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heliosunny · 3 months ago

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Yandere!Ayato x Reader

The day you met Kamisato Ayato was anything but ordinary. You had stumbled upon his younger sister, Ayaka, in peril, cornered by a group of hostile individuals while wandering through Inazuma. Without a second thought, you intervened, defeating her attackers and ensuring her safety. Ayaka’s gratitude was immediate, but her elder brother’s reaction was far less welcoming.

From the moment Ayato laid eyes on you, suspicion clouded his sharp gaze. He was a man who trusted few, and the idea that a stranger had “conveniently” saved his sister reeked of ulterior motives. Though Ayaka vouched for you, his skepticism remained. To his credit, he didn’t cast you out entirely. Instead, he insisted you stay within the Kamisato Estate under the guise of “monitoring you for further investigation.”

It wasn’t easy. Ayato’s cold demeanor and sharp tongue made it clear that he doubted your intentions. Yet, despite his hostility, you stayed. Ayaka needed time to recover, and you couldn’t abandon her—not after what you’d witnessed. Gradually, your genuine care for Ayaka chipped away at Ayato’s walls. You weren’t the enemy he had convinced himself you were. In fact, you were nothing but kind, patient, and selfless.

When Ayaka fully recovered, you quietly left the Kamisato Estate, believing your part in their lives was over. But the universe had other plans.

Not long after, a larger threat emerged—one that had the Kamisato Clan in its crosshairs. Strange disappearances, sabotage, and threats plagued their estate. It wasn’t a coincidence, and Ayato knew it. What he didn’t expect, however, was your return. This time, you weren’t alone.

You revealed yourself as a detective working alongside Shikanoin Heizou. It had been Heizou who assigned you to investigate the earlier incident with Ayaka, and now he had sent you back to aid Ayato with this new case. Though Ayato was initially taken aback by the revelation of your profession, he couldn’t deny the relief he felt at your presence. He trusted no one, yet you had already proven your loyalty once before.

As the case unfolded, you became Ayato’s anchor. Whether it was unraveling cryptic clues, protecting the estate, or simply listening when the burden of leadership weighed heavily on him, you were always there. You were sharp, resourceful, and unyielding in your determination to help. Slowly but surely, Ayato found himself drawn to you in ways he couldn’t explain—or resist.

The realization hit him like a storm. He didn’t just appreciate you—he needed you. You were his equal, his match, the one person who could stand by his side through anything. When the case finally came to an end and the culprits were brought to justice, Ayato wasted no time in confronting you.

“I have a proposition.” he said one evening, his calm mask betraying nothing of the emotions swirling beneath. “Stay by my side—not as an associate, but as my partner.”

You blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of his words. “Wait… are you saying—marriage?”

“Precisely.” His tone was unwavering, as if he were stating an undeniable fact.

You laughed nervously, unsure if he was serious. “That’s… a bold offer, Lord Kamisato. But I’m afraid I can’t accept something so sudden.”

Ayato’s smile didn’t falter, though there was a glint of something unsettling in his eyes. “I understand your hesitation. But I assure you, my feelings are genuine. You’ll come to see that, in time.”

Little did you know, Ayato wasn’t one to take no for an answer. The more you resisted, the more determined he became.

After finishing a case at Narukami Shrine, you were invited by none other than Yae Miko for a private meeting. Her playful smirk never left her lips as she gestured for you to sit down. “You’ve been busy lately, haven’t you?” she teased, her sharp eyes gleaming with curiosity.

When she offered to tell your fortune, you couldn’t exactly refuse. It was Yae Miko, after all, she was rarely wrong about anything. But when the results came in, her expression turned unusually serious.

“Your love line” she began, her tone far softer than you were used to, “is a complicated one. A dangerous one, in fact. Be careful, dear. The one who holds your heart might not let go so easily.”

Her cryptic warning left you unsettled. You tried to brush it off as another one of her enigmatic tricks, but her words lingered in your mind. Yae Miko wasn’t one to say such things lightly.

Days later, you found yourself visiting the Kamisato Estate. You had heard that Ayato had just returned from a major mission assigned directly by the Shogun, and part of you wanted to check on him. He had been unusually quiet after your last encounter, and though you didn’t want to admit it, you were worried about him.

When you arrived, Ayaka greeted you warmly and led you to the training grounds, where Ayato was recovering from the aftermath of a fierce battle. His usually pristine appearance was slightly marred by cuts and bruises, yet his expression was as calm as ever. However, the moment he saw you, his eyes lit up with something unmistakable—relief.

“I didn’t expect to see you here” he admitted, his voice carrying a warmth that made your heart skip a beat.

“I heard you just got back from a case.” you replied, crossing your arms. “Figured I’d check in. You look like you could use some help.”

He smiled faintly, his exhaustion evident. “Your timing is impeccable, as always.”

As it turned out, your instincts were correct. What Ayato hadn’t told anyone was that his case wasn’t quite over yet. The Shogun’s orders had uncovered a deeper conspiracy threatening the stability of Inazuma, and Ayato was at the heart of it. Once again, you found yourself by his side, aiding him in unraveling the mystery and standing by him in yet another perilous battle.

The fight was grueling, pushing both of you to your limits. But together, you triumphed. Your unwavering determination and skill had earned you not only Ayato’s deepest admiration but also the respect of the Shogun herself. As a token of her gratitude, the Shogun personally rewarded you for your service.

What you didn’t expect was Ayato’s next move.

Standing before the Shogun in all her commanding presence, Ayato bowed deeply. “Your Excellency, I have one more request, if I may.”

The Shogun raised an eyebrow. “Speak.”

“I humbly ask for your blessing in marriage,” he said, his voice steady yet filled with conviction. “With them.”

The words hit you like a lightning strike. You stared at Ayato, stunned, as he turned to meet your gaze. His eyes held nothing but sincerity, as if he had planned this moment all along.

The Shogun considered his request for a moment before nodding. “Very well, Lord Kamisato. If they are in agreement, you have my blessing.”

Your head spun. This couldn’t be real. Ayato, always composed and calculating, had just asked for the Shogun’s approval to marry you in front of everyone. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“You’re not saying no, are you?” Ayato asked, his voice soft yet laced with an undercurrent of possessiveness. “I meant every word, and I won’t retract my proposal.”

You felt the weight of Yae Miko’s words return. A dangerous love line. Her warning rang in your ears as you looked at Ayato, whose calm mask had slipped just enough for you to see the intensity lurking beneath.

Despite the intensity of Ayato’s feelings, you had come to understand that beneath his possessiveness was a man who valued respect and devotion. While his obsessive nature could be overwhelming, he had never crossed a line, always treating you with the utmost care and reverence. Refusing his proposal seemed pointless—he was a man of his word, and as long as he didn’t tire of you, there was no harm in accepting his love.

And so, the preparations for your wedding began, with the Shogun herself granting her blessing. The ceremony was nothing short of a spectacle—luxurious, elegant, and befitting the head of the Kamisato Clan. Nobles, diplomats, and high-ranking officials filled the grand hall, marveling at the union of Ayato and the detective who had earned their place beside him.

Among the attendees were old friends and colleagues from the detective office, including Shikanoin Heizou. They greeted you warmly, reminiscing about past cases and your shared adventures. It felt like a moment of reprieve amidst the overwhelming grandeur of the event.

But Ayato’s sharp eyes were never far from you. From across the room, he watched as you laughed and chatted with Heizou and your other colleagues. The sight of you smiling so freely with others, particularly Heizou, ignited a storm within him. He didn’t say a word during the festivities, maintaining his usual composed demeanor. Yet, as the night wore on, he indulged in more wine than usual, the jealousy simmering beneath his calm façade.

By the time the wedding concluded and you returned to the privacy of your chambers, Ayato was visibly tipsy, his usually refined movements slightly unsteady. You helped him remove his outer robe, gently guiding him to sit. But as you turned to fetch water to sober him up, his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him.

“You seemed awfully happy tonight” he murmured, his tone low but laced with jealousy. “Laughing with them, reminiscing like old lovers… Did you forget whose name you now bear?”

His words caught you off guard, and you turned to face him fully. “They’re just friends, Ayato. You know that.”

His lips curled into a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I? Because watching you with them made me think otherwise.”

You frowned, recognizing the edge in his voice. “You’re drunk, Ayato. Let’s talk about this in the morning.”

But Ayato wasn’t listening. Before you could pull away, he stood, towering over you as he backed you against the wall. His usual restraint seemed to waver as his arms caged you in.

“I’ve waited too long for this night to let anyone else steal your attention” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “You’re mine to cherish, Y/N. And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

That night, Ayato’s jealousy manifested in a way you hadn’t expected. His touches, though fervent, never crossed the boundaries of respect—he was still the man who cherished you, even in his drunken state. But his possessiveness was undeniable as he marked you as his in every way imaginable, whispering promises and warnings against anyone else daring to take your attention from him.

As the first rays of dawn peeked through the curtains, you found yourself lying beside Ayato, his arms wrapped around you even in sleep. The night’s events still lingered in your mind—his jealousy, his drunken insistence, and the way he’d poured his emotions into his actions. Despite everything, you couldn’t deny that a part of you understood his feelings, even if they were overwhelming at times.

When he began to stir, his eyes fluttering open, you gently reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. He blinked up at you, his expression soft but guarded, as though unsure of how you felt after the night’s intensity.

“Ayato…” you murmured, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to his forehead. “I’m sorry for not being more mindful last night. I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure or neglected. I’ll do better at respecting your feelings—and our boundaries.”

He stared at you in silence for a moment, his usual composed mask cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of vulnerability. For a moment, you thought he might accept your apology and let the matter rest.

But then his lips curled into a sly, mischievous smile, and he tightened his hold on you, pulling you closer. “Boundaries?” he repeated, his voice still tinged with a huskiness that made your cheeks warm. “Darling, I don’t recall any boundaries between us. Especially not after last night.”

“Ayato, you were drunk” you countered gently, trying to pull away. “You weren’t yourself—”

“I’m perfectly sober now,” he interrupted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “And I think it’s only fair that you make up for the… distress you caused me. After all, you were quite close with your friends last night.”

You sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to let this go so easily. “I already apologized. And I kissed you just now to show I meant it.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing as he tilted his head. “A kiss on the forehead? My, how chaste of you. But don’t you think I deserve a little more than that, my dear spouse?”

Your face grew hotter as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “How about another kiss? Here.” He tapped his lips with a finger, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And perhaps… elsewhere, if you truly want to make it up to me.”

You groaned softly, torn between exasperation and fondness. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you married me” he quipped, his tone smug as he leaned back against the pillows, waiting expectantly. “So, what will it be? Will you grant your husband his ‘redemption,’ or shall I continue to lament my cruel, neglectful spouse?”

Despite his teasing, there was a warmth in his gaze that reassured you he wasn’t truly upset. Reluctantly, you leaned in, brushing your lips against his in a soft, lingering kiss. When you pulled away, his arms tightened around you again, keeping you close.

“Better” he murmured, his smile softening. “But I think I’ll need more time to forgive you properly. Perhaps… a day in bed together would suffice.”

You sighed, hiding your smile against his chest. Ayato might have been possessive and dramatic at times, but you couldn’t deny that he had a way of making you feel loved—even when he drove you absolutely crazy.

#yandere x reader #yandere #kamisato ayato #ayato x reader #genshin impact #genshin x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #yandere kamisato ayato #genshin impact ayato

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meanbossart · 4 months ago

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ASK COMPILATION: BODY HAIR, BHAALIST DU DROW, BLOOD INQUIRIES, THE MAN'S DICK AND HOBBIES.

Answering more asks! As always, I want to apologize for not being able to get to everyone - literally nobody has ever complained about it, but I still feel bad 😅I appreciate everyone's questions and sweet messages all the same, and even if your ask isn't here I hope you can be entertained by the other replies!

Anon I feel terrible about having to say this because I can tell you were hoping for a specific answer here, plus doing your very best to sell your pitch to me -

But DU drow hates body hair.

I'm not making this up in the spot just to be a contrarian, this is one of various unimportant character details that have come up already at some point or another, for whatever reason. It is no coincidence that many of the characters he finds unattractive do have visible body hair, like Gale and Halsin whose hairy toes he dreads the sight of.

I refuse to believe that elves are truly dolphin-smooth as that would be an absolute biological nightmare, so both him and Astarion have a normal amount of peach-fuzz all over. Otherwise, DU drow finds the sight of anything longer/coarser than that unseemly, and the feeling unpleasant; it is simply what he grew up with and hence what he's used to. In this respect, he wants people who take after his own image.

As with most things, he could forgive it if he were in love with someone - assuming you don't mind the occasional joke about it. And unfortunately I think something as significant as Halsin's case would be too off-putting for him to ever give them a chance. A Shadowheart situation, on the other hand, he could grow to like.

I believe there's some sources that imply bhaal-corrupted(?) blood should taste a particular way, leaning towards the unpleasant. People can make up whatever headcanons they want with that information, BUT since I spent over half of this game supplying the guy with the stuff and he seemed all too pleased about it, I choose to assume it's not that bad.

I think there would be something... Lively about it? Fairly normal taste but it leaves a tingle on his tongue, like it squirms on its way out and dies in his mouth moments before it can hit the throat. Very salty, but it could just be his skin.

[FAR, FAR MORE UNDER THE CUT]

Bhaalist DU drow likes both cats and dogs just fine (again, he considers the animal kingdom to be it's own thing and hence removed from his fate to butcher humanity) and you wouldn't be wrong to assume he has a thing for dogs in that AU because of their unconditionally loving and loyal nature, however Bhaalist DU drow is still very much a cat person. He likes their independence, their little attitudes, their self-sufficiency, plus the fact that they keep the rat population in check inside the temple. He finds those qualities admirable, respectable, perhaps he would even find them desirable in a partner if, unlike he cats, he wasn't so opposed to them roaming free.

In-game DU drow succeeded the check required to spot Astarion before he could jump him - so yes, just not the version where they end up rolling awkward around the sand for 2 minutes, LOL.

He's semi aware of it, or at least he becomes aware whenever Astarion's mask slips. When Astarion is putting on a good performance, DU drow wholeheartedly believes it. Also, It's worth noting that Astarion does manage to have fun occasionally, and have periods of... Superficial happiness? They just so happen to be unfulfilling, and don't make up for all the other pitfalls of his situation when they inevitably come crashing back. He's also great at tricking himself into thinking this is a good time.

Bhaalist DU drow makes vague attempts at "making things better" whenever he catches him in a mood, usually through physical affection or lavish gifts. That works well enough the first year I think, before everything kind of loses its luster. After that, DU drow just gets it into his head that Astarion "doesn't understand what he must do to succeed and keep him safe".

This is a VERY interesting observation and... Maybe? Especially early in the relationship, DU drow finds Astarion's quasi-predatorial behavior very attractive, but only AFTER he notices his vampirism. I think this outlook of the character contextualizes Astarion's condition in a way that he can immediately understand and simpathize with, even if DU drow doesn't know much about vampires themselves. Of course, this is specific to Astarion - he does not extend this grace to the rest of his kind.

I'll be thinking about this one!

I don't know the video in question but from your description I think they would both be VERY confused, LOL.

HMM, I think that might actually depend on a lot of things! Assuming the woman (or just the other partner) in the relationship isn't a drow, and exactly what KIND of devotion we're talking about (is the drow pro-active? Protective? Does he put his neck on the line for this relationship with pride? Does he seem strong and capable and like he doesn't rely on his partner?) he might see enough of himself in him that they could actually get along. This is similar to how DU drow immediately took a liking to Aylin even though she's this moon-goddess child and a supposed beacon of justice.

The quickest way to get on DU drow's good side is to be the idealized version of what he believes himself to be. Oh, and not get in his way.

If they're both drow it's kind of hopeless though, yeah LOL.

Planning on it!!

DU drow never slept with Haarlep! He only took his clothes off and then attacked him full in the nude.

...I'm not sure how to justify that in the lore, but it's exactly what I did and it's too funny to take it back, LOL

I think Astarion was just kind of baffled by what transpired until DU drow turned to while hopping around pulling his pants back on and asked if he enjoyed the show, then he remembered he just loves finding any excuse to take his clothes off.

That's a lovely compliment, I definitely go for a very "organic" look so I genuinely appreciate it. Thank you!

Thank you!!! A lot has actually been said about Gortash in my #enver gortash tag, if you'd like to get all the gritty details. Suffice to say that they had a very odd but significant friendship.

DU drow is the kind of person who shoots awake as soon as the sun starts gracing the sky, but he tends to do whatever he has to do and then go back to bed right after, and stay there at least a bit past noon. He did this both in his bhaalist days and in Astarion's company, though the amount of time he spends asleep during the day definitely increases because of the vamp, especially over time!

So, the urethra in a penis is located pretty much on the underside of the shaft, so the wound actually does not reach it! As far as functions go - peeing and ejaculating - it comes out of the tip's opening as normal. When he first caused the wound it probably did puncture the urethra, but that would have closed up over time. What you see is the injury many years after the fact, after all.

So the implications are pretty minor. Aesthetically, his foreskin hangs a bit weirdly when he's soft (like a tiny little penis curtain) and has more give than usual. Functionally, he has spots within the scarred up injury that are either numb or overly sensitive. Also, you can kind of see the dickhead notch through his underwear which is fun.

Otherwise, that is pretty much it! No worries about the nature of the question I've gotten worse, LOL. Thank you for your kind words as well!

I think he used to write in his bhaalist days - very, very occasionally mind you - like if you scoured the temple you would find a dozen or so ripped up pieces of paper with little short poems on them, written in a very sharp and carefree hand. Anywhere from 3 to 10 lines per-poem, usually less than more. The sentences are descriptive of actions, never feelings or thoughts, but they don't ever seem literal.

Back in those days, he also went to the theater every other year.

Post-tadpole, he ends up dabbling in carpentry, leather-work, and enjoys listening for musical numbers taking place in taverns and inns to go to and watch. He eventually starts pulling Astarion into little slow dances when that happens. I think he might end up writing again someday, but not for many, many years.

#ask compilation #ask #bhaalist du drow #du drow and astarion

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honeyflashbang · 9 months ago

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My theory on Sampo's true identity...

(Minor Spoilers for 2.4) (also, I’m no expert in… anything, really, but these are just my ramblings).

So, this has probably been mentioned before, but I have a teeny-tiny theory about Sampo’s true identity, and it relates to Finnish mythology.

So, “Sampo” in and of itself doesn’t have a set meaning, but it has its roots in Finnish mythology, particularly the “Kalevala” which is a 19th-century compilation of epic poetry. In it, a blacksmith god by the name of Seppo Ilmari(nen) forges the mythical device known as “The Sampo”. It’s never quite explained what The Sampo really is; some versions depict it as a mill, others as a cornucopia from which bountiful creations flow from, and some even have it as being a world tree/world pillar, so what The Sampo really is, isn’t entirely known. But, what is known, is that it brought riches and good fortune to its holder (again, the same as the cornucopia from Greek mythology).

But why am I mentioning all of this? Why bring up the Kalevala? It could be that Hoyo just chose the name “Sampo” for some flavour—befitting of a character who magics up relics from seemingly thin air and is trying to create riches—and yeah, it’s a possibility…

Until I saw these two screenshots from the 2.4 story:

You know what this means, right?

Kalevala is a real planet in Hoyo’s Star Rail universe, and I find it awfully coincidental that they would use this name for a planet and not have it related to a certain blue haired conman, especially since The Sampo is such a pivotal element in the plot of the Kalevala—there is no way this is a coincidence (I refuse to believe it).

This leads me to believe that Kalevala is Sampo’s real home world, and is where he originates from.

Now, this is all well and good, knowing where “The Sampo” hails from, but I want to focus on its creator—Seppo Ilmari(nen)—and his parallels to a certain blue haired conman. For one, Ilmari(nen)’s name is quite interesting as the ‘Ilma’ part is Finnish for ‘air’ or ‘weather’, and as we know, Sampo’s element is that of ‘wind’ (And also the fact that Ilmari(nen) is credited as “Godlike smith-hero and creator of the sky”. I could go into a whole spiel about Ilmari(nen) and Qlipoth swinging their giant hammers in tandem together for all eternity (Go Sampard! Geppie is Qlipoth's true heir, you can't convince me otherwise!), but that’s for another conspiracy theory lol).

So, ‘Ilma’ means ‘air’, and Sampo wields ‘wind’.

Cool.

If the parallels ended there, I’d just say I was being crazy… but there’s more.

Sampo’s 4th (and arguably best) eidolon is called “The Deeper the Love, the Stronger the Hate”. Two out of his six eidolons refer to 'love', whilst the other 4 are to do with wealth and riches. The wealth and richest aspect leans towards The Sampo of mythology, whilst the ‘love’ aspect, well…

According to the story, Seppo Ilmari(nen) is the unluckiest bastard alive when it comes to love. Like, seriously. His whole storyline is that he can’t find a woman. For one, Seppo Ilmari(nen) is double crossed by his so called buddy, Väinämöinen, into creating The Sampo for the evil witch Louhi of Pohjola in exchange for her daughter’s hand in marriage (which, Ilmari didn’t even want in the beginning), but when the poor guy actually sees the daughter and falls in love with her (and subsequently creates the Sampo—after failing miserably a number of times, mind you—he creates a crossbow, a boat, a cow(wtf?) and a plough, all which are somehow either evil or flawed), she ups and just leaves him hanging! (in the original runes, however, he is successful in gaining a wife, as his ‘unlucky in love’ spiel was later added by Lönnrot in compiling the Kalevala).

As with any mythology and re-telling of it, there’s so many different versions of the same event. In “The Maiden of the North”, a 1898 opera written by Oskar Merikanto, both Ilmarinen and Väinämöinen compete for the chance to marry Louhi’s daughter, who is then mentioned as being “Ilmari(nen)’s first wife” and who later dies to Kullervo’s curse (apparently she was a bit of a bitch to Kullervo by taunting and tormenting the poor boy—who was a child slave mind you!). Distraught, Ilmari(nen) forges himself a wife of gold and silver, but he finds her to be too cold and callous—he forges her out of love but only finds hate—so he tries to gift her to Väinämöinen (who doesn’t want her either, lol), and suggests he cast her back into the furnace and to “forge from her a thousand trinkets”.

Here’s the accompanying poem:

Never, youths, however wretched,

Nor in future, upgrown heroes,

Whether you have large possessions,

Or are poor in your possessions,

In the course of all your lifetime,

While the golden moon is shining,

May you woo a golden woman,

Or distress yourselves for silver,

For the gleam of gold is freezing,

Only frost is breathed by silver.

It is apparently your standard Aesop’s fable of “money can’t buy happiness”, which is something else I see in our dear old Sampo Koski. During our time in Belobog, we see how different he acts with the Underworld and Overworlders. To the poor, he actually seems approachable (albeit a bit of a nuisance), going so far as to help the Underworlders (an example being the questline “Survival Wisdom” in which he and Peak set up a business together renting out his tools to help the miners make a decent wage to support their families). In contrast, we actively see Sampo being very hostile towards the Overworlders, scamming them and putting the nobles in their place or setting them up to be caught by the Silvermane Guards (an example being during the museum questline where you discover his identity as “Mr Cold Feet”. Sampo clearly states to who he thinks is his mark that ‘we are not friends’ in a very hostile manner, something which we’ve not seen from Sampo before as he is usually quite amicable).

For all Sampo’s showboating and flashing his money around, he helps where it counts. He wants to make money, sure, but not at the detriment of the people who need it the most, only to those with excess.

Anyway, back to him being unlucky in love…

In another rune entitled “Kosinta”, Ilmari(nen) goes on a journey to compete for Hiisi’s daughter, and wins by completing various feats, one of them being “ploughing a field full of snakes”:

And as we know, Sampo is very heavy on the snake motifs (the head of the snake on his shoulders, the spine wrapped around him, the daggers are its fangs…etc.)

So that’s another interesting link between Seppo Ilmari(nen) and Sampo Koski.

So, why have I gone on this long winded tangent about Seppo Ilmari(nen) when I’m supposed to be talking about Sampo Koski?

Well, that’s because I think Sampo Koski’s real name is (or a variant of) Ilmarinen.

In the Hoyo universe, I believe Ilmarinen came from the planet Kalevala and ‘created’ the persona of Sampo Koski, much like how in the Kalevala, Seppo Ilmari(nen) forged The Sampo.

As I’ve listed above, there’s so many links between the two:

“Air” as a name and “Wind” as an element.

Seppo Ilmari(nen) ploughed a field of snakes to win Hiisi’s daughter’s hand in marriage, whilst Sampo Koski relies heavily on snake motifs for his attire.

Sampo’s two eidolon names that relate to love (which are completely different from the other 4 eidolon names), whilst Seppo Ilmari(nen) is known to be unlucky in love.

I’m pretty damn sure Sampo creates his own bombs and tinkers with the old relics to bring them back to life, whereas Seppo Ilmari(nen) is a smith who created the dome of the sky! They’re both artificers!

And now the revelation that a planet by the name of “Kalevala” exists is no mere coincidence.

So, either Sampo is Ilmari(nen) - or! - Sampo is a puppet (like Herta) created by someone called Ilmari(nen).

(I would love if his 5* version is him with this name).

Right, I’m finished rambling. Gonna go huff some copium...

#honkai star rail #sampo koski #hsr #Sampo #fan theory #theorycrafting #huffing the copium #I really need a 5* of this man #There's probably a bunch of stuff I've missed...#I am literally dying for Sampo content #I WANNA GO BACK TO BELOBOG!#Seriously when I saw the name 'Kalevala' show up as a planet name I lost my shit #Kalevala #finnish mythology

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familiarscars · 3 months ago

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Drive You Insane | Noah Sebastian 03

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Noah Sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. A mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships, explicit sex and profanity.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

Fortunately, the disturbing sound of screams could feel inspiring when used as a backdrop.

You had been buried in the files for so long that, for a moment, you wondered if you even remembered how to read. Your fingers rested on Noah’s case file, and your nails made an irritating sound against his photo as you strained to think. He was a patient who refused to speak, and you didn’t believe that would change anytime soon, making it all the harder to know him well enough to determine if he was guilty or not.

Innocence had already been discarded by everyone. His silence reinforced the majority’s verdict, but you were never one to follow the current. You preferred to tread carefully, trusting only what you saw with your own eyes and your professional intuition.

And it insisted, relentlessly, that something was wrong.

What if Noah wasn’t guilty?

You knew that specific reactions emerged from different patients under certain stimuli. Maybe he had developed post-traumatic stress after finding his girlfriend’s body displayed so brutally, causing him to withdraw, trapped in that final scene. He could simply be struggling to process the trauma, and his aggressive outbursts might be the result of associations between the crime and the real perpetrator. Maybe he even knew who the killer was. It could very well be a case of targeted vengeance against him.

But... what if he was guilty?

Noah could be hiding his own guilt behind a mask of arrogance. He knew what he had done. He showed no remorse, as the diagnosis confirmed, and perhaps his silence was a calculated provocation to the authorities, a way to manipulate the media spectacle that had grown around the tragedy.

The possibilities felt endless.

“Fuck!” you muttered, slamming your fist against the desk.

Solving a case like that would be a major feat on your résumé. It would guarantee your career and bring enough recognition that Grimshade would become nothing more than a brief chapter. That case hadn’t landed in your lap by mere coincidence. It was the perfect opportunity to unlock the future you had always wanted.

Of course, if that damned man would just talk.

Your first and only patient of the day was about to enter, and a sharp wave of nausea coursed through you as soon as you realized who it was.

Tom Harrow.

You read the name on the clipboard, drawing a deep breath before allowing him into the room. Your body still carried traces of fatigue, but you straightened your posture, forcing professionalism to smother any distractions. At Grimshade Sanatorium, every encounter was a psychological game more dangerous than the last.

When the door opened, the cold, dull light revealed a gaunt figure with broad shoulders and skin marred by fine scars and burns like knife marks. Tom sat on a metal chair bolted to the floor, his arms restrained by leather straps binding his wrists to the armrests. He smiled as you entered, revealing teeth white and sharp like a trap.

“Doctor...” His voice slid out like warm syrup—slow and sticky. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

He always pushed sarcasm to its limit, every interaction dripping with malice, which he carried not only in his gaze but in every calculated word. Tom was a sexual predator accused of killing more than 35 women over three decades without raising a single suspicion. Mistaken for a respectable citizen, he went to church on Sundays and hosted neighborhood dinners where he was adored.

At night, he scoured the internet for vulnerable women, lonely for one reason or another, luring them to a secluded cabin where he abused, tortured them with depraved fetishes, and kept them captive until their bodies were deemed disposable after the skin began to rot. Harrow was only caught because he allowed himself to be caught, leaving a trace of a kidnapped neighbor in his home while the authorities did the rest.

But if not for that... he would still be free, you thought.

“Good morning, Mr. Harrow.” You closed the door with a firm click, trying to ignore the metallic scent in the air—a mix of disinfectant and sour sweat. “How are you feeling today? I heard a patient complained about being harassed by you in the lunch line. Is that why your hands are restrained?”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes slowly traveled over you, stripping away each layer of fabric, then skin. The silence stretched a second too long, making the air feel heavier.

You walk to the chair across from him and sit, positioning the clipboard on your lap like a shield.

"That’s not exactly how it happened," he said with confidence.

"Then tell me how it was," you allowed, activating the timer at the center of the table. "We have plenty of time today to talk about whatever you’d like."

"She provoked me, and I gave her exactly what she wanted with that attitude. You women are all the same—tease us, then can’t handle the reaction."

You remained expressionless.

"What do you feel when you have these impulses, Tom?" Your voice came out steady, though inside, a warning bell had already begun to ring.

His smile widened. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes gleaming with a malice.

"Impulses? You mean my... passion?" He stretched the word, letting it ricochet through the air. "Oh, doctor, you should know. Everyone has desires. It’s not wrong... to want. It’s not wrong to love women so much that you build an altar from the outer layer of their skin."

You kept your composure, but the knot in your stomach tightened.

"And what exactly do you want from all this, Tom?"

"Depends..." He leaned as far forward as the straps allowed, his tongue sliding slowly over his teeth. "Have you ever wanted something so badly it hurt? Felt heat under your skin, like a fire waiting to break free?"

Your eyes remained fixed on his, but your grip on the clipboard grew tighter. Your desires were none of his concern, and how you dealt with them even less so.

"Do you think that justifies your actions?"

He laughed softly—a low, rough sound filled with something that crawled along your spine.

"Who said I’m trying to justify anything? You think you understand me?" His gaze drifted downward, settling on your blouse where the top button had come undone without your notice.

"This conversation is to understand you—through your own eyes."

"Then what do you think I see when I look at you, doctor?" He leaned forward over his thighs, casting a look so dark it seemed to scratch beneath your skin.

Your body chilled, but your face stayed stone still.

"This session is over."

"Ah, don’t end it so soon... Sitting here... tied up like this... Isn’t it a bit insane? How they keep me bound while you... so free? Don’t you want to see through my eyes? How about I bind your arms and tear apart that sweet little cunt, doctor?"

You stood, the blood rushing too fast through your veins.

"We’ll speak again soon, Tom."

He only laughed again as you left, his chuckling reverberating down the corridor like a stain that wouldn’t wash away.

"Are you alright?" Travis’s voice broke the silence as his hand touched your shoulder suddenly, making you jump. You pressed a hand to your chest to steady your breathing.

"Got it," he said with a small smile. "Rough session?"

"Tom Harrow," you replied flatly, resuming your pace beside him.

"Shit. Was he... restrained?"

You nodded, and he exhaled in relief.

"Sorry."

"It’s over." You didn’t want to linger on it. "Since you’re here, I need a favor. I want to study Noah’s case more deeply. I could do it alone, but without internet or TV... it’s tricky."

If the case was as well-known on the island as people suggested, local news archives shouldn’t be hard to find. At least, that’s what you assumed.

"Hm. Old-school methods, then," he said with a chuckle, navigating the stairs with ease, greeting colleagues and signing prescriptions without breaking stride. "Old newspapers, interviews with people who knew him... that kind of thing."

"And where would I find all that?"

"In town, definitely. The university he attended still has plenty of stories about him. He was pretty well-known there. You know, because of the family name. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone willing to talk." He paused, eyeing you with renewed curiosity. "Are you really this determined to prove his innocence?"

You kept your tone professional. “I want to understand what really happened. The more information I have, the better my arguments will be during our sessions.”

“And you think that’ll make him open up.”

His sarcasm cut like a hidden blade. You lifted your chin, the heat of irritation rising slowly.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Dr. Rune. I know Noah has the charm of a predator, and I’m sorry if giving up the case left you without an excuse to admire those…” You paused, your gaze sharp. “...incredible arms.”

The laugh that burst from Travis was genuine, full, and shook his shoulders before he shook his head in surrender.

“You’ve got a unique sense of humor, darling.” He winked, his blue eyes glimmering with amusement. “I don’t care about things like that, but when I started my career, I also thought my first problematic case would be my breakthrough moment.”

“And now you’re here, still stuck at Grimshade. Doesn’t seem like it worked out too well.”

The challenge in his gaze met yours, and for a brief, rare moment, you felt camaraderie—an honesty he didn’t bother to mask.

“I didn’t have enough time.”

“What happened?”

His expression darkened slightly, but he shrugged as if it were a trivial detail. “He killed himself.”

“I’m sorry...”

“It’s just another file in the trash. Don’t be silly.” Rune dismissed it and shifted his attention to a nurse calling him from down the hall. With a brief nod, he took off, his lab coat billowing as he hurried toward the masculine voice.

You understood why his apathy lingered like a cloud—it was a constant companion in this place, no matter how unsettling. Over time, nothing stayed surprising or shocking; it became just another day’s work.

Outside, the sky was a dull gray, making no effort to inspire anyone. You walked through the wide yard where patients had a designated hour of sunlight. Hidden Ward inmates came at separate times, under heavier supervision, for reasons that didn’t need explanation.

The trees were bare and poorly trimmed, and patches of grass fought for space amid wide circles of mud. The landscape was so devoid of color that when you held your arm up to the light, your skin looked as pale as your bedroom walls. The island’s low saturation was eerie, like the backdrop of a horror film.

You passed a minor commotion where a patient had lost control and harmed herself with a thread of fabric. Three orderlies wrestled her to the ground, dragging her back toward Hidden as she screamed.

“Prepare the hole!” one of them yelled to the nurse by the gate.

The hole? You didn’t know what they meant, a reminder of how incomplete your tour had been.

A few steps further, you stopped abruptly, noticing a figure crouched ahead. Almost instinctively, you adjusted your glasses on your nose and smoothed your coat before proceeding.

Noah, as always, was alone and silent, poking at the dirt with a plastic trowel, seemingly focused on a small garden plot.

The scene was bleak: dark brown, brittle saplings lay lifeless as he methodically pulled them up, tossing the dead roots into a bucket before covering the soil with fresh seeds.

“Keeping your mind busy with a hobby is healthy, Noah,” you said, your voice breaking the silence as your hands clasped behind your back, fingers twisting nervously.

He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge your words. He remained engrossed with the soil, as if the voice didn’t exist.

“If you don’t figure out what’s wrong with the ground, the next crop will die, too.” You circled slowly, stopping in front of him and crouching until your eyes met his. Sifting the dirt between your fingers, you let it fall softly. “First, you identify the problem. Then you treat the cause before planting again. If you just cover it up, the rot stays underneath.”

His eyes—cold, empty—rose to meet yours, the disinterest in your metaphor as obvious as the tension in his shoulders. From the dark look on his face, it was clear he wished you would simply disappear.

“This is your hobby, isn’t it?” You arched a brow, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Does working with plants bring you comfort?”

Utter silence. Of course.

“Well, at least now I know what you like!” Your tone grew almost playful, the smile breaking free. “We’re about to become great friends. Don’t you think?”

He remained unmoving, but something in his gaze held too firmly, cut too deeply—like roots refusing to be unearthed. Your body reacted to each layer his brown eyes pierced as though they reached beneath your skin with every silent exchange.

“You may be good at this game, but I’ve always been very competitive,” you murmured, leaning closer to narrow the distance. His posture stiffened, a warning, but you pressed on, ignoring the cold that slithered down your spine at the visible fury brewing within him. “I will make you talk, Noah Sebastian.”

Visibly tired of the forced social interaction, Noah threw the bucket and trowel at your feet with a sudden, sharp motion. The plastic clattered against the ground like a full-stop punctuation. Without sparing you a second glance, he turned and walked away, heading back toward the building with a confidence so disarming it required no escort of orderlies. He never caused enough of a stir to warrant physical restraints—the fragile peace of the sanitarium seemed to hinge on one unspoken rule: leave Noah alone.

Staff and patients alike followed that law as if it were an instinct for survival. Eye contact with him never lasted beyond two seconds, as if any longer would invite consequence. He was a lone wolf in the heart of the Hidden Ward, indifferent even to the most hardened criminals. No bonds, no conversations, no trace of connection to anyone.

Noah didn’t share space in the dining hall, either. While others sat together, murmuring or staring vacantly, he preferred the meticulous solitude of his meals, delivered and consumed alone, a routine as unwavering as it was unsettling.

And then, there was his appearance. Day after day, while others withered beneath the weight of confinement, Noah thrived. His uniform remained impeccably clean, fabric fitted to a solid frame that betrayed no sign of frailty. His hair—straight and brown like the smooth surface of a moonlit lake—fell effortlessly across his face, and his skin seemed untouched by exhaustion or sleepless nights. His eyes burned with a sharp, simmering fury.

Noah appeared more like a figure from dark fantasy than the specter of a bloody past—a twisted fairytale prince where the wolf owned the plot.

You had been watching him since the day he arrived.

“Hey, girl!”

Sloan’s voice pulled you back to reality. She tugged you down to earth with her usual flair, and you dragged yourself away from your thoughts, making your way to the back of the estate. You sank into one of the lounge chairs as she plopped down beside you, offering a cigarette that you declined.

“Hiding in a hole? Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“I…” What could you say? Oh, I’ve been far too busy obsessing over a patient, picturing him while I sleep with someone else, consumed by his case to the point of madness, driven by a twisted need to be near him just to hear his voice in a game where silence reigns supreme. “I’ve been working too much.”

Sloan shook her head, letting smoke curl lazily between her teeth. Her dark curls tumbled free as she let her hair down, her breasts pressing against her neckline as she stretched.

“Boring.” She rolled her eyeliner-framed eyes. Sloan was striking. “I was dying to see you after happy hour at the tavern. I saw you and Rune leave together. Damn, girl, you don’t hold back.”

She nudged your arm with a teasing grin, and you smiled.

“It wasn’t a big deal. We were drunk…” You trailed off, unable to recall the night with him—because your mind had been tangled up with someone else entirely.

“Lucky you! I’ve been trying for years to get that man’s dick between my tits, but he’s so uptight I’ve developed a kink for just seeing him shut up.”

“Definitely more attractive when he’s quiet.” You nodded with certainty, and her eyes widened before she burst out laughing.

“Been after him for a while?”

In just a few days, Sloan had proven herself more than a stellar professional—she was a living compendium of gossip. Nurses, doctors, even patients—none escaped her scrutiny. Nothing escaped her cat-like gaze, and there were no limits—gender, danger, status, or intellect—her reach was boundless.

You couldn’t deny how intriguing that was. Sloan was an endless source of untapped knowledge.

“When I started, he was already here. Just another psychiatrist—like you,” she pointed out with a smirk, not bothering to sugarcoat the insult.

You smiled.

“He was a total suck-up to the director. That’s how he climbed the ladder. But, with all his rich-kid vibes, winning isn’t exactly hard.”

“Working here is winning?” you deadpanned, shaking your head. “He’s definitely screwed.”

“Oh, you just killed my crush.” Sloan sighed, stubbing her cigarette against the wall.

You both laughed, and she hooked her arm through yours as you walked back toward the sanitarium together.

“You know I’ve taken over that patient’s case… Noah, right?”

Your question lingered in the air, and Sloan merely confirmed with a brief nod, waiting for you to continue.

“I need more information about him,” you pressed, your voice firm, laced with a touch of urgency. “The records are practically empty, and without internet access, I can’t search for old articles or any other data related to the case. I feel like if I only had the right pieces, I could get closer to him. Maybe even understand why this case feels so inconsistent, with such a huge gap between one point and the next.”

Sloan frowned, thinking carefully before biting her lip as though weighing her words.

“Look,” she began hesitantly, “I think there’s something wrong with this case too. But I can’t tell if I’m analyzing the facts clearly... or if I’m just falling for some kind of Stockholm syndrome, because, let’s face it, he is a hell of a looker, isn’t he?”

You sighed in disbelief, bringing a hand to your forehead.

“For God’s sake, Sloan!”

“Kidding aside…” She pulled you closer, lowering her voice. “There are a lot of rumors about how he ended up in Grimshade, and one of them is that his diagnosis was bought.”

“Bought?”

Suddenly, you were even more intrigued by Sloan’s friendship as she seemed to strike precisely at the point that had been gnawing at your suspicions. One of the things that most fueled your doubts about Noah’s case was his diagnosis — it just didn’t seem to fit.

“Remember, it’s just a rumor… but his family is insanely rich, and as you might already know, they own this island. They maintain an impeccable reputation; no one’s ever heard a bad word about them — just those glossy magazine articles about rich people’s successes. They say that when they found out what happened, they bought a diagnosis to get him placed here. That’s why his record is full of gaps. They knew Noah probably wouldn’t last long in prison, especially if the other inmates found out what he did. Here… well, here he’s just another killer.”

She shrugged, and you couldn’t hide how much the information impressed you.

“I thought his parents didn’t care about him after the incident,” you remarked.

“They don’t. He doesn’t get any visitors. But they fund absolutely everything for him here. Supposedly, Grimshade receives a good sum to keep him here and keep things running as they are. They don’t want him deemed competent — if that happened, he’d end up on death row, you know? And Noah being a stubborn jerk who won’t speak just helps.”

Rumor or not, every word aligned with your own suspicions. His file lacked the traits expected of his diagnosis, and you viewed all his behavior during therapy as a rebellious act. Was he part of his parents' scheme? You doubted it, not after how he reacted to seeing his family photo.

It was all about protecting their image.

“I appreciate the honest update,” you said with a smile as you both stopped by the coffee machine. Sloan ordered a cappuccino, and you went for a latte, though you had no real desire to drink it. “I considered asking Travis about these things, but he always seems so prickly when it comes to Noah.”

“Doctor Rune was his first psychiatrist. The big boss upstairs,” she gestured toward the administrative wing with a nod. “He referred Noah during the trial. But Travis has a temper. He’s got rigid opinions on certain methods and zero patience. When he realized the kid wasn’t going to talk, he blew up.”

“They argued?”

“Not sure you could call it an argument, since one side wasn’t talking, right?” She chuckled. “But yeah, the tension was thick, and they decided to bring someone else in, since the Hidden Wing was being neglected too.”

Dr. Rune clearly had no intention of sharing this part of the story with you. It was no wonder he sent you off with a suggestion to look into town for answers.

“Now I’m even more curious…” you admitted, biting your lip and watching the steam rise from your cup. “If it’s more than just a rumor, if the diagnosis really is wrong… he could be innocent.”

“Sounds like one of those dramas,” Sloan said, draining her cappuccino.

“Rune mentioned the city would be the best place to dig up more,” you added, folding your arms. “His family’s well-known there, so it shouldn’t be hard to find something useful.”

“Perfect!” Sloan grinned conspiratorially and winked. “On our day off, we’ll go investigate Noah’s life in town!”

A flicker of relief passed through you. Slowly but surely, you were getting to know your colleagues better, and the way they welcomed you made the environment less toxic and lonely. Now you had information that made things feel a bit more concrete, even if it was just hearsay. Still, you were determined to go deeper.

Getting Noah to talk seemed like a promising plan to boost your career and leave the asylum behind, but turning the tables with a proper diagnosis — and possibly solving his case — would be even better.

From the corridor window, you had a clear view of the grounds outside. Well, clear might be an exaggeration — the exterior was a tangled mess of chaos — but you could still spot patients moving about, including him.

“The Hidden Wing’s outdoor time ended already,” you noted to Sloan, checking the wall clock. “But he’s still out there.”

Noah had returned to the same spot where you had found him earlier. Crouched, he sifted through brittle branches, pulling up rotting roots and planting new seeds. As always, he was alone. You tried — and failed — to look away from the way his shirt clung to his chest, soaked with sweat, and the arms that seemed ready to tear through the fabric. In a fleeting moment, he lifted his eyes from the garden and squinted toward the window.

A wave of heat surged up your neck. You rubbed the back of it, but the gesture did little to douse the flames his furtive gaze ignited within you. You weren’t sure if he hated you, despised your presence, or wanted to add you to his list of victims. But one thing was clear: he felt something.

“He’s allowed to roam Grimshade freely,” Sloan said, following your gaze. “Privileges, right?”

Your body went rigid, eyes widening instantly. Your reaction was so obvious that even from afar, Noah allowed himself a sly, wicked grin.

“Free?” you repeated, your voice tight. “At any time?”

“That’s what they say.”

Breathing suddenly became a challenge. Your gaze remained locked on his dark, provocative smile. Your heart thudded wildly, threatening to leap from your chest as heat crawled up your face.

It wasn’t your imagination. He really had been watching you through the window that night.

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sannylity · 2 years ago

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Listen. We need to put emphasis and appreciate Charlie’s characterization of his QSMP character because holy shit, on top of being silly, today has provided so much depth to Q!Charlie as a whole.

It’s heart wrenching outside humor when you think about it.

“Your marriage is not strengthened by good nights, or good sex, it is tested by people like me, who come to cause problems.”

This dialogue to Roier puts Mariana’s cheating allegations into perspective. Whether it’s canon that he did or didn’t, it tells us how much Charlie has forgiven and given him a chance.

People like me, is such a heavy emphasis on his self-awareness that he is toxic and problematic and insanity. Subtle self-deprecating at its finest, just to emotionally scar us further.

Charlie always being a willing participant to cause problems on purpose is an effect of not having anything to lose anymore. Juanaflippa is gone, and he hasn’t seen Mariana in a while. He has been severely lonely and isolated since his exile, and he is numb to it that he “doesn’t feel anything”, according to what he told Foolish.

“Necesito amor.” [I need love.]

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need or want love. He desperately does, by all means necessary, even if it’s by being a willing participant to cause problems to others. He’ll take what he can get because he hasn’t moved on and won’t let go of his daughter being gone.

He did once believe that Mariana could fix him, I think he said this to Jaiden after the trial was over and done with. He believed this because Mariana is someone who can ground him and keep him from doing something incredibly stupid.

They ground each other. It’s evident during the funeral, with Mariana offering that they kill themselves and Charlie saying no, and then vice versa. It’s not a coincidence that he is more “tamed” when Mariana’s with him.

Things that happen when Charlie is by himself: makes a deal with Satan to get his daughter a gun, attempting to slaughter all the eggs, refuses to resurface back up in the mines during exile, suggesting the gegg idea to Quackity and executing it, and now this.

Without Mariana, Charlie is out there by himself, not knowing how to deal and handle his grief, his loneliness and isolation, his desperation for love.

—

And to think none of this would’ve happened if Cellbit just kept his fucking mouth shut and didn’t remind him of their kiss LMAOOO

We can all say Charlie is being a menace, but y’all gotta be reminded that the man is a D&D player. He sprinkles such hard hitting dialogues in between the laughs.

Charlie is killing me with the potential angst he just brought to the table. I am going insane NSJDJSJDJS

#slimeriana #slimecicle #el mariana #qsmp #qsmp mariana #qsmp slimecicle #qsmp shipping

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iliveformanyfictionalcharacters · 5 months ago

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The One Who Believes Chapter 3

Bernard (The Santa Clause) x Reader

Summary: [Reader] stopped believing in soulmates a long time ago - around the same time she stopped believing in Santa. What happens when she's finally given a reason to believe in both.

When I awoke the next morning, Mrs. Dorothy’s words still rang in my ears. But after a few minutes of lying in bed, I realized I had too much to do to just stay there and wonder what she meant. Still, her words—His favorite color is burgundy—kept echoing in my mind. No matter how hard I tried to push it aside, it lingered like a puzzle piece that refused to fit. Ever since I’d gotten home from the bookstore, I couldn’t shake the odd sense that something was happening—something I didn’t fully understand. But I had no time to dwell on that right now. I dragged myself out of bed with a grunt and got ready for the day. I brushed my teeth, showered, and got dressed. As I finished getting ready, I grabbed my To-Do List and skimmed over it to make sure everything was written down.

Pick up groceries Pick up dry cleaning Bring new books to store Visit antique store

I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had settled over me since Mrs. Dorothy's cryptic comment. Today was busy enough to distract me, I hoped. The list in front of me was fairly straightforward. I grabbed my coat, my purse, and headed out the door, feeling the cold air bite at my cheeks as I stepped outside. My first stop was the grocery store, which, thankfully, wasn’t too far. I made my way through the aisles, mentally ticking off items as I placed them in my cart: eggs, milk, some fresh vegetables, and, of course, ingredients for holiday cookies. I lingered in the baking aisle, debating between chocolate chips and peppermint extract, when a flash of burgundy caught my eye. It was a deep red ribbon, sitting right there on the shelf, nestled among a row of other holiday decorations. I paused, staring at it for a moment, feeling an odd pull toward it. I shook my head. It's just a color, I told myself. I’m being ridiculous. I grabbed the ribbon and tossed it into the cart, then continued with my shopping, but Mrs. Dorothy's words returned to haunt me. His favorite color is burgundy. After checking out, I made my way to the dry cleaner’s. I was surprised when I walked in to find the place nearly empty. The owner, an older gentleman named Mr. Thompson, smiled warmly as I handed him my bag of clothes. “Got some special occasion plans, eh?” he asked, noticing my Christmas sweater. I chuckled. “Nothing too special. Just getting ready for the holidays.” I glanced around the store, and once again, something caught my attention. In the corner of the room, there was an antique-looking chair with a burgundy cushion. It was simple, yet elegant, with fine detailing on the wood. I had never noticed it before, and I certainly hadn’t expected to see anything so striking in a dry cleaner’s. “That's a new addition, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to push down the strange feeling in my chest. Mr. Thompson nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Yeah, it just came in. I thought it’d make the place feel a little more festive.” I smiled, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the universe was trying to tell me something. Burgundy. Again. It was starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like a sign. After picking up my dry cleaning, I decided to follow through with my list and head to the bookstore. As I stepped inside, the familiar smell of old paper and fresh coffee wrapped around me like a warm hug. Mr. Lou was behind the counter, sorting through a pile of new stock. He looked up and smiled when he saw me. “Ah, [Reader], just in time! Mrs. Dorothy said you were coming by with some new books today.” I placed the stack of books down on the counter, then glanced around. The bookstore was cozy, with its little nooks and crannies. But something felt different today—like I was on the cusp of something, as if I were standing just outside of a door that was about to open. “I brought the latest Christmas novels. The holiday rush should keep us busy this week,” I said, trying to focus on the task at hand. As I turned to arrange the books on a nearby shelf, I froze. On the table next to the window, there was an old, leather-bound book—its cover a deep, rich burgundy. I couldn’t help myself. I reached for it, brushing my fingers across the smooth surface, and I immediately felt a strange warmth spread through me. My heart skipped a beat.

"What's this?" I muttered to myself, as I opened the book. The pages inside were filled with handwritten notes and sketches, like some kind of journal or diary. The title was in faded gold lettering, but I couldn't make it out. Just then, I heard Mrs. Dorothy’s voice, soft but clear, in the back of my mind: His favorite color is burgundy. A shiver ran down my spine, and I quickly closed the book. What was going on? “Is something wrong, dear?” Mr. Lou asked, noticing the way I hesitated with the book in my hand. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just… thought I recognized something,” I said, placing the book back down gently. I felt unsettled, but I brushed it off, deciding to focus on the rest of the day. I finished stocking the books and made my way out of the store, my mind still whirling with the strange events of the day. Next, I went to the antique store—my final stop. The little shop was filled with dusty treasures, and the faint scent of lavender and old wood lingered in the air. I roamed through the aisles, eyeing vintage trinkets and furniture. And then, tucked away in the back corner of the store, I saw it. I wandered deeper into the antique store, my senses overwhelmed by the scent of aged wood and lavender that seemed to seep from the very walls. The soft creak of the floorboards under my feet only added to the atmosphere of timelessness. My mind was still spinning from the strange series of events, but I pushed it aside, focusing instead on the little treasures scattered throughout the shop. The rows of shelves were filled with vintage trinkets, old paintings, and delicate china. I paused at a display of antique clocks, their tick-tocking filling the air with a steady rhythm, before my gaze shifted to something more familiar. At the far end of the store, tucked away on a high shelf, I spotted a small glass ornament. I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. There, in the dim light, hanging delicately on a gold string, was a small ornament. It was made of glass, shaped like a delicate ball, and it was painted in a deep, velvety burgundy. A faint swirl of gold and silver leaf traced over its surface, giving it an ethereal glow.

I slowly walked over, my fingers trembling as I reached up to gently pull the ornament from its place on the shelf. It felt almost warm to the touch, as if it had been waiting for me to find it. Holding it in my hands, I marveled at the intricate details of the glasswork. The gold and silver swirls seemed to shimmer in the low light, and I felt an overwhelming sense of recognition, like this ornament had been a part of my life for far longer than I could remember. "Ah, you've found it," came a voice from behind me. I jumped, startled, and turned to find the shopkeeper standing just a few feet away, her silver hair glinting in the soft light. "How did you…?" I began, but she simply smiled, her eyes twinkling with an almost knowing glint. "That ornament has been here for a long time. But I knew it would find its way to the right person eventually." Her voice was soft but laden with meaning. "Some things are meant to be passed on. Some things are meant to be found." I stood there, clutching the ornament, unsure of what to say. Mrs. Dorothy's words echoed in my mind, and a strange feeling of destiny began to settle in the pit of my stomach. The shopkeeper continued, her voice gentle. "There’s more to that ornament than just its color. It’s part of a set. A set that’s been separated for many years." I blinked, confused. "A set? What do you mean?" "The set has a story," the shopkeeper said, her voice now carrying a hint of mystery. "But it’s not just about the ornaments. It's about something more. Someone who has been waiting for you." I felt the ground shift beneath me, as if the room itself was tilting toward an unknown truth. I looked down at the two ornaments in my hands, now reunited. Burgundy. The color. The message. It was no longer just a coincidence. This was a sign—a puzzle, finally coming together. "Do you know who this is for?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The shopkeeper smiled knowingly. "You will know when the time is right. Just hold onto the ornaments. When the moment comes, you’ll understand." I felt the weight of her words, as if they were a key to something much larger, something I had yet to discover. But one thing was certain: these ornaments, and the color burgundy, were no longer just a simple detail—they were the beginning of something much bigger.

I carefully placed the second ornament in my bag and paid the shopkeeper, my hands still shaking with the overwhelming sense that I was on the brink of uncovering something important.

As I walked out of the store, the cold winter air hit me, but it didn’t matter. I was no longer just going through the motions of a normal day. The universe was speaking to me, and it was up to me to listen. As I stepped outside the antique shop, the cold air felt sharper than before, biting at my cheeks and nose. My mind raced, the strange pull of destiny still lingering in the back of my thoughts. What was all of this leading to? I glanced down into my bag and something caught my eye. A small book. I took it out. It was The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I must have accidentally taken it with me instead of leaving it at the bookstore. I sighed. I glanced at my watch. It was getting late. My next stop was the bookstore, and then I could finally head home for a much-needed rest. When I arrived, the soft jingle of the doorbell echoed in the quiet space as I entered. The bookstore smelled like coffee and old pages, a familiar comfort. Mr. Lou was behind the counter, his face lighting up when he saw me. "Ah, [Reader], what are you doing back already? How's your day been?" "It's been… interesting." I set the book down next to the others. My eyes caught the little journal from earlier again. “That book,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “It’s been waiting for the right person. Sometimes, the right books find you when you need them most.” “You know, that's not the first time I've heard that today.” “I’ve never seen it before,” I said, looking up at Mr. Lou. “Is it new stock?” He shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. “No, it’s been here for a while. You just haven’t noticed it yet.” I hesitated, still feeling the pull of the book. "It… feels familiar somehow." Mr. Lou’s smile grew a little wider. “Books often have a way of doing that, don’t they?” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I could feel my curiosity growing. “I—” Before I could finish, Mr. Lou leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “You know, there’s a man who might be able to help you understand all this. He’s been around for a long time, helping people just like you.” “Who?” I asked, almost breathlessly. Mr. Lou's eyes flickered toward the window, where a figure in a long coat was walking past. The man’s face was obscured by the dark evening light, but there was something unmistakably familiar about his presence. “His name is Scott Calvin,” Mr. Lou said, his tone serious. “He’s someone who can help you make sense of the things you’re starting to notice. I’d suggest you seek him out. He’s accessible in town right now, visiting family. You know the Millers?” I did; I used to babysit Charlie. I blinked, startled by the sudden turn in the conversation. “Scott Calvin?” The name echoed in my mind, but I had no idea how they could help me. Mr. Lou nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Trust me. If you’re meant to meet him, you will. And when you do, you’ll understand everything. The color, the ornaments, the book… they’re all connected.” I didn’t know what to say. I stared at Mr. Lou for a moment, then at the book in my hands. Something inside me told me that this wasn’t just some bizarre coincidence. With a shaky breath, I nodded and left the bookstore. The chill of the night air hit me once more, but this time, I didn’t feel as lost. I felt… guided. It was as if something—someone—was leading me toward a deeper understanding.

#x reader #fem reader #the santa clause #bernard the elf #bernard the elf x reader #multiple chapters #series #the santa clause 2 #x fem reader

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scoutofmymind · 3 months ago

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Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

#req #I’m literally psycho #yall idk I can’t just be like here’s the knight and he loves the princess!#it has to be so much more insane than that #anyway.. enjoy #luigi mangione fanfic #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x yn #fanfic #IYM

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