but he didn’t stop, sliding his hands to your hips as his tongue moved swiftly against your folds, savoring and memorizing every inch of you.

You could feel Mattheo’s cheeks pressed against your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, suffocating himself in your scent and taste. He mentally begged some higher power to let him one day die like this—only after his hunger was completely satisfied. Your back arched, heat swirling in your stomach as Mattheo licked your pussy with reckless desperation.

He was ravenous, savoring every part of you, and when your nails dug into his scalp, he let out another growl, pushing himself even deeper between your legs, making you moan even louder.

“Fucking yes, sweetheart,” he murmured against your pussy, sucking harder as your cries of pleasure filled the room. “Keep moaning like a slut, keep saying my name.” He bit down on your flesh, making you moan even louder, your legs trembling around him. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending shocks through your body and making you cry out even more.

Fuck the ritual, fuck the power—the only power he craved was the power he held over you.

“Mattheo,” you moaned even louder, rocking your hips against his face as your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him closer. “Right there, oh my—!” you cried out, feeling him lose himself between your legs, consumed by his thoughts and the blood still staining his lips.

Mattheo’s fast, steady movements continued, his almost feral tongue lapping at your cunt as his hands roamed your body. He could feel his cock harden at the sound of your sweet moans. Fuck, the taste of your blood mingled with your arousal was divine—almost too much for him to bear. 

He continued kissing your clit, desperate to savor your full taste, his tongue messily exploring your folds, drinking in every drop he could. All you felt in the moment was him. The sounds muffled as if underwater. Your fingers dug into his scalp, causing him to flick his tongue against your bud faster, his fingers circling it, his grin plastered with pride as he heard you cry loudly.

“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.

You only released a jumble of words, your bare back arching as you squirmed beneath him. You were on the edge, and you could feel it—both of you could. The anticipation was electric, and you were both eager for the release. All he wanted was to make you cum.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured against your folds, the scent of your cunt making him dizzy. “Come for me.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than you let out a final scream, the orgasm hitting you hard as your body arched, feeling your cum dripping from your pussy.

Mattheo groaned against your cunt once more, lapping at your release as he lost himself in your flavor. Quickly, he grabbed your cut hand, spreading its blood over your pussy to mix with the cum. When he felt it was enough, he ran his tongue over your folds, savoring the metallic taste of blood combined with the sweet remnants of your orgasm, only stopping when not a drop remained, and you pushed him away.

The runes still flickered on the ground, glowing brighter with the smell of your release in the air. Blood stained both your bodies, marking each other, marking the new connection between you that neither of you wanted to escape. Mattheo stood there, watching you, his brown eyes observing, shining with pride watching your state. His eyes traced the blood on your skin, lingering on the cut on your hand, before meeting your eyes again. 

“We didn’t finish the ritual,” you managed to say, your voice soft, timid once again compared to the wildness you held as you let Mattheo control you, your body still shaking from one of the best orgasms you ever experienced.

Mattheo’s smirk grew, just a little as he continued to look at the mess he had done. “It’s fine, sweetheart. We can always try again.”

He was right; after all, friends helped each other.

© 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝₂₀₂₄ — 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎.

— please be nice, it’s 4 am it probably has some mistakes!

likes and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

also a big thank you for my favorite beta readers @earth4angels & @astrxq , without them i couldn’t write all this!! i love you both off you forever

venting: sometimes, i hate english because my hard lines in portuguese don’t make sense and seem so repetitive :(

[doeidawn]

doeidawn's kinkmas day eight ❆ spanking

KINKMAS 2024 | PREVIOUS DAY | NEXT DAY

a little mishap at the company christmas party has you subjected to punishment—directly from the hand of your boss. 2.9k

❆ pairing: boss!price x assistant!fem!reader

❆ tags: MDNI/18+; inappropriate workplace conduct; slight dom/sub dynamic (use of "sir"); spanking (obviously); fingering

Working as the assistant to the head of one of the biggest companies in England invited stress that few could understand. Add in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, and that stress increased tenfold. Then add in a Christmas party that said corporate head expects you to both organize and attend on top of your regular holiday duties, and the stress might give you a heart attack before the week ends.

It was a miracle that the whole thing managed to go as smoothly as it did. The decorations turned out good, everyone was pleasantly surprised by the secret Santa turnout, and the food was nice. Even the most introverted interns stopped by to chat. By all measures, it was a success. Which meant your boss would happily wear the success and (hopefully) give you a nice bonus for all the hard work.

Until the celebration started to wind down and you spilled nearly half of your wine onto him. Onto his very nice and no-doubt-expensive dress shirt—a white one, at that. You could hear the notice of termination being typed up as soon as you realized who you had bumped into. 

Ever the charmer, he took it like a champ in front of the gaggle of people. Not for your own sake, you imagine; the man had to save face in front of his employees whether it was your fault or not. Still, that didn’t stop you from feeling positively mortified. Cursing yourself for even pouring a drink when you should’ve been making sure everything stayed perfect. So much for a little alcohol to alleviate the mountain of stress on your shoulders.

Everyone else seemed to forget about it rather quickly. And as the festivities died down and people started to filter out, there was no unwanted attention brought your way. But, seeing as the party was your responsibility in the first place, you knew you’d have to stay after and clean up. The few moments alone would’ve been nice…if only you truly were alone.

You couldn’t be mad at John for being a good boss. He stayed over nearly every damn day, worked later than most just to make sure things turned out right. He showed up to the office party because he cared about his employees. Surely you couldn’t damn him for that. But when he sidled past you with a quick “can I see you in my office real quick?” in your ear, you wished he were the careless type to leave early and forget that you even existed. 

You wasted as much time as possible just to avoid seeing him. Mingled with every last person who hung around until they had no excuse left to stay. You tidied up counters and swept the floor best you could. You figured maybe you could walk someone to their car and get yourself out of a reprimand that way. Alas, you realized that it wouldn’t be a good look if the assistant didn’t fulfill all of her boss’s requests. 

You stand outside the door to his office for a good minute, just staring at the wood before you. You’re fully prepared to be scolded. To be ridiculed and belittled and insulted. Not that John had ever done that before—he wasn’t the type to act that way—but you felt so worthless that you figured he might as well.  

Mustering the last of your courage and a hint of apathy, you knock on the door. When you hear his voice invite you in, you hesitate before turning the knob and slinking in. It wasn’t a conscious choice to move slow; it was like you wanted to make yourself seem small and meek as if it’d convince him to take pity on you.

There he was at his desk, pushing a paper to the side in favor of looking your way. The blotch of red wine staining his shirt was painfully obvious. You silently prayed for whatever washing machine would get overworked trying to clean it out.

“You look terrified.” John’s voice cuts through the silence and nearly startles you. You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were. “Everythin’ alright?”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. “I…I dunno, sir. Is everything alright?”

“Just fine. The party was nice. Very well done.” He leans back in his chair and you cringe when more of that wine stain comes into view. It almost felt like he was taunting you with it. “Though I shouldn’t expect anythin’ less from you.”

You nod, more out of relief than agreement with his statement. Muttering a small “thank you”, you shift awkwardly on your feet. You expected a scolding, but he was pleasantly warm. There was no anger or upset in his eyes. He didn’t even seem disappointed. 

“What’s wrong?”

The question is surprising, but it’s the tone of sincere curiosity that bewilders you. Not annoyance, or inconvenience. He wanted to know what was wrong, wholeheartedly. It takes you a minute to swallow your pride and give him a half-assed shrug.

“Nothing, sir. Just…stressed, is all.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was probably the mildest way to say you were frustrated and tense and angry and just about every other feasible human emotion.

John makes a sound at that. He shifts in his chair, inching it back from his desk. “‘Course you are. You poor thing…I’ve asked a lot of you lately, haven’t I?” You didn’t know if the smart thing was to agree or deny, but you wanted to sigh with relief that he finally seemed to notice. “That's not very fair of me, huh?”

Did he want you to agree? You decide not to chance it. Instead, you stare at your feet like they’ve become the most interesting thing in the world. Anything felt better than looking him in the eye right now. 

“So, what do you do with all that stress? How d’you manage it, I mean?”

It was a miracle he thought you handled it at all. If you came off well-put together, it certainly didn’t reflect the worry that consumed your private life. “I…don’t, really. I just sort of deal with it, I suppose.”

He snorts, an amused shake of his head. “Well, that’s not very healthy, is it?” Definitely not. But he didn’t know the half of it. “Someone ought to help you manage that stress. I can’t have my assistant on edge all the time.”

Unless he planned on including therapy in your benefits, you didn’t see that working out any time soon. You give him a tight-lipped smile, awkwardly nodding along. Was this what he wanted to talk about..? Scolding you for being stressed was certainly preferable to bringing up your blunder at the party, but that didn’t mean you felt comfortable with it. 

“C’mere,” he beckons you closer with a gesture and a cock of his head. You take a few hesitant steps towards his desk, but he grumbles and gestures again. “Closer. Get over here.”

You freeze for a moment before complying. Why John could possibly want you so close was unknown to you, and your slow steps betrayed your hesitance. You stopped when you stood just before him, mere inches away from his body. It wasn’t unlike him to get close—he seemed to like crowding you—but it felt different this time. 

“Listen,” he starts, reaching out to rest a hand on your waist. “I need you at your best. Your job is very important, and I can’t accept anything less than perfect.” You don’t even notice the slight nod of your head. It was a reflexive response to agree with him, even if it meant agreeing to your own faults. His heavy palm slides down to your hip, squeezing you gently. “And if you don’t give me your best, consequences are in order.”

Your heart sinks. You expect him to dock your pay or pile on ten extra responsibilities to your work load—something that’ll make you feel even worse, no doubt. But when he looks up at you, there’s no sincerity or disappointment in his eyes. Instead, there’s something…eager. Almost like he’s excited when he starts to speak again.

“Seein’ as you’re my assistant, I think a heavy handed approach should suffice.” He squeezes your hip to further his emphasis as he leans forward. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your waist, his lips nearly brushing against you. “Somethin’ a little more personal.”

Oh.

You swallow thickly, your heart beating so hard you fear it might burst out of your chest. Too many emotions conflicted with each other—relief that he wasn’t angry, worried about the implications, excited that he’s propositioned you. It wasn’t rare that you got a little excited thinking about John. He was an attractive man, and the authority only added to the appeal.

HR be damned, you’d think yourself a fool if you never took the offer. “Whatever you think is best, sir.” You didn’t intend for your voice to sound so breathy and coy, but you didn’t fight it. You rest a hand on his shoulder, gripping his shirt tight when his hand suddenly moves to grope your ass. 

“Oh, I know what’s best for my assistant." He leans back, his hands falling away from your body in a movement that almost makes you whine at the loss. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt before patting his thigh invitingly. “She needs bent over and taught about consequences, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The word comes out in a squeak before you can stop yourself. One last look in his eyes and you were ready to give him whatever he wanted.

Taking his implication as your instruction, you bend yourself over his lap, bracing your hands on his thigh once you’re in place. You can hear your own heartbeat, pounding in your head and mingling with every thought telling you this is a bad idea. But then you hear him groan and feel a heavy palm skirt along your back and every doubtful thought is drowned by something much more desperate. 

“This is my favorite skirt of yours, you know that?” John mutters while splaying his thick fingers along your backside. Of course you knew he liked this one—he was never very subtle about it. It’s why you wore it to the party in the first place, only now you wish you’d wore something more flattering than a Christmas sweater to go with it. 

He tugs your skirt up and over your ass without ceremony, scrunching it at your waist until you’re fully exposed. He runs a hand over your soft, pliant skin, squeezing just enough to see the fat spill over his fingers. You gasp at the rough touch but make no effort to move away. If anything, you find yourself arching into the needy movements. 

Then, his hand pulls back and comes down in a sharp smack that takes your breath away. He groans again, watching your body recoil. “Yeah, this’ll do just fine.” He punctuates the thought with another spank. “We’ll see how many you can take before you learn your lesson.”

Another sharp smack of his palm makes you whine. You nod in agreement, but you don’t think he’s much concerned with your input at this point. Two more harsh spanks hit and you hiss when he runs his palm over the spot of impact. The dull sting already throbs under your flushed skin, aching more when he gropes your ass in a tight squeeze. The next spank draws a moan from your lips, the sharp impact sending an unexpected wave of pleasure directly between your legs.

John hooks a finger under the seam of your panties, pulling the fabric to expose more of your flushed skin. “You’re doin’ good, takin’ it well.”

You pause, waiting for a spank that never comes. “Thank you, sir,” you manage to stumble out.

Smack! You jerk at that, biting your lip to stifle a pathetic sound. “You know I’m not mad at you, right?” His movements are as soft as his voice, gently massaging the welt forming on your sensitive skin. “I can buy a hundred more shirts, but I can’t replace you. Certainly not when you’ve shown me how well you can take what I give you.” You whimper at the next sudden spank. “Such a good assistant for me, and I haven’t given you the break you deserve have I?”

You’re not quite sure what the right answer is, but you hesitantly shake your head. The next strike motivates you to verbalize your answer. “No, sir. I haven’t gotten a break.”

“You poor thing…” You barely notice the movement of his hand as it slides off of your battered skin. It’s not until he slides his fingers over the center of your panties that you react, gasping at the sudden (and much needed) pressure. You hadn’t even realized how wet you’d gotten, and judging by his excited groan, neither had he. “You need a break from all that stress, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pulling the sodden fabric to the side, John exposes your wet cunt and hums in satisfaction when he sees the slick glistening on your sensitive flesh. He grabs you on either side, using his fingers to spread you apart. One hand pulls back to spank your ass a final time, and he watches you clench at the impact. Two thick fingers run up and down your slit, gathering your wet arousal, before prodding at your entrance.

He sinks in with a groan and the sudden fullness takes your breath away. You curse and arch your back, rocking your hips onto his fingers. Your nails dig into his thighs, but he doesn’t seem to pay it much attention. He buries his fingers to the knuckle before pumping them in and out in a steady pace that makes your knees weak. 

“Christ, love, you are tense. This cunt’s fuckin’ squeezin’ me.” His fingers press deep on each thrust, curled and angled just right to make you push against his intrusion. “Is this what you needed? Someone to stuff this pussy full?”

You hum a soft “mm-hmm” and nod your head. But John isn’t satisfied with that; his free hand comes down in a sharp spank that forces a surprised yelp from your lips. “Fuck—yes, sir,” you sputter.

“Yeah, you just need a proper fuck to keep you goin’ huh?” His free hand moves to cup your jaw, tilting your head back until he could see your face. “Fuck, I’ll keep you late every day, bend you over my desk and fuck you as much as you need. Is that what you want?”

Hearing him say it was one thing, but seeing those filthy words come from your boss’s mouth made you clench around his fingers. “Yes…yes, sir,” you pant, eyes wide and pleading as you look up at him. “W-want you to fuck me.”

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Your head lolls forward when he releases your jaw. His hand fucks into you rougher, quick and sharp pumps that make you keen, almost like he’s too impatient to keep going slow. He bullies that sensitive spot inside you until you start to tense and quiver on his lap. His heavy palm brushes over your welted skin, kneading your ass just to hear the whimpers it draws from you. 

You hold onto his thigh, nails digging into his pants as you try to hold yourself steady. “J-John, m’gonna…fuck…” It’s near impossible to squeak out the words with the constant pressure filling your cunt. 

“I know, love. You’re gonna cum for your boss, aren’t you?” 

“Mm-hmm—”

“Yeah, gonna soak my fuckin’ lap with it? Make another mess on me?”

It sounded filthy when he put it like that. And while getting reminded of your embarrassing blunder at the Christmas party was the last thing you wanted to think about right now, you couldn’t deny that it certainly motivated you to make another mess. Especially when he was so eager for this one.

You couldn’t even form the words to properly warn him. You were sure he could tell by the tight pull of your slick walls around his fingers that you were toppling over that edge fast. Between his encouragement and the perfect fit of his digits, he was coaxing out all of your pent-up energy. And it hit you hard.

You were a quivering, dripping mess on his lap. Gushing around his fingers, clenching tight like you were trying to suck him in deeper. Your knees were so weak you weren’t sure you could stand back up. John slid his fingers out and delivered one final spank to your flushed skin. You think he mutters a soft ‘good girl’, but you find it hard to hear him properly as you catch your breath.

Raising off of his lap, you adjust your clothes and pull your skirt back into its proper position. Your legs are weak and your ass stings with every movement. You aren’t sure whether to thank him or apologize—so you settle for neither. The silence sits heavy in the room as you trudge to the door to take your leave. You could worry about facing him next week when you were alone, in the comfort of your home, and thinking straight.

Then, you hear him call out your name as soon as your hand touches the doorknob. You turn just enough to see his figure in your peripheral. Still sat with his legs spread and his sleeves rolled up, but now with a rather obvious hand palming himself through his pants. If you had any less restraint, you might’ve walked yourself back over to him. 

“I’ll see you Monday, yeah?” You nod at the sound of his gruff voice. “Do me a favor n’ wear that skirt again, sweetheart.”

You smile, mainly to yourself. “Yes, sir.”

[suckerforthisshit]

1) I don't even know. Many are really cool, perhaps favorite one is when Near meets Mello eye on eye

2) I don't care. Just not to much uncanny. Personality is more important. (I would hate it anyways. My personal space wounded)

3) Pft, no one knows. Probably a long period because I wouldn't use it, would study it perhaps and keep it as a secret

4) Damn I have Hogwarts AU with Mello, Near, Matt, L, Misa and more side characters I created and added in death note universe. But I can't say it's Harry Potter universe completely because many things are changed.. I don't know. Wait that's not even anime.. Maybe persona five or something. They'd be fun in monster. Chasing Johan Liebert. I also imagined them in Cyberpunk world, as different creatures... Just- don't ask. Even couple of ferrets.

5) "I fly a helicopter with intuition."- L Lawliet scene

6) I'll say a manga cover, because I am not an anime fan. 8th manga cover with Mello sitting on sofa. Magnificent

7) Mello. Once he had a notebook. Although it's debatable

8) First L's. But nothing hit like Mello's death. I was so mad on Near for his reaction. Later on, my rage calmed down in the last act

9) Well now.. that's.. a list. I can't even chose one truly. But let's say generally, for Mello it's hard rock, bit of blues rock with metal tones, for Near it'd be electronic music, bit ot house (no pop). Matt is classic rock and punk rock. L is indie. But this all is just a vibe, not what these characters would listen to. For example in my interpretation Mello loves classical

10) Matt 100%

11) Haven't read manga for a long time, I don't remember all details. (I got driven in my own fictions and fantasies, stories of these characters rider then sticking to manga) but what really shocked me, obviously was L's sudden death, and last scene of Near eating chocolate really redirected me to some future decisions

12) Matt with lemurs

13) Meronia, other ships of my oc characters with original ones. Matt x Zoya, L x Etta. Near x Chris. Mello x Messy.. doesn't matter. No one knows them anyways

14) Naomi Misora

15) Some weird mix of all L, Mello, Near and Matt. Mello's intensity, Near's calmness and introversion, L's personality, Matt's style and laid-back behavior

16) "The one who doesn't win a game is just a loser"

17) Did Mello ever actually care about Near in manga, was his death out of his principles and 'giving up on himself', as he accepted to never actually be able to defeat him. Or actually something else, as sort of sacrifice for Near's sake

18) You mean if I was to choose the color that fits death note manga set it'd be something deep dark red or gray, black. If you ask if I was in series and one manga cover was made for me, it'd be a deep eggplant purple or dark grayish blue color

19) Something dark, black loosen dress, black aviator hat.. dark red-purple lipstick in 20s (previous century) style

20) normal, or ketchup

21) none

22) Won't even start with theories. Many

23) I won't be boring and say Mello and Near's interaction (although it's most true) , but L and Light had fun dynamic

24) Mello and Misora. Misa was fun, sometimes overdressed. Matt was fun

25) Arc two, Near hit me hard. I instantly liked him and started thinking up my own stories

26) I mean, I'll forever repeat that one moment of Mello's death as worst thing ever to happen. Near in third arc (the separated manga) was very depressed

27) I can't. Nah, no energy

28) Uhhh... Mello sitting on couch, or Mello holding a skull

29) idk

30) Near

Favorite chapter/episode?

If you had a Death Note, what would you want your Shinigami to look like?

How long do you think you could get away with hiding a Death Note?

If your favorite character weren’t in Death Note, what anime/manga do you think they would thrive in?

A scene that makes you laugh.

Which is your favorite opening?

Your favorite kira?

The death that affected you the most.

What song(s) fit the vibe of your favorite character?

A character you would hang out with irl.

What moment surprised you the most?

What is a fanwork (edit, fic, art, etc.) that you still think about to this day? (Pls link to the original!)

Favorite ships?

What character do you think you look the most like?

Which character’s personality do you relate to?

A line from the series that stuck with you.

A question that was never answered, but you wonder about all the time.

If Death Notes came in different colors, what color would yours to be?

What would be your staple kira catching outfit?

Favorite potato chip flavor?

A Death Note fanwork that you’ve made and are proud of.

A favorite Death Note theory.

Your favorite interaction.

Who do you think had the best style?

At what point did you fall in love with Death Note?

Saddest moment for your favorite character.

Lay out the plot of Death Note using only emojis.

Favorite official art.

Favorite Death Note Spin off media.

A character that needs to be mentioned more.  

[tomriddleswhcre]

| Dark Tendrils of Obsession

warnings: MDNI, characters are 18+, manipulation, toxic relationship.

words: 3,757

The library of Hogwarts was a sanctuary for the restless. Silent, endless shelves of books stretched to the horizon, offering knowledge to those who sought it. It was here that you first felt the weight of his gaze.

Tom Riddle sat a few tables away, his dark eyes never quite leaving you. There was an elegance to him, a sharpness in his posture, and a magnetic pull in his quiet demeanor. He was polite at first. Courteous, even. His smile, restrained yet charming, made you feel special in a way that was both intoxicating and unsettling.

“Reading about alchemy, are you?” His voice was velvet, smooth enough to slide under your skin.

You nodded, too startled to respond immediately. “Yes, just... curious about the theories.”

“You’re different from the others,” he said, leaning closer. “They’re shallow, concerned only with frivolous pursuits. But you—” his eyes locked onto yours—“you have depth.”

From that moment, he was always around. Offering help with your studies, sitting next to you during meals, escorting you through the dimly lit halls. At first, you appreciated his company. He was brilliant, charming, and so utterly captivating that it felt impossible to resist his pull.

But then, the cracks began to show.

Tom’s affection turned possessive. He didn’t like you spending time with your friends, brushing off your protests with a quiet, “They don’t understand you like I do.”

When you mentioned a friend from another house in passing, his smile faltered. “Why waste your time with someone so... beneath you?”

One evening, you found yourself cornered in the library. Tom’s usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by an intensity that left you breathless.

“I’ve seen the way they look at you,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Do you think they care about you? That they’ll ever truly see you for who you are?”

“Tom, you’re overreacting,” you said, trying to step back, but his hand caught your wrist, holding you in place.

“I’m the only one who truly understands you,” he insisted, his grip tightening. “The only one who ever will.”

As the days turned into weeks, Tom’s influence over your life became suffocating. Your friends began to distance themselves, confused by your increasingly erratic behavior. Every time you tried to push back against Tom, he would find a way to twist the narrative, leaving you questioning your own sanity.

“You’re imagining things,” he said one night, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I only want what’s best for you. Why can’t you see that?”

His words burrowed into your mind, planting seeds of doubt. The world felt smaller, darker, and the only constant was Tom. He was always there, watching, waiting, his presence both a comfort and a torment.

One evening, after yet another fight, you found yourself in the Astronomy Tower, the wind whipping around you as you tried to catch your breath. The weight of his love, his obsession, was too much to bear.

“Thinking of escaping me?” Tom’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

You spun around to see him standing there, his eyes alight with something dangerous.

“Tom, I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“You can’t leave me,” he said, stepping closer. “You belong to me.”

There was a madness in his eyes now, a fire that consumed everything in its path. And yet, there was also a tenderness, a desperation that made your heart ache.

“I’m the only one who can save you,” he said, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “The only one who will ever love you this much.”

In the end, you couldn’t fight him. His love was too powerful, too overwhelming. It wrapped around you like a vice, crushing and consuming until there was nothing left of the person you once were.

But as you fell deeper into his embrace, a part of you wondered if this was what love was meant to feel like—devastating, all-encompassing, and utterly inescapable.

And Tom, his lips brushing against your ear, whispered the words that sealed your fate. “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you away from me.”

Tom’s touch lingered, his fingers grazing your cheek with a gentleness that belied the ferocity in his eyes. The stars above bore witness to the storm between you—a clash of your desperate need for freedom and his relentless obsession.

“You don’t have to fight this,” he murmured, his voice soft now, almost hypnotic. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I would give you the world, but you have to let me. You have to trust me.”

You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his presence. Your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch even as your mind screamed for distance. His hand slid to your neck, the pad of his thumb brushing your pulse.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Tom’s voice dropped lower, seductive and commanding. “This connection between us... it’s undeniable.”

Before you could protest, his lips captured yours. The kiss was anything but gentle—desperate, possessive, consuming. It was as though he was trying to claim every part of you, to mark you as his in a way that no one could ever undo.

The weeks that followed blurred into a haze of stolen moments and forbidden touches. Tom’s obsession seeped into every corner of your life, his presence a constant shadow. But beneath his calculated control lay a smoldering passion that ignited every time you were alone together.

One night, he cornered you in an empty corridor, his dark eyes burning with a fire that made your knees weak.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “You’re in my mind, my veins... you’ve consumed me.”

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, the air crackling with tension as he pressed you against the cold stone wall.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his lips brushing against your jaw. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I...” The words stuck in your throat, your mind battling against the pull of his intensity. But when his lips trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, a moan escaped before you could stop it.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

It wasn’t long before his desire for control extended beyond your emotions. He wanted all of you—your body, your soul, your very essence. And when he took you to the Room of Requirement, its walls shifted to reflect his dark desires: rich, crimson drapes, flickering candlelight, and a bed that seemed to beckon you into its velvet embrace.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Tom asked, his hands slipping under your robes, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His lips found yours again, softer this time but no less insistent.

As his hands explored your body, his whispers became more fervent, his love both a worship and a torment. He touched you like he was afraid you might disappear, every caress a promise that you were his and his alone.

When he finally laid you down, his gaze bore into yours, an intensity there that made your heart race. “You’re mine,” he repeated, the words a dark oath. “Every part of you belongs to me.”

Tom’s obsession bled into every intimate moment, his need for you growing darker and more insatiable. He didn’t just want your love; he wanted your submission, your surrender. And as much as you fought against him, there was a part of you that found solace in his embrace, in the way he made you feel like the center of his universe.

But beneath the passion, there was always the shadow of his control. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a reminder that you were his—not because you chose to be, but because he had willed it so.

And as he held you close, his lips tracing patterns over your skin, you realized that escape was no longer an option. You were bound to him, caught in the dark, inescapable web of his love.

Tom’s obsession had become your prison, but you weren’t the same timid figure you once were. Something within you stirred—a fire forged from the ashes of his suffocating love. You began to play his game, to lean into his desires and make him believe he had won.

It started with the smallest acts of defiance cloaked in submission. The way your fingers lingered on his collar when you adjusted it for him, the way your lips brushed his ear when you whispered. You learned how to wield his obsession, turning it into a weapon.

One night, in the privacy of the Room of Requirement, you made your boldest move yet. The room had shifted into a lavish chamber, the flickering firelight casting shadows on Tom’s sharp features. He sat in an armchair, his posture commanding, his dark eyes watching your every move.

You stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. His gaze darkened as you climbed onto his lap, straddling him.

“You think you own me, Tom,” you whispered, your fingers tracing his jaw. “But maybe I’ve let you.”

His lips curled into a smirk, his hands resting on your waist. “You belong to me. You always have.”

Your hands slid to his shoulders, then his chest, fingers brushing against the faint pulse at his throat. His breath hitched as your lips found his neck, kissing and biting just enough to make him groan.

“You’re intoxicating,” he murmured, his voice unsteady for the first time.

You tilted his chin up with your fingers, your lips ghosting over his. “Then let me intoxicate you.”

As he surrendered to your touch, his usual vigilance wavered. His hands gripped your hips, his focus entirely consumed by you. It was then, as his head tilted back and his eyes fluttered shut, that you made your move.

Your hand slid to your wand, hidden beneath the folds of your robe. Summoning every ounce of courage and precision, you pressed it to his temple.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of triumph and regret. His eyes flew open, confusion flashing across his face just as you murmured the incantation.

“Obliviate.”

Months Later

Freedom tasted sweet, though it was laced with an undercurrent of fear. Tom Riddle, once your captor in every sense, now passed you in the halls with an air of detached curiosity. His memory of you—the obsession, the intimacy, the darkness—was gone.

At first, you didn’t believe it. You expected him to lash out, to corner you and demand answers. But days turned into weeks, then months, and Tom remained oblivious.

You began to rebuild your life. Friends returned, laughter felt genuine again, and the oppressive weight of his presence faded. But a part of you never truly relaxed. You knew that if Tom ever remembered, his wrath would be unstoppable.

It happened one day in the library. Tom sat alone, his fingers skimming a page of a book as his expression darkened. A flicker of something familiar crossed his face—a spark of recognition, of understanding.

Memories came rushing back like a tidal wave, each one sharper than the last. The feel of your body against his, the fire in your eyes, the way you whispered his name—and the betrayal.

The anger boiled within him, but he didn’t act immediately. Instead, he watched, waited, planned.

It was late at night when he found you sneaking through the halls. The moonlight streamed through the stained glass, casting patterns on the stone floor as you moved silently, clutching a book.

“Out past curfew, are we?” His voice was low and taunting, the sound freezing you in place.

You turned slowly, your heart racing as you saw him standing there, his Prefect badge glinting in the dim light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something dangerous.

“I—was just returning this,” you stammered, holding up the book as if it would shield you from him.

Tom’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Breaking the rules, are we? That’s a detention, I’m afraid.”

Before you could protest, his hand shot out, gripping your wrist. His touch was firm but not painful, his grip unrelenting as he led you through the dark halls.

“Tom, I can explain,” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp look.

“Oh, you’ll explain, alright,” he said, his tone dripping with menace. “You’ll explain everything.”

He brought you to a small, hidden room—a Prefect’s storage room rarely used. The door shut with a thud, and the silence that followed was deafening.

“I remember,” he said simply, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed his fury. “I remember everything.”

You took a step back, but he advanced, backing you against the wall.

“You thought you could erase me? Take what was mine and walk away unscathed?” His voice was dangerously low, his hand bracing against the wall beside your head.

“Tom, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I had no choice—”

“You had every choice,” he snapped, his other hand gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. “And you chose to betray me.”

His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, his voice a mix of anger and something darker. “But you didn’t account for one thing: I always get what I want. Always.”

His hands found your wrists, pinning them above your head as he leaned closer. “Do you know what I want now?”

Tom’s grip on your wrists tightened, his face mere inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin, yet the fire in his eyes chilled you to your core.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” His voice was a low growl, dangerous and laced with venom. “Erasing my memories, taking away what’s mine. Do you think that could ever stop me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his lips crashed against yours. It wasn’t a kiss born of love or tenderness; it was fury incarnate. His mouth moved against yours with bruising force, his hands sliding to your waist, pinning you against the cold wall as though he wanted to imprint himself onto your very soul.

Your heart raced as your mind warred with your body. His touch was fire, scorching and unyielding, and yet some traitorous part of you leaned into him, matching his intensity.

Tom pulled back suddenly, leaving you gasping for air. A smirk curled his lips as he studied your dazed expression. “Pathetic,” he muttered, his tone dripping with mockery.

He stepped back, smoothing his hair as though the encounter hadn’t affected him in the slightest. “You’ll learn, in time, not to cross me. And when you do, you’ll beg for my forgiveness.”

With that, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving you alone, trembling with a mix of anger, fear, and confusion.

True to his word, Tom made your life a living hell. He was calculated in his cruelty, never overt enough to be caught but always precise in his attacks.

Your friends began to distance themselves, their once-warm smiles replaced by wary glances. Whispers followed you wherever you went, rumors planted by Tom’s silver tongue. Professors scolded you for assignments that mysteriously went missing, and your once-perfect quillwork was replaced by jagged, ink-stained parchment.

Every glance from him in the corridors felt like a blade to the chest. His smirk grew wider with each passing day, as if he was savoring your descent into isolation.

By the time you reached your breaking point, you felt like a shadow of yourself. That night, driven by desperation and rage, you stormed into the Prefect’s dormitory, your fists trembling at your sides.

The door slammed open, and there he was. Tom Riddle sat on his bed, shirtless, his pale skin glowing in the candlelight. A book rested in his hands, though his gaze lifted lazily to meet yours. A knowing smirk played on his lips, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah, here she is,” he drawled, closing the book with deliberate care. “The little rebel finally comes crawling back.”

“Stop it!” you shouted, your voice cracking. “You’ve done enough, Tom! Please—just leave me alone!”

He raised an eyebrow, setting the book aside as he leaned back against the headboard. “Leave you alone?” he echoed, mockery dripping from every word. “You didn’t seem to mind my attention before.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you dropped to your knees, the weight of everything too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, the words trembling on your lips. “I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have erased your memories.”

Tom stood, his tall frame towering over you as he approached. The smirk on his face widened as he looked down at your tear-streaked face.

“Oh, you’re sorry now?” he said, his voice low and mocking. “And what, exactly, are you sorry for? For betraying me? For thinking you could escape me? Or for underestimating just how much I could destroy you?”

Your sobs grew louder, and you shook your head. “I’ll do anything,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Just stop... please.”

Tom crouched in front of you, his hand gripping your chin to tilt your face up to meet his. His dark eyes burned with satisfaction, a predator reveling in the surrender of his prey.

“Anything?” he repeated, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his thumb brushed your lower lip.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice soft but deadly. “You shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have crossed me. And now you’re here, on your knees, begging me to forgive you.”

He straightened, his hand sliding into your hair. The motion was firm but not painful, his fingers tangling in your locks as he pulled your face closer to his waist.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mockery, “if I gave you the chance... would you dare to do it again?”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks as his grip tightened.

“Good,” he said, his smirk widening. “Because I can promise you this—you’ll regret what you did for the rest of your life.”

Tom’s smirk deepened as he held you there, his grip firm but deliberate. The tension in the room was suffocating, his presence overwhelming. You felt his eyes boring into you, watching your every move, every tremble of your body beneath his power.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with disdain. “The once defiant little thing, so bold, so eager to stand against me. And now?” He tilted your head slightly, his fingers tightening in your hair. “You’re exactly where you belong—on your knees, apologizing like the pathetic creature you are.”

Your lips quivered as you tried to speak, to muster any kind of retort, but the words failed you.

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a finger to your lips. “Don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

He pulled you back slightly, forcing you to look up at him. His expression was unreadable now, a dangerous mix of triumph and something darker, something almost tender.

“You said you’d do anything to make this right,” he said, his thumb brushing your cheek. “But you can’t undo the damage you’ve caused. You can’t undo the months I lost—the nights I spent consumed by thoughts of you, not understanding why I felt so... incomplete.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice cracking.

His hand slid to your jaw, gripping it firmly as he leaned closer. “I don’t think you understand what sorry means,” he said, his breath ghosting over your lips. “But don’t worry—I’ll teach you.”

He straightened abruptly, releasing you and stepping back. His smirk returned as he crossed his arms, watching you struggle to compose yourself.

“Stand up,” he commanded.

You hesitated, your legs trembling as you pushed yourself to your feet.

“Good,” he said, his tone approving. “Now, take a good look around this room. Do you know what it represents?”

You shook your head, unsure of where he was going.

“This,” he gestured to the dark, intimate space, “is where you’ll come when you need reminding of who you belong to. Of who you owe everything to.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Don’t think for a second that this is over,” he continued, his voice growing softer, more dangerous. “You’ve unleashed something in me, something that won’t stop until I’ve had my revenge. But I’m not in a hurry.”

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against your arm, making you flinch.

“No,” he murmured, his lips inches from your ear. “I’m going to take my time. I’m going to make you regret what you did in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Tom didn’t let up. His torment became more personal, more intimate. He would appear at the most unexpected times, his voice soft and mocking as he reminded you of your place. He continued to twist the people around you, isolating you further, but now he did it with a calculated cruelty, ensuring that you felt his presence even when he wasn’t there.

And yet, there were moments where his anger seemed to waver, replaced by something almost... longing. Late at night, when he cornered you in an empty corridor or brushed against you in the library, his touch would linger, his gaze softening for the briefest of moments.

You hated yourself for noticing. Hated yourself more for the way your body betrayed you, responding to his closeness despite everything he’d done.

One night, after weeks of torment, you found yourself summoned to the same secluded room where this all began. Tom was waiting, his expression unreadable as he gestured for you to sit.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his tone deceptively calm. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh on you. Perhaps I should offer you a chance to redeem yourself.”

You frowned, unsure of his intentions. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Prove to me that you’ve learned your lesson. That you understand what it means to be mine.”

Your heart sank as you realized what he was asking.

“And if I refuse?” you whispered.

His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, you won’t refuse. Because you know what’s waiting for you if you do.”

Whew, this one took me quite a while to finish! Hope you enjoyed that manipulative mf, Tom—hehehe.

Your likes and reblogs mean the world to me—thank you so much! Love you!

devider from @cyberangel-graphics :>

[mumms-the-word]

Notes on a Caretaker

I find something about this note so fascinating. Every time I pick it up or scroll back around to it I have to sit with it and just...linger, trying to understand it.

So this is my attempt to break it down and sort through my thoughts about this note, which I think is so obviously from Solas. I think it hints not only to his spirit background, but also his perspective on the path he feels is set before him. Which, idk, is cool!

Mini analysis under the cut! Also a lot of Veilguard spoilers!

This note has a smear of paint on one corner: Have they always been here? There are beings in the Crossroads unknown even to the wise, though the most ancient ones make any domain their own. Certainly, this Caretaker belongs here now.

We’re led to believe this note must be from Solas because of the smear of paint. And I would argue the paint perhaps clues us in to when this might have been written. No doubt Solas was painting murals when he was running around as the Rebel Fen'Harel, since we see some of them in Trespasser, but I think he painted the murals in the Lighthouse after he left the Inquisition (in part because we have that last mural where he kills Flemythal, and he left his paint pallet in the music room after recreating the Inquisition murals there). So it could go either way, but...

I can just imagine Solas, lost in the throes of his regrets, painting his sins on the walls of the library and his memories of the Inquisition in the music room, finally noticing the Caretaker who has arrived, or perhaps was always there. Perhaps he pauses to consider the nature of the Caretaker, and the mystery of when it arrived. We find this note in the kitchen/dining area, where Solas still has a single place setting laid out for himself. So perhaps the Caretaker arrived to take care of him?

Or maybe this is a really, really old letter from when Solas first retreated to the Lighthouse and began to use it as his base of operations. How ancient is the Caretaker? Did they arrive to see to the Lighthouse during the days of the rebellions against the Evanuris, or did they arrive later? Did they arrive because they were drawn to the needs of dozens, hundreds of rebels and refugees, or drawn to its echo after they were gone? Which is it?

I personally go back and forth about it, but it's fascinating that the letter subtly supports both perspectives. Anyways!

I wonder what we look like to them. Need is a scaffold, and the needs of the living ever rise and fall upon it. Hunger, thirst, sleep... imagine the constant cacophony to one sensitive to such things.

The "we" suggests maybe this is a much older letter. I can see a much younger Solas leading his rebels to the Lighthouse and contemplating the nature of this Caretaker, worrying about how so many physical bodies in one space might affect a spirit sensitive to physical needs. But I can also see a much more recent Solas pondering this new (or new to him) creature, so I don't know.

Either way, "we" vs. "them." Solas is well and truly part of the living here, as opposed to viewing this all entirely as a spirit. It's like he's wondering what these spirit-born elves, or even mortals in general look like to a spirit like the Caretaker. A spirit whose focus is on needs, surrounded by these elves with physical bodies who now have very real, tangible needs. Hunger, thirst, sleep, things a spirit does not feel. But the Caretaker does, at least, sense these things in others.

The chorus of one person's needs must be a lot, but the cacophony of dozens, hundreds, as there would have been when the Lighthouse was in its prime? No wonder Solas has a moment of concern for this benevolent spirit.

Or am I too simple? Wants are fleeting; needs have deeper roots. Perhaps that's why I find this particular spirit's presence both comforting and disconcerting. The prospect that our heart's desire and our truest need could differ—or are even at odds—is hard to contemplate.

This. This is the most fascinating part of the note.

Or am I too simple? I think this is a hint, super early in the game, that Solas is a spirit. Spirits are the pure manifestations of emotion and thought. Complexity comes with personhood, with being part of the living in the tangible world. But spirits in the Fade (even before the Veil) are always pretty simple.

Solas is grappling with his nature here.

Wants are fleeting; needs have deeper roots. Perhaps that's why I find this particular spirit's presence both comforting and disconcerting.

I wonder if this is Solas struggling a bit with the unique experience of being both spirit and elf, undying but also very much alive, originally intangible but now physical. Wants come with being a spirit—spirits want to see beyond the Veil, if they're curious enough, or Cole as Compassion wants to help, he wants to look like the boy who died in the Spire. But here it's like Solas is suggesting that need is an intrinsically mortal or at least physical thing—something he didn't need to consider much before he had a body.

After all, spirits who don't have purely physical bodies don't seem to have the same needs. Like when Dorian talks with Cole about having a body, despite him not seeming to have physical needs:

Dorian: Do you need to eat, Cole? Or sleep? Cole: I thought I had to. But I don't. The Old Songs can pull me.

Or Blackwall suggesting that now that Cole is more human (if you take that path) the physical needs will likely come up:

Blackwall: So now that you've dealt with the templar, you're a real boy? Cole: Realer. Blackwall: Good enough. I suppose you'll stop looking into people's heads soon? And you might want to look into, I don't know, eating. Cole: Blech.

Often I think Solas struggles with where he stands, what he is, what he can be, what he should be as someone whom was first a spirit and then a person with a physical body. Short of dying, it sounds as though the process of going from spirit to elf is irreversible. He cannot return to the Fade as a pure spirit anymore. After the Veil, he can only return in dreams, at least until he finds ways of tearing through to the Veil to enter physically again.

But time and again he thinks and acts like a spirit with a simpler, focused nature rather than a complicated nature like a person might have. When he asks, Am I too simple? it feels like he’s acknowledging this. Is he too simple, too focused, too spirit to understand the experience of being fully, complexly mortal or physical?

The Caretaker’s presence is both comforting, because Solas knows that his (or others’) needs will likely be tended to, and yet disconcerting because it’s probably weird to even have those needs.

Ah but here we come to my favorite part.

The prospect that our heart's desire and our truest need could differ—or are even at odds—is hard to contemplate.

I’m sure this is hard to contemplate even for a normal person. How often do we struggle with knowing what we want isn’t always what we need? We may want the sugary cake, for example, but our bodies may need the healthier vegetables or fruits instead.

But going deeper, it’s easy to conflate needs and wants when it comes to abstract things. Like, say, vengeance, penance, atonement, or restoration.

Solas wants to repair the mistake he made thousands of years ago by creating the Veil, but he doesn’t need to do that. Yet in his mind, he treats it like a need, with roots so deep he can’t escape being bound up in them.

He wants to honor Mythal, who died because of his mistakes, who died again at his hand, but he doesn’t see that he can let go of that purpose, because somehow this want isn’t fleeting or fading like wants normally do. It sticks around. Therefore it must be more than want, right?

His heart’s desire is for the elven people to be restored, immortal, free, prosperous, and he throws his entire being into making that goal come true, that dream a reality. But he doesn’t see that his truest need is actually to be freed himself. Free from the purpose he’s given himself in the wake of Mythal’s death. Free from a path of vengeance that no one asked him to take, but that he feels obligated to walk.

His truest need, which he can’t see, because he can’t seem to sort through what is more want versus what is more need (and who can really, when they’re in the thick of things?), is not to cling closer to Mythal and honor his friend (or whatever it is they were), but to be freed from any and all entanglements with her.

He doesn’t want to let her go, but he needs to.

But without her around to release him, he clings to his plans to restore the elven people, restore her people, and hope that that will be atonement enough.

I think that’s why in the redemption ending, when we do see Mythal release Solas, he nearly collapses with this mixture of grief and relief. When he finally straightens up again, yes he’s hurting, but he’s the calmest he’s ever been in the entire game. As in, not tense, not plotting, not agitated. You get the sense that he can see or think with clarity now. Perhaps even breathe freely for the first time in ages.

And he finally sees that what he needs to do is not fix his mistakes, if doing so only causes more chaos and heartache and death for thousands or millions around him, but to seek atonement.

I love the line Rook can say when they’re trying to talk him down and make him bind himself to the Veil.

“[Making the Veil collapse] is what you want. Making amends isn’t about what you want.”

It doesn’t convince Solas, because he still doesn’t see removing the Veil as a want. He views it as a need. Not his need, but the world’s need. The world needs to be restored to the way Mythal would have wanted it, or so he believes.

I think that’s why Mythal has to release him before he can see everything clearly. She is the only one who can give him what he needs but does not what—freedom from her service.

It may not be everyone’s favorite choice, but I understand how we get here, especially since we find this letter so early in the game. Whether this letter is Solas from the distant past or the more recent past, it sets up a trajectory that we can trace all the way to the end of the game. And I just find that fascinating.

[alexthetrashyracoon]

Fantasy au nobody asked for but I give you anyway.

Tags: Flowerfairy Reader, traveling mercenary Ghost, a bit of cursing, momentarily character death but we stay above the ground don't worry, a bit angsty but it gets a happy ending, I promise <3 (if that flops I'll cry)

Word count: 1350

"We shouldn't go this way." They flatly said and fluttered next to Ghost's face, brows in a pinch with their hands pressed against their rips. "It's dangerous."

Ghost grunted and swatted at them, not hard enough to hurt them or cause them to crash to the ground, but to get them out of his face. "You've been traveling with me long enough. You should know by now I don't care how dangerous it is as long as it gets me to the place I need to get." He says and leaves the cobbled path to take the short cut through the woods.

They huff and flutter after him. "I warned you."

It's been three months since Ghost met the little flower fairy, caught in some bandits' bottle. Ghost was hunting the group of bandits down, a big fat reward waiting for him when he brought back the leader, dead or alive it didn't matter.

So when he cleaned the camp, he found the bottle that had rolled under a sack and at first, Ghost had discarded it as trash, not looking twice at it but then he heard the little banging sound on glass and checked the bottle again, finding the little thing inside.

At first Ghost wasn't sure if he could believe his eyes. It wasn't everyday after all that someone came across a fairy, tiny human with wings on their back, but they pinched Ghost hard enough for him to believe it.

Ever since then Ghost allowed the fairy to graciously follow him, if they promised to keep their mouth shut, which they never truly did. They were talking all the time, chatting about whatever was on their mind. And Ghost, he would never admit that out loud, actually enjoyed the company for once. He was used to traveling alone, never bonding with others or keeping friendships alive for long. But something about the fairy was different.

At the end of the shortcut, Ghost finds himself standing in an opening that looks quite peaceful, not enough for him to drop his guard but the scenery is nice for a change.

He turns around to face the fairy who sits on his shoulder like usually when their wings get tired. They barely weigh anything more than a feather, even if he teases them all the time that if they keep eating so many cookies that he won't be able to keep walking with them on his shoulder. They always pout in return and don't talk to him for exactly ten minutes before chatting about some flower they have passed on their way.

"See. No danger around." Ghost grunts and decides it's time for a break, to replenish his strength and energy while enjoying a bit of nature's beauty. He puts down his backpack and sits down next to it. "Wake me in an hour."

The wake-up call never comes, or at least, not an hour later, but several hours, considering that the sun is going down right now and Ghost finds himself in a cage with his arms bound behind his back with rough rope. "The fuck is going on?" He asks, his tongue heavy as he speaks, eyes needing a few moments to focus again, ears still ringing, making hearing hard. Someone must have knocked him out cold when he took a nap, how embarrassing for someone like him to get caught off-guard by some amateur bandits.

Something... Someone, steps in front of the cage. "Look at that. The shithead who killed my brother is awake." That someone kicks the bars of the cage, making Ghost flinch at the rattling sound that comes with it.

He quickly gathers himself again, checking the guy outside the cage but not recognizing the person. "I killed many brothers... So, who the fuck are you?" Ghost asks, sounding overly confident, as always, even in situations where he should show a bit of restraint. Especially in situations like this.

The person grabs onto the bars of the cage and rattles them, baring his teeth like an animal. "You dick. I'll make you remember before... Hey! What the fuck! What is that?!" The bandit jumps and swats at something in the air but can't quite catch it.

Ghost's eyes widen, his fairy is back, he has been asking himself where they have gotten lost while he was in that cage. But he can't let their distraction be for nothing, he uses the chance to break the binding and steal the key from the bandits' leather belt to get out of the cage.

"Shit!" The bandit curses as he turns to look between Ghost and whatever is attacking him but decides to ultimately pay attention to Ghost, the bigger threat. Ghost's fairy uses the chance to get away to safety, leaving Ghost to fight without worrying about getting them into more danger.

It's clear as day that Ghost is no amateur and that there was no way in hell that the bandit would ever win. But somehow he managed to get away, right where Ghost's little fairy waited for him.

Ghost isn't fast enough to save them, he watches as the now bleeding bandit grabs the little fluttering thing and squeezes his hand shut until the noises stop and the forest completely falls silent.

He makes quick work of the bandit, he doesn't even look at his face as he cuts off his head. All he cares for is the little fairy in the bandits hand that's laying there, like a little doll, unmoving.

"Come now. Don't play with me, little fairy." Ghost says and picks their body up with shaking hands.

He never felt like this before, so damn helpless and clueless. What is he supposed to do? How can he turn back time to get his fairy back. The little chattering fairy that he learned to care for.

"I know you warned me it's dangerous... I should have listened." He says, not crying. He can't. He won't. Ghost never cries. Even if he wants to. "It's my fault you're dead. I'm sorry."

He remembers the promise they made a few weeks ago.

"Let's see the world together. You and I." They have happily announced back then and Ghost couldn't say now to their happy, smiling face. "Let's see the world together. You and I."

He would give his own life just for one more chance with them.

A single tear rolls down Ghost's cheek. It's more than he ever allowed himself before. It lands on their tiny body, staining their clothes.

Ghost searches for a spot to bury them, he knows they love flowers, so why not bury them in a field of them.

Just as he's finished with the hole in the ground, the air picks up, the breeze becomes warmer with flower petals and leaves flying through the air, surrounding him.

"That hole is way too small for someone as big as me."

Ghost knows that voice, he looks down only to find the body missing. Instead he sees naked feet, human feet standing in front of him, he looks up, following the long legs.

"How?" He asks, ignoring their nakedness and standing up, touching them, their humanly sized body. "I saw your dead body. He squeezed..."

"I don't know, Ghost. In my last moment I just remembered that we promised to travel the world together and when I opened my eyes again, I saw you on your knees, digging that hole." They explain with a smile, gratefully taking the woolen cloak from Ghost's hands and wrapping it around their shoulders. "I think Lady Fate is still not done with our story, Ghost."

At first it was a big change, gone was the tiny fairy fluttering around his head all the time, but Ghost quickly got used to seeing the other human next to him every night and day. Ghost had to teach them how to be human at first but he was sure that this was a challenge they would master too. One step at a time. And this time, Ghost would listen to his fairy turned human more often.

[200markies]

Heyyy!! I love your work <3 Can you write a 'Mark is the type of boyfriend to...' and/or something about: idol!mark and reader as a regular person (full time job+college student) maybe with a little bit o angst since they are so different from each other etc?

　　　　mark ♡ is the type of boyfriend to ... ⁺

mark soft hours & headcanons. all are fictional.

pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

genre: romance, fluff

requested by anon !

author's notes: i did NOT expect all of you guys to like the jeno headcanons so much to the point that an anon requested a mark ver which convinced me enough to make another one for the week 😭 y'all do indeed enjoy the headcanon series. anyway, to the anon who is reading this, i have to be honest with you but i genuinely enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this. PLEASE. this took me hours to write and i don't expect JUST the anon to like this but all of you too! i can't even say "i hope you enjoy" in the author's notes now that i'm expecting a thousand notifications on my activity tab in this platform.... 🤓

p.s. let us all thank mark lee for making the most boyfriend material instagram that could ever exist.... without r_e__m___ this headcanon wouldn't be BORN!

reminding all of u guys that my ask inbox is open so don't hesitate to drop a request or an ask !!!

mark is the type of boyfriend to write you poems whenever feels like it, or whenever it's a special occasion that's all about you. whether it be your birthday or your anniversary together, mark tries his absolute best to find all the words and combine it to make a poem that will surely make you happy. he wants to make you feel loved and safe with him, especially since he's your boyfriend.

"hey, beautiful, i left something on your desk," mark walks to you in the living room, sitting beside you while you work a deadline. you turn to him and chuckled, looking at your room which had a yellow folded note. you knew immediately that mark wrote a poem, and you can't wait to read it. you stand up to get the note on your desk, unfolding it to see an entire script of a poem which was all about how sweet your personality is. you walk back to mark, reading it while he lies his head on your shoulder to read a bit of what he wrote. "'you're so sweet that i can't stop coming back to you as if you're like candy, i take it, i'm the luckiest man in the world because of you, my fancy.'" you read the 3rd line in the 4th stanza, giving mark a little peck after you read it.

mark is the type of boyfriend to definitely rehearse being a husband to you. even though you two may not be ready yet or you can't bring yourselves to commit, he loves to do things a loyal husband would do. would you complain? no, because you loved it when mark would act that way. it's quite silly of him to do that, but trust me, you will need it when the both of you are married.

"good evening, future wifey," mark leans on your doorway while you're putting accessories to your outfit, looking at him once you heard his voice. tonight, mark is taking you out on a date, as part of his "husband rehearsals". he notices you're wearing the yves saint laurent dress mark gave you on your first anniversary, which made him smile and giggle. "looks like you're wearing your favorite dress on our date today, hm?" you nodded, giggling softly. "you truly love rehearsing your husband duties, it's silly." you say, walking to him as you put on your fur coat and kissed him on the lips. "it's not silly when you're gonna need more of me acting like this when we get married."

mark is the type of person who tends to stay with you almost every hour of the day. even when you don't need him, he's gonna be beside you until sunset, he can work with you, or he can cuddle, or he can comfort you while you work. (that's for later) he wants to keep you close to him no matter what, so that he could take care or help you whenever something happens. it's his obligation, and he's happy to take it.

"what... are you doing?" you look up at mark who's massaging your legs, confused and a little startled at the sensations he's giving you. he's right in front of you, trying his best to probably keep you soothed and comfortable while he has nothing to do for the day. you couldn't even make him leave because, you can admit, you loved this. "i know how tired you are after the gala you had with your friends, and i'm trying to soothe you so that you won't feel any more pain walking later. i know you love it, baby." he continues massaging you while you're working, making you giggle as you stared at him. "well, matter of fact... your massages are doing great work."

©️ 200markies / jyanihaes, 2024

[doublejango]

HELLUVA BOSS SINSMAS SPOILERS, OCTAVIA EDITION-- [Spoilers below! Am tagging this as well, of course, but just in case you didn't catch the tags, this is your sign to stop now if you don't want a spoiler.]

I freaking love Octavia SO MUCH, you guys!!!! I love her, love her, love her! What a fantastically written character. And good lord, her singing voice! That was absolutely incredible. Not what I need to post about, but I had to mention it because she absolutely blew my socks off! Aaaahhh! but okay, okay, focusing and moving on.

I am 99% sure Octavia knows. Deep down. She knows that Stolas really does love her. And I think she understands, or really, truly will understand. She knows how important antidepressants are, clearly, and even if she didn't fully understand why he has them, she knows they're meaningful and that he does need them. And like, the first real "reason" she had to go see him, she immediately leapt on it. Giving him the medications--showing she cares, even if she's yelling? And she immediately moved to his defense, absolutely fearless.

Octavia loves Stolas.

She pushed back at him, yelled at him, questioned him, doubts him--all things that I really don't think she would do if he hadn't made her feel safe, loved, and wanted all her life. She can push back against Stolas, because I think she believes, on a purely subconscious level probably, an instinct born of the fact that he raised her with so much love and tenderness, that he would never hurt her, never judge her. And that is exactly how it should be, that is wonderful. Stolas instilled a sense of safety in her when it comes to him, or else she wouldn't be so honest with him, wouldn't let her pain show so clearly.

She doesn't do that with Stella and Andrealphus. She doesn't even really confront them at all, it seems. She could have been sassing them all along, snapping at them for taking her phone, for limiting her at all, but she just doesn't bother... and I think it says so much. If she really trusted Stella to have her best interests at heart, to be the loving and understanding mother--I like to think Octavia would've called her on her bs. But on some level, Octavia didn't seem to feel there was any point to confronting Stella or Andrealphus.

Only Stolas.

Because he is still the one who matters most to her, and with whom she is intrinsically safe.

She still trusts him. Even if she doesn't think she does right now, she turned to him with questions and exposed her vulnerabilities. Maybe she didn't react "logically" to his answers, but I mean, she's a teenager. She's a good kid, she's just also going through devastating heartbreak and loss right now, she's young, she's allowed to act out, act up. Yes, of course it's painful to watch, because I want our sweet Stolas to have his reunion with Via... but I think he will. I really, really think he will. It's okay that she's not ready for that time to be now. She'll get there eventually, and the two of them can be whole again <3

I think Via is too good a person to ever be fully corrupted by Stella's hatred and indifference, or Andre's casual cruelty. She has a lot of pain of her own to deal with right now, but as that heals, I choose to believe she'll see Stolas as a person too, not just as a father, not just as the one person in her life who was always there for her, but as a person. I think she'll see. She'll forgive him. And she will love him all the more deeply--

And that every day, until that day, she will love him still.

I adore her.

I adore her so much.

Adding, TLDR: I think it's so important that she feels she can safely reject him, because deep down Via knows that Stolas will never reject her, no matter what. Even now. She doesn't need to placate or tolerate him. She'll always be safe with him, and even if she doesn't know that consciously... I think she still knows.

[lilithofpenandbook]

Serious question, what makes you think that just because Lily got with him that there was any good in him at all? Why is Lily supposed to be this good judge of character? She's no goddess of virtue- some could argue she was actually a bad friend to Snape, considering that not only did she nearly laugh when Snape was being assaulted, she stormed off when he lashed out at her despite him clearly being the vulnerable one in that situation. He was physically at the mercy of two other boys, and potentially in physical danger yet not only does she storm off, she joins them in mocking him? She's not the embodiment of goodness, she's on the exact same level as Snape!

As for it being a "teenage boy thing", Harry himself called out that BS. He said it himself, he was also fifteen, and he sympathised with Snape in that situation. The Marauders were not the norm, they were the outliers for being exceptionally awful with no good reason. James had nothing to "grow out of", if he ever did (and it's strongly implied that he very much kept up his bullying, he only learned how to hide it better), because all the horrible stuff he did were actions and "maturing" was literally an inaction and he still damaged another person so badly that just his face on someone else was able to trigger that person so badly. Snape doesn't react to Harry the way he does for fun, he reacts that way because James seriously damaged him.

And James is also the worst person out of all the Marauders. Remus you can argue was afraid of losing his friends (or worse, becoming their enemy- he saw what they did to Snape). Sirius can have some tiny grace because he did come from a bad home (and even then, the abuse he faced at home was mild at best- his parents and he clashed because he rebelled against them first, and he ran away first). Peter could be understood because he probably felt vulnerable and chose to protect himself by cheering on the bullies. But James? He has absolutely no excuse to be who he was.

He was an only child. He was "well loved and even adored". He was ludicrously rich. He was good at Quidditch. He literally had every single thing, yet he still chose to be an asshole. There was no abusive home you can blame for his behaviour, not any insecurities or weaknesses. He was the most privileged of the lot, yet still he chose to be an asshole. And that's disgusting enough, but his target being Severus Snape, the half-blood from a small Northern town who was so poor it showed on his appearance and not traditionally masculine to boot, was disgusting. Why not Mulciber or Avery, who actually did hurt people and were proud of their beliefs? Why not Regulus, who was a Voldemort supporting fanatic? Why the poor halfbood from an abusive home? Because James was just as bigoted and prejudiced as every other pureblood and merely disguised it.

Him telling Lily he'd never call her a mudblood means absolutely nothing in that moment, when he caused the very thing to take place by bullying another mudblood. And yes, Severus is a mudblood, perhaps even more so than Lily. He's basically a muggleborn, having grown up in a muggle town with a muggle (not even muggleborn or a squib) father, and a mother who could easily have been muggleborn herself, and worse: he's poor, something pure-bloods look down on other pure bloods for being. If James truly was an advocate for muggleborns, as he tried to claim, he would have been Severus' first defender, not his abuser.

Additionally, who was the first person to begin bullying Snape? James. Who gave him the nickname "Snivellus", an attack on his masculinity? James. Who attacked him in the worst memories flashback? James.

And no, James saving Snape from Remus meant absolutely nothing. He's part of why the prank happened. He cared nothing for Snape's life and was just less mad than Sirius and could realise the consequences for himself and Sirius would be horrible if Remus actually hurt Severus.

And no, Lily marrying him also means nothing on his maturity. She was a very ordinary girl, not some saint, and it's no surprise she'd marry him- he was a rich pure-blood and she was a muggleborn from a lower class (but not as low as Snape) and they were heading to a war where muggleborns' place in the wizarding world were being threatened. It would only make sense to marry the rich pure-blood boy, it guaranteed her financial and social protection. She is not a sign that he supposedly matured.

If anything, looking at Sirius's behaviour, we can guess that if James lived, he would not have matured at all. Sirius was a secondary school bully, and still tries to behave like one. James, his double act, would have been no better.

I'm not denying James loved Harry or Lily, or that he loved Sirius either (although his relationship with Peter and Remus seems questionable). But being capable of love does not mean he was not a completely awful person. Look at Lucius, who also loved his wife and child dearly, yet was also a pretty awful person. And out of all the Marauders, James was the worst one. He did the most harm, and had absolutely no reason to do any of it.

The Marauders are fascinating to me in canon BECAUSE of how awful they are. I enjoy hating them! I enjoy Sirius being an awful cruel hypocrite who's completely unaware of it because it's entertaining. I enjoy James being a piece of trash because it's entertaining to hate him. I find Remus fascinating because he's no better than the others despite his sad helpless act. I think Peter's utterly ridiculous and it's hilarious. I enjoy them as villains. I do not condone what they've done to anyone at all, in fact I despise it all, I just enjoy hating them. They're the worst people ever and that's entertaining because it's also fiction.

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been trying to figure out a dynamic between neve and rye that I find more compelling, because right now there's not much of anything there for me to sink my little teeth into. but I think I've landed on something delicious with the idea that especially after minrathous gets fucked, rye looks at neve and sees myrna -- someone he feels he keeps letting down horribly no matter how hard he tries not to and can't quite achieve the approval of/connection with that he wishes so it's better to just pull away completely and disengage rather than stay in that unshifting shame. neve is (very understandably) measured and distant with him after what happened, and he's flashing back to his student days of myrna gazing at the perpetually hungover heartbroken heap of a person of him on the other side of her desk every time he missed the deadline of a paper or project like '...can we at least both agree that this is. a bit disappointing. especially considering your potential.' (and him all smudged black eyeshadow and numb ruefulness being like 'sure that's a very kind way to put it myrna thank you'.)

aside from the 'if I let him get too deeply into this he'll go the way of brom and it'll be all my fault (again)' element, neve thinks rye is dismissing her and her city/being a bit callous in the same way he was after varric's death (listen. how fucking wild must rook's reaction to losing a beloved mentor seem to the rest of the crew who aren't seeing the blood magic paper doll ghost varric the whole time, especially those who got to see them interact. you WOULD think 'there's something wrong with this guy. putting the job first is one thing just not seeming to react at all is another this is fucking freaky', wouldn't you, especially after seeing the warmth in that dynamic in action beforehand.) perfect storm of two people who grit their teeth and turn inwards in pain deciding that not talking about it is their best bet (NEWSFLASH: IT ISN'T) lmao

(rye spent his last year of watcher training on a mostly joyless bender and then got it together enough to finish the eternal orb project last moment in a fevered near-sleepless week instead of the half a year that was intended. emmrich is both astounded and distressed to hear this. "a week? but -- but that is an astounding accomplishment rook!! and also why in the maker's good light would you ever do that to yourself?" ("well you see there was no one to stop me from doing it like that but me. and under those conditions these things tend to happen".) rye was working through/looking up stuff around transitioning and doing every kind of OTHER high level watcher research through that whole time, but ultimately he's an excellent watcher and a terrible student, at least under traditional methods. adhd from here to the fucking moon. touched by something akin to divine inspiration in moments of high tension that pulls all the threads into one coherent unbreakable cord, a bit of a frayed mess in most other settings. in our world he'd be dropping out of a masters program at the very last hurdle in this moment maker bless and protect him)

[i-miss-lotor]

So I romanced Astarion and let him ascend and I'm not going to lie, I always had a bit of a hate towards people who look down on me and call me or well, my characters, pet and such. And Astarion didn't change that, especially with the degradation part

But

Imagining the future where my character slowly becomes miserable with Astarion because while he does love her, he doesn't see her as his equal. And I mean even if you want to break up with him after the ascension and defeated brain he just doesn'tlet you (though im not there yet, i just read it somewhere). Imagining him slowly becoming furious, compelling my character to do things, to love him and then anger turns into desperation and hell, he just wants her, what can he do to make her love him again, what does she want, he will give it to her

Anyway I just want them to be happy, then miserable, then to slowly learn to love each other again with Astarion begrudgingly being a tiny bit nicer to others (cause my character mostly likes being nice but also she was an urchin, she's not above blackmail and deception and such. Ohh plus she's a bard, imagine Astarion wanting her to sing again but she doesn't so he makes her and it just breaks the trust again and again

And a scene where she escapes and then Astarion finds her and brings hell with him and kills whoever decided to help her and he's slowly breaking her spirit from the strong and defying woman she was, not realising at first that it's breaking him too.

(I especially like that little movement, swinging himself a bit when you ask if you can talk about your relationship with him and he responds "yes, my treasure?" *happy swingies, he's so happy and cute* and then cuts to him being angry and desperate and sad that his love doesn't look at him with adoration anymore, that the look he receives is not even angry but empty)

And the realization that oh no, did he became another Cazador? But no, he is better than him, he doesn't treat you like he was treated! ...does he?

[dairyfreenugget]

I could count the amount of original stories of mine that don't have horror elements on one hand and idk what that says about me

[vzajemnik]

godd i miss my fag more than anything. like whatever man whatever its just that were soulmates and our souls are intertwined and we are mirror images of one another and the stars crossed when we met. BUT YOU DIDNT WANT IT ARCHIES DAD

[happyk44]

Nico’s love for Percy vs Percy’s guilt over Bianca

[cheswirls]

magi rambling

idk it jus hit me out of nowhere how much i love magi fic and how sinja is portrayed in such. imo THEEEE best magi fic of all time is works cowritten by galiko and daphnerunning, those two were genuinely on galaxy brain mega dimension level thinking full time, but like less abt magi meta as a whole and more on how the characters are so true to themselves and their flaws

it's been so long that in not gonna be able to remember who all did it but i def remember all of galiko's sinja fic that also portrayed sinbad/judal to some extent, that it was made very clear in the text how differently and on different footing both relationships stood. judal especially in their hands was written so well in a way that changed how i viewed the character in canon to some extent and in every other piece of fictional media. like how can you write someone so pathetic and deceptive and a bastard and it's all perfectly in character

I've never been into sin/ju and i don't think i ever read anything w them in fic seriously or w/o skimming but i did sit thru enough to know how the galiko/daphne pair brought them forth and made it very wanton-ly obvious that sin is always just manipulating judal and leading him on to get what he wants at the end of it all, but in contrast, it's clear that he so deeply loves ja'far in ways mere words cannot express

to see the relationship dynamics compared and contrasted in fic was always such a treat because sin treats almost everyone like they're a stepping stone used to further his own objectives, but then he treats his advisor like a genuine person. shows real care and concern, becomes inconsolable when ja'far is hurt, refuses to quell his rage for any reason when someone has wronged ja'far. his advisor truly is his precious person that he can strip down out of his title as king and just be sinbad around.

and this is even further glorified when ja'f knows but insists he doesn't!!! playa it off bc sin is king and this is uncouth!!! only to have such moments of weakness when anything goes terribly wrong and he's suddenly on the brink of death, terrified of leaving sin behind all alone, letting himself have just as long as it takes to recover the bare minimum amount to bask in sin's unending devotion. they truly do treat each other differently in canon and otherwise and it's so gratifying to see and realize each time as someone who loves sinja so dearly

[tariah23]

Well, I’m still glad that Gojo was always a character who was growing and learning at least. He’s literally one of my favorite characters of all time now. Like, he’s never been as perfect as how the fans would make him out to be despite canonically being viewed as an absolute nuisance to everyone around him (I don’t think his peers necessarily hate him but a lot of them probably hate to see him coming and the ones who’ve dealt with him long enough to consider him a friend, tolerate him and groan whenever he opens his mouth, too 😭… out of love. He’s extremely childish so there is only sm the other adults around him can take and to an extent, his students. I think the only characters in canon who adore him and their eye’s sparkle whenever he’s around, and being a silly teacher was Yuuji and Miwa (she asked him for his autograph (he’s the most famous sorcerer in the jjk world) and when she was alone, she did a little dance in the empty hallway 🥺…) from what we’ve seen even though the others still care about him, too. They just find him rather annoying, which he most definitely is. And he does it on purpose. He plays too much.)