#snow white skin: visage

[shiro41]

Fucking My Teacher- GOJO SATORU

Summmary: Fucking your sleeping teacher is bad enough but waking him up while doing it?

WARNINGS: Somnophilia, blowjob, degration, dirty talk, noncon(?), 1 slap, using of names (bitch, slut, etc.), teacher-student, breeding if you squint, belly buldge, virgin!reader, hint of size kink, yandere!reader

Note: this is an old work for my friend..thought might post something since it's valentines...yeah- im late.

The soft breaths that left his mouth quietly felt as you hovered your finger on his lips. The Ghostly touch of his delicate skin and rested face made your cheeks tint a rosy color.

His worn mask was nowhere to be seen and the usual black attire he wears often at school was replaced with a comfortable T-shirt and boxers that hugged the curve of his waist, exposing the plush of his muscular thighs and shaved legs.

The scent of his perfume lingered despite the newly changed clothes, it clung on his skin like glue and his tufts of white scattered around the fluff of his pillow.

Admist the darkness of his room that's illuminated by the natural light of the moon, you can still see the beauty of this man. Your featherlight touch continued to drag across from his delicate features to his hard muscles that peaked and teased you from the confines of his shirt.

Swallowing a thick load of saliva, you got up from your position before giving the defenseless man a kiss goodnight on his forehead, leaving as fast as a cool breeze with no evidence to trace about someone's presence other than your beloved.

A palpitating heart and cold fingers combine with heated cheeks and whirled stomach, the very thought of Satoru drives you to insanity full of desire and love for your snow white teacher.

The figment of Satoru telling you sweet nothings and holding you close to him more than just a platonic teacher-student relationship makes you drool at the thought. The ecstasy you always feel whenever Gojo's soft skin makes contact with your own, sending you to a state of Euphoria.

You've yearned for his attention, yearned for the feeling of the sweet flying butterflies that whirled in your stomach like a tornado and hungered for his affection.

The small bag containing minor objects that belonged to your teacher was a reminder of how much you love him, the stashed collection of things he has bought and gave on your abode served as a sign of your undying affection for your white haired teacher, Gojo.

The vivid image of his calm breathing from earlier synced with the thrust of your fingers, the audible squelching sound of your juice coated finger and the suppressed moans that dare escape your lips was a reminder how much you lust over your mentor.

Your legs shook with the way your pussy walls clenched against your fingers, sheets coated in white as you felt the Ecstasy of the orgasm. Gojo's unsuspecting faces and stolen photos scattered around your bed like reviewers, surrounding your pleasure filled figure as you continued to suck on your fingers, tongue swirling and unintentionally biting the skin.

The smell of your mentor's freshly washed underwear hitting your nose as you salivate with the idea of Satoru's length shoved down your throat, thrusting in a pace that would leave you in tears, leaking like a broken faucet underneath him.

Your restrained moans and small cries of Gojo's name that became a chant as your fingers slid in and out, stretching the overstimulated vagina that yearned for Gojo's dick.

The loud puffs and pants as you rode out your second orgasm for the night followed by a meek call of his name as your body collapsed from the intense session of masturbation, the bed creaking along the way.

You could feel the wetness in your abdomen, caused by the cum that seeped into the thick covers of your bed. The cloth that Stuck on your mouth was centimeters away from you, a visible wet patch from your saliva and stretched visage of your fingers going deep within your throat.

"Gojo..."

Although sensitive and tired, you pushed yourself to clean up after the mess of your pleasure filled session thinking about your teacher in a way so sinful the devil could not accept in hell.

Morning rolled around for you to attend school with your classmates, greeting Nobara with a bubbly persona and Itadori as you three chit chatted about certain things. Megumi was unfortunately sent to a mission to exorcist curses directly commanded by your teacher, Gojo.

Said man barged into the room with a grin, his towering figure spreading as he made himself welcome despite the late arrival. You found yourself in a reverie about your teacher's flexing fingers, finding them incredibly attractive with the way it curled and straightened with every movement.

You wondered what it would feel like to grip on your thighs and plunge it deep within your sweet pussy, maybe slap the folds and rub your aching clitoris.

The very thought of it makes you shudder and let out a breath, the shaky sigh and quiet rampaging imaginaries you've fantasized about your teacher made you rub your thighs together. How sinful, aroused in class fantasizing about Gojo who seemed to be oblivious—like any other students with you—about your undying lust and love.

"(Name)!"

With a sudden call of your name from his lips and the touch of his hands on your shoulder, the gasp that escaped you and the shiver of your whole body was evident to everybody. It was clear you weren't paying attention to their current topic, too busy undressing Gojo with your eyes.

"Are you alright? Something bothering you, hmm?"

"It's nothing, Gojo.."

"Oh come on, you can tell me! Is it a boyfriend?"

What a tease. Behind the black fabric of his blindfold was his blue eyes that will stare deep within your soul and you knew he was checking your well-being as of now behind his mask.

With an annoyed huff and furrowed brows, you pushed your teacher away to create a space. However, his hands caught your wrists and that alone made your heart skip a beat or two.

His touch was firm yet soft, almost securing you like a fragile package. His hands wrapped snugly around your wrists and you wondered if this is the equivalent of his touch when he's bedding a woman.

"G-get off me, stupid teacher! It's none of your business if I'm thinking of someone!"

You exclaimed, cheeks flushed with tints of pink and glare hotter than the hot summer air. Despite your mini tantrum, your mentor's teasing grin did not dissipate. Instead, it grew to a mischievous smirk that you knew won't end well.

Despite your mini tantrum, your mentor's teasing grin did not dissipate. Instead, it grew to a mischievous smirk that you knew won't end well.

You exclaimed, cheeks flushed with tints of pink and glare hotter than the hot summer air. Despite your mini tantrum, your mentor's teasing grin did not dissipate. Instead, it grew to a mischievous smirk that you knew won't end well.

"Care to tell us who?"

The day ended with teasing, Nobara and Itadori's curiosity seeped out of them like overflowing waters. Their arms would cling into the fabric of your uniform like leeches as Gojo's angelic voice sung like an angel from heaven in the background, adding salt to the wound he caused with his mischief.

At the comfort of your room, your stare lingered at the skin of your wrists. Gojo's touch still present despite the fact it's physically absent, love was an understatement to describe what you felt during that moment. It was rather blissful, satisfying.

addicting.

The late of the night didn't make your eyes shut with sleepiness, the overwhelming desire to fuck your teacher rivaled the drowsiness. At an ungodly hour, you've snuck once again at his humble abode with quiet steps and careful movements. The stealth of your figure could compare to a feline's; light and quick.

The familiar door that you've come to know as your beloved teacher's greeted you, blocking whatever is happening inside which you knew by heart. The soft jiggle of the doorknob and a disturbing creak didn't awaken the man who snored blissfully in his bed, covers a mess and position laid out similar to a starfish. The sight made the insides of your body shiver in a pleasant manner.

As per usual, you stared at his defenseless figure completely drinking up the sight of his relaxed state. Oh, how you wish you could just kiss those parted lips and silence the small snores that escape them, feel the flesh of his skin and cup the softness of his cheeks.

"Satoru..."

A breath, you found yourself straddling him. Hovering over his sleeping body with the familiar dancer performing in your eyes; Lust. His breaths harmonize with your heavy pants, touch featherlight against the thin fabric of his garments. Your eyes stayed focused on his covered ones, white lashes at rest that you want to kiss.

Morals and values were not in your book, so does resistance. With a soft bite of your lip, a deep breath and a quick pull, you knew it was too late to go back down and beg for whatever deity you believed in to forgive your sins.

With all its glory revealed your teacher's rested cock, you could feel the blood circulating at the area of your nose as you continued to strip the fabric off his sleeping figure. Slowly, intimately and sinfully.

"Fuck, you're built like god's favorite."

You whispered, softly fluffing his hair and a kiss on his forehead before you retracted and focused on the meaty length that settled in between his muscular thighs. You suppressed a moan, it was better than you pictured. All the pornography you watched late at night, wishing it was his engorged flesh plunging deep into your velvety walls was not comparable to the cock of Gojo Satoru.

The desire to touch and taste his dick was immense, thanking whatever exists above that this man turns off his infinity while asleep. Your pink muscle experimented around the area of his pink tip, swirling it like a lollipop and licking it like chocolate on a spoon. It wasn't as tasty as you expected, it didn't feel like it was supposed to be judging from the adult videos you've seen, however, the tingles and collywobbles confessed how you enjoy pleasing the sleeping man.

A small groan was let out, halting your movement to look over the man who's still thankfully asleep. One could not fathom how low and dirty you swooped in to taste and love this majestic human underneathe you. Diving deeper into the depths of his length, you've managed to suck the muscle that turned slightly stiff overtime.

The head was now slightly hitting your throat, choking and gagging at the thick muscle that snuggly fit in your stretched wet cavern.

You could've sworn the man woke up in a daze before succumbing to sleep a few times before you let go of his now saliva covered dick, liquid dripping on his thighs as his cock stood up like a proud man after your inexperienced performance. Of course, he deserved to be your first in everything.

"Satoru... you're so...mph.."

Staring yet again at his relaxed expression, completely unaware of your doings to his unconscious body. The wet patch on the thin fabric of your panties only grew larger by the minute, it sought to be touched and pleasured, alas, your hands were as busy as your mouth; giving Gojo an inexperienced blowjob in his sleep.

A sigh and a small stutter of your hips when you took off the wet underwear and touched the bundle of nerves that waited to be pleasured, the heat on your cheeks couldn't be any hotter with the way you touched yourself on top of your mentor. It was humiliating but that humiliation was overpowered by the desire and lust to fuck your teacher, have your cunt suck his penis dry of white substances. It made your spine shudder with excitement.

With a hungered lick and a few strokes on his stiff cock, you dare to lead the pulsating tip to your soft folds— teasing yourself with the sensation of his dick on the surface of your sopping vagina. How naughty of you to take advantage of your sleeping teacher, fucking yourself with his aroused member. The slight groans and shifts of his made your body run cold in a pleasant manner, the thrill of waking him up keeps your adrenaline going and heart in a pace of a running man's.

A rather low and restrained moan passed by the guards of your lips as your soaked private suck and ate his throbbing length without any problem with the exception of the discomfort of it stretching your inexperienced hole.

Of course, you believed he's the only man to deserve and experience your divine pussy and take your sacred virginity even when unconscious, the thought of another man's penis taking you makes you shiver in disgust. It was Gojo's and Gojo's only. No one else. So, when you finally settled and felt the burning fire that bloomed as your walls was forced to stretch to a foreign object inside you that's definitely thicker and longer than what your fingers could reach and curl, you softly bounced on his hips.

The feeling of his length softly entering and exiting your hole that morphed into the shape of him was more than heaven, it was paradise.

It felt addicting, it felt satisfying. All you could do was take it in, enjoy the pleasure that it gave despite the minor discomfort it gave and drink up the moments that are rarer than a diamond gem. Sharp intakes of air and soft whispers was all you could do, doing your best not to moan too loud and wake the sleeping man beneath you.

"Satoru, Satoru...! Haah...so good..!"

"I love you so much, I'd kill and die for you...your cock is so big..god!"

Gradually, your pace got quicker as your huffs became louder, almost evident to the cold air that surrounded your heated body. Hand on your mouth, screwing it shut tight and eyes teary with the way his dick thrusted in you as you bounced like a cowgirl on a bull's back. Your toes curled up on the sheets, the nails of your fingers digging on your skin to form small crescent moons and occasionally scratch the delicate flesh.

"Fuck...Satoru!"

"I'm.... I'm....fucking god!"

A silent scream and a stutter of your whole body, creamy and thick white semen overflowed from the inside of your cunt. Your vision faded to black as the earth seemingly stopped to witness your pleasure filled expression, inaudible whines and sobs as your teeth buried deep in your skin to silence the volume of your bliss.

The feeling of incredible strength of a fist tying your hair at the back of your head and a deep, sleepy chuckle made your blood run as cold as Russia's snow. Is this how a deer feels when exposed to headlights? You thought to yourself, stunned by the sudden awakening of your teacher.

"How's your experience so far, sweetheart?"

"G-gojo! It's uhm.."

The situation itself was unexplainable, the feelings you harboured for your mentor were unexplainable. Everything about your doings was unexplainable.

"Now, now, (name). I bet you've enjoyed everything that has happened so far. But, you do know everything you've done is wrong, don't you?"

Was he going to lecture you? That's the best thing that could happen as of now, you think. He's probably going to report you to the jujutsu headquarters or just send you to the police to repent your unforgivable sins. All this happening with his dick still inside, drenched with your dripping cum on the sides of your thighs and his to the sheets of his bed.

"Don't you deserve to be punished?"

The question sounded more like a statement, you felt his grip from behind your head tighten. His other hand is finding a way to your jaw that's dried with your own saliva from the session, ever so slightly pressing the smallest amount of strength that felt like a guard to keep your mouth from lapping anything that belongs to and is on him.

"How naughty of you, (Name)."

He whispered, sending spooky chills throughout your whole body. You waited for his next move, accepting whatever he will do to you like a good obedient girl that's been tamed by the fine hands of her teacher. You've already eaten the forbidden fruit, it was just a matter of time for you to face the consequences of your actions but you did not expect to be caught midway of committing it.

A surprised yelp and a jerk of your body left your soul flying to heaven as his hips rutted without a word, squelching noise audible to both of you as his balls came into contact with your skin. Hands flying to his shoulders for support as he continued without a word uttered for you to prepare, stuffing you with his meaty length vigorously.

"Ah-ah! Sat—Gojo! Please stop I'm sensitive!"

"What happened to 'Satoru', baby? Are you too shy to utter my name now?"

With your teacher's strength, he flipped the both of you. Now underneath him, you could see the oceanic spheres that danced with sinful lust and sadism that matched the smirk on his lips. His hand wrapped around your wrists rather tightly, almost making blood circulation stop in that particular area from the raw strength he possesses.

Hips continue to plunge deep inside you with the speed of a beast that makes the bed creak in a noisy manner as it hits the wall every time Gojo's cock disappears into your body.

"Ah! Satoru! Satoru! Satoru!"

You could only whine and sob, the intensity of your pussy being assaulted with his dick was better than earlier. He truly is an experienced man, making you cry out in pleasure as you willingly submit to be his whore of a student. Your legs are forced to be spread wide and dangle on his shoulders, having deeper access to hit every crevice of your heated walls.

From the Orgasm you had earlier and your teacher's intense pace and rough thrusts, your poor inexperienced vagina could only handle so much stimulation that it made you scream in ecstasy when you felt the gush of juices painting Gojo's length white, legs shaking from the shockwaves and seeing dots of white and black as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

"Came already? But we are only just getting started."

"Ngh...Satoru I don't think—"

"You will. Whether you like it or not, you will be taking my dick like a desperate bitch you are. Are we clear?"

You could only respond with a single sob and cry, having no other choice but to take him in despite the overwhelming pleasures your body can't handle.

"Speak!"

A slap on your cheek.

"(Name), don't be a bitch now. Come on, speak and tell me your answer."

Vehement thrusts are what greeted you like no tomorrow, you felt the burning sensation of his harsh touch on your swollen cheek as his eyes glared down at you with a glowing fire of lust.

"Y-yes Satoru!"

You mustered, too fucked up to even form a single phrase. You could feel the wetness of your juices and Gojo's leaking from your hole that's been filled with yours and his rich, white semen. His length continued to assault you glistening pussy without a stop, a few groans and audible pants from him. The hand that acted as a restraint on your wrist continued to clutch them, now stronger than before as he's too indulged with the way your walls hugged his cock, morphing into the shape of it as if he's marking your insides.

"Fuck, you're a virgin aren't ya? This sweet pussy is mine to claim."

His hand that once restrained your arms slithered down your heated, pleasure filled body to the bundle of nerves that he's currently filling up. His index finger toyed with your clit and continued to form a circular motion that triggered a switch for you to automatically raise your hips from the soft surface of his bed and scream his name as you once again came from the added sensation of his hand.

"How pretty."

Diving to reach you, his slimy tongue lapped up the forming sweat and flowing tears on your cheek, tasting it like the last droplets of soda in a plastic can. His fingers continued to skillfully support his beast-like thrusts, occasionally pinching and slapping your vagina as if it were some skin on your arm. Your moans were no longer there, replaced with desperate whines, cries and hiccups.

"Take my cum and don't let it leak, got it? Not a single bit."

He murmured in your ear, biting the shell and wet it with his slithering tongue. A meek nod and a pathetic mustered yes from you before you felt yourself being carried like a newborn to Gojo's clothed chest, arms wrapped around your nude figure to secure your seat in his lap with his penis connecting you both in this ride.

If your screams weren't loud enough earlier, it definitely did now. You swore you saw the glass of unfinished water shake for a moment as your mentor jackhammered himself in you, constant sounds of slaps and squelches becoming background noises from the echoing gutteral moans from you and occasional groans and degration from your mentor.

"Ugh! Satoru! Fuck! Fuck me harder! There, there! Angh..there please!"

"Such a needy b-bitch, don't worry..Teacher's cum will fill you up any second now."

He purred, bouncing you up and down forcefully as he also plowed his pleasure stick as fast and wild as he could. You could see the crack on the bedframe and hear the quick creak of something being bent with the way he stuffed you full.

"Please! Please!"

Pathetically begging, you felt like a slut in need for a refill of his semen to energize you for the day. The world was now in a blurry mess, mixed with the tears and dizziness you're experiencing in sync thanks to your teacher's massive length. You could slightly see your stomach bulge every time his cock disappears, it scared you how long and thick it is to the point it started to get a little too intense for your liking but, you weren't one to complain and would rather save yourself from the advantage of your teacher exposing your sins to authorities or anyone he knows.

His fingers pried your mouth open, exposing your bleeding tongue that's been bitten minutes prior to his awakening. Your eyes widened as you felt the spit of his combine with yours inside your wet cavern being mixed with his tongue like a witch brewing a new potion. The open mouthed kiss didn't let you forget the arching of your back pressing against his torso, the fire that pooled in your abdomen similar to springs recoiling before it snapped in half.

The sudden stop of his thrust and the erotic moan from him made you realize he too, have cummed in sync with you. You felt his lips press at the side of your head whilst the grip of his hands on your waist and hips were the contrast of his soft gesture. You fear they'll bruise later or tomorrow, but that wasn't what concerned you the most in this situation.

The heavy breaths and pants was the only thing you could hear aside from the ringing of your head, feeling the gush of liquids on your pussy and the slow retract of his cum covered dick, witnessing how your stomach visibly deflated from emptiness. You were still high from the overstimulation the man have gave you, the amount of orgasm you managed to produce in one night without having to pass out midway, all of it has made you feel beyond tired and exhausted.

The ustulation was satisfied temporarily, deep within you knew this was not going to be the last you'll ever taste your teacher's dick and the start of you diving deeper into the obsession over your handsome, masked teacher.

Gojo's Azure gaze stayed glued into your hazed ones, still calming down from a draining activity. Was this all worth it? Of course it was, you've tasted your teacher in more ways than what you expected and you were beyond grateful for it, ignoring how humiliating and shameful it is for you to grasp it.

"As a Punishment, you will be sent to a mission three weeks worth of time with no assistance, whatsoever."

[maeby-cursed]

vampire!satoru who’s not used to being in the shadows. 

he gets turned very young and lives through every stage he could possibly live through; denial, starvation, a deep self loathing and a bitter feeling of acceptance. he was never too concerned about harming others but he was also not used to having his liberties curtailed.

vampire!satoru who begins to hunt others.

he needs the blood, quite literally, to survive. he’s also gotten even more vain in this new skin, this odd state of life between what was and death. he hasn’t found any others like him yet so he has no guidance, he hunts men and women alike and tries to figure out what he likes. he can’t help but admire himself though; this new glow of his skin, his elongated canines… he enjoys the blood dripping down his face, the only drop of color against the white of his hair, skin and eyes. 

vampire!satoru who gives up on morals entirely. 

he finds new victims easily and feeds on them, enjoying himself like narcissus in the lake. he buys a mansion by stealing money from every prey and works out a system to enjoy his life to the fullest even if he cannot see the sun ever again. he tricks and manipulates women and lies and slaughters men by the thousands. he feels numb with every drop of blood.

he never once kills a child.

vampire!satoru who meets you.

it’s a cold january night and a blizzard has struck the town he resides in at the moment. he could very well go out if he felt inclined to but he’s not forgotten his lazy ways, he doesn’t feel like chasing some poor victim in the middle of a snow storm just to get a drop of cold blood. he’s not that desperate. 

he spends his night reading, studying, turning the tv on and off and contemplating himself on every surface he can see himself reflected upon. 

he’s in the middle of admiring his eyes on a silver spoon when someone knocks on his door. he’s so startled he drops the utensil, and now he’s annoyed. no one startles the satoru gojo.

vampire!satoru who opens the door and sees your face for the first time.

you’re wrapped in a thick coat, hair floating around your visage due to the wind. he’s struck for a moment with a memory he can’t recall; a warm smile and a mane of black hair. 

“who the hell are you?” he asks. 

vampire!satoru who for an unknown reason decides to listen to you.

you explain how you were about to catch a flight when the storm hit, how you don’t know the town very well and cannot find your way to a hotel. a shy smile makes your cheeks soft when you timidly ask if you could stay for a night. 

vampire!satoru who is a predator, vampire!satoru who is an animal, vampire!satoru who is not human, not your friend, not kind, not good.

vampire!satoru who for a second feels greedy.

you trust him. you trust this creature in front of you who is very obviously not like you, who has the coldest eyes you’ve ever met and the longest canines you’ve ever seen. your instincts know – they must.

and yet… he can see it in your eyes, the kindness hidden behind the pupils that tell him you always expect people to be good, even when you shouldn’t.

vampire!satoru who feels thirsty for something that isn’t blood for the first time in a hundred years.

vampire!satoru who can’t remember who he was all those years ago.

he can’t remember the faces of those he used to love, can’t remember how he looked like or what he thought of the world. who was a human in a world of humans and now feels like a child who’s been told he has to hurt others to survive. 

he can’t remember what he’s done since he was turned, can’t remember the number of victims or what they looked like. who was reborn alone and has lived alone and will exist forever alone.

vampire!satoru who really truly doesn’t want this to be his existence. 

vampire!satoru who answers your question with an “okay” and lets you in.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Vil, Jack: a Strength that Shines

Ayyy, it’s the childhood friends (?) from the Shaftlands!! It feels like forever since we last got any significant interactions between Vil and Jack. Nice to see them chatting again~

bdjwvsjsGuabs THAT GROOVY THOUGH… Vil looks so judgmental and dismissive 😭 Channeling all his Mean Girl energy to diss Neige Snow White, lol

A Tale as Old as Time.

Four sides drew together to form a glittering box. A lovely maiden rested within the coffin-like casing of the photo frame. Her lips as red as blood, her hair as dark as ebony, and her skin as fair as snow.

She was circled by foliage, her sun-dappled face tilting up, disarmed by some distant call. The girl cupped her dainty hands together, housing a small baby blue bird in her palms. Kindness, goodness, grace—she exuded all of them.

Vil scoffed, tossing golden hair over his shoulder. Her smile was reminiscent of a rival celebrity, one pure as a dove's feathers.

So carefree, so cheery.

How irritating, he sighed.

"One ought to be more cautious in the woods. Who knows what dangers might lurk nearby, wishing to enact harm upon her.

"For a glamour shot though... Hmm, yes. This composition is acceptable. The sunlight is angled upon her face in a pleasing way—it casts a golden glow on her pale visage and highlights the highest points: cheeks, nose, chin, and forehead. The impression is one of total innocence.”

A soft grunt sounded from beside him.

"She's... shining," Jack commented plainly. His critique, clipped. “Didn’t you do a photo shoot like this recently? Similar place and everything.”

Vil’s beauty was momentarily marred by a grimace. “Yes, as promotional material for an upcoming film. However, the feel of it was completely different than what you see here.”

Shadows instead of sunlight. Temptation in the place of innocence.

He, poised amid the creeping branches and dark leaves, a tatter cloak clinging to his curves. A single, crimson apple in his grasp, a sultry look directed at the camera.

He tried to picture himself like the girl in the frame countless times over. Kneeling among the woodland creatures, smiling so serenely. Any pro could pull it off—he included.

But the image never turned out right in his mind.

Not the right amount of sweetness, not natural enough.

Not quite the same.

Not at all.

Blood, sweat, tears. Sacrifices made at the altar. Yet still, the world yielded nothing but broken promises and shattered dreams. The splintered parts and shambles of them, he gathered, forming his own makeshift hope and determination.

He couldn’t give in here.

Vil’s perfectly groomed brows scrunched up.

“I shall have to endeavor to work even harder. I’m not satisfied with things as they are now.”

“Heh.” Jack cocked a small, lopsided grin. “Keeping on the grind… That’s just like you. You've got this."

“Obviously. Nothing will get accomplished otherwise.” Vil’s eyes passed over to the beastmen. “Presumably, you are doing the same."

"Yeah. Haven't skipped a day of my training regimen." Jack slapped a hand on his bicep, which fit snuggly in his glittering white sleeve. "We'll take out RSA next track and field meet!"

"I'd certainly hope so. If I am to taste sweet revenge, I'd prefer it be by my own hand... but I trust you to deliver in my place. I expect good news when next we speak. Do not disappoint me."

"Yessir!" Jack's tail wagged enthusiastically. He stood alert, saluting like a loyal knight. “I'll do my best!"

“Then it looks as though we both have our long-term goals set.” The dorm leader planted his hands on his waist—slim, cinched.

"Yours is...?"

"To surpass myself." Vil jerked his chin toward the girl in the painting. "To shine so brightly that my name not only goes down in history, but overshadows that which was written before."

"That's some big dream you have." Jack shook his head. "The scale's beyond what I can imagine. But knowing how stubborn you are, Vil-senpai... You seriously won't quit until you make that dream come true."

"My, my. Stubborn, am I?" He smirked, arms crossed. "I do believe it takes one to know one.

"You stand back and watch. I'll show you just how dazzling I can be."

His eyes held a steeliness to them. It was matched only by the same in Jack’s. Two strong men and their wills, meeting on equal grounds.

Jack simply nodded—an acknowledgment, an acceptance, of his upperclassman’s confidence. Overwhelming, like a powerful wave, a strong storm, a blazing inferno. He almost felt compelled to drop to one knee, to kneel before such a presence.

Vil turned away from the painting, his arms unraveling from one another. His movements were graceful, nearly ballet-like. And his expression—

Jack caught him mid-laugh. The snooty, airy kind, half-sincere, half-sarcastic. Brows upturned, mouth twisted in a faux sympathetic smile. Flaxen waves framing his lovely features.

His lips moved.

“I’ll topple you from your throne,” Vil vowed.

It was then that Jack noticed.

Vil-senpai's shining like the fair maiden.

[nomie-11]

Chapter 2 - Into the Storm*

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Genevieve’s grandmother had always called her an outdoor girl. Despite being born with skin as pale as snow and hair as white as clouds, for as long as Genevieve could remember, she spent every waking minute she could outside. The sun, it seemed, had never taken a liking to her, though. Not for lack of trying on her part–her skin would blush an angry crimson beneath its rays, her arms prickling and shoulders peeling after hours under the relentless sky. Yet, she never minded. The nine year old girl loved the fields of her grandmother’s manor more than the sun could ever hate her. 

Her mother had called her a child of stars, recalling a condition that few kids are born with, causing their hair to be white and their eyes to be a pale purple like hers were. Her grandmother used to take her long, soft hair into her hands and braid it into what she called a Tyrrish crown, and hum, telling Genevieve that she was to be remarkable. 

To her grandmother, it was destined. Genevieve was born different, and because of that, she would be different. 

To Genevieve, it never mattered. 

In the two days she had before Basgiath, she spent her time near a secluded river near the cliffs leading up to the Parapet. She relished in the feeling of being surrounded once more by trees and the open sky, but the sky was cloudy. After five minutes of being outside, the sky grayed, and Genevieve’s mood dimmed. 

She cleaned herself up enough, getting the grime and dirt from her hair, and managing to steal a set of clothes from an unsuspecting passerby, but it was still… off. Her hair was too long. The loose strands that fell over her shoulders like silken threads would have been pulled back by now had her grandmother been here, and her clothes were ill-fitting. She looked different from how she wanted to portray herself—as a warrior, ready for the challenges of Basgiath, not a girl clinging to the memories of her childhood. 

Sighing, she knelt by the river, the cool water reflecting a rippled reflection of a stranger, a pale visage of who she is now. She cupped her hands, splashing her face to chase away the lingering remnants of childhood. As the water dripped from her fingers, she saw the now grown version of herself. The striking contrast of her white hair against the dark, turbulent waters was haunting. With a frown, she plunged her hands deeper, letting the water soak into her now clean hair, the sensation both soothing and invigorating. 

Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind: “you are different, my child, and that is your strength.” But as she looked into the swirling depths, the strength she felt was fleeting. The challenges ahead of her were daunting. What would it mean to be remarkable in a world filled with dragons and warriors, when all she felt was the weight of expectations and the scars of her past? 

She grabbed a dagger that she had managed to snag from another passerby who seemed terrified of the ghastly girl who hid among the trees. The reflection’s eyes–her eyes–stared back, pale and fierce, daring her to do it. She held the dagger underneath her ear, hair drawn taught over the braid. With each passing moment, she grew tenser and tenser, until she made the sharp motion, her hair falling back in a jagged line, not much longer than her ears. 

With each ragged cut, her hair fell into the river, silver-white strands floating like wisps of mist on the current. She worked quickly, without hesitation, severing the grown out locks that had been a part of her for so long. When she was done, her hair grazed the bottom tips of her ears, uneven but free. 

The wind caught the shorter strands, and for the first time in days, she felt lighter. The sky remained cloudy, but there was clarity in the air, as if nature was giving her the space she needed to breathe. She touched her hair, the rough edges soft against her fingertips, and smiled. 

She wasn’t her grandmother’s outdoor girl anymore, nor her mother’s child of stars. With a final splash of water, she rose and stepped away from the riverbank. Grabbing her single dagger and empty bag, she joined the other hopefuls on the path to Basgiath. 

—----------------------------------------------------

Genevieve blended into the crowd of first-year cadets trudging up the steep, winding path to Basgiath as best as she could. Her new, choppier haircut felt foreign, the breeze tugging at the uneven edges as she adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. There was a hum of nervous energy in the air, every person filled with dread or anticipation–or both. The daunting, 250 step climb loomed above, the Parapet still shrouded in mist. 

Making her way up the path, her legs burned from the climb, and she hated that the weight of the blade strapped to her thigh didn’t feel as comforting as it should. She kept her head down, observing everyone else. There were murmurs of who would make it, and who wouldn’t live to see the sunrise over the citadel of Basgiath. Genevieve’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had survived worse than some cursed stone walkway. 

As she neared a particularly narrow bend in the path, the crowd slowed, pushing tighter against the cliff. She felt the push of stone on her side, the open air on the other, her discomfort rising as the slope grew steeper. Her foot slipped on the loose dirt, and her knee grazed the rocky ground, sending a sharp sting up her leg. A hand caught her arm, steadying her before she could fall any further. 

“Careful there” a voice said, warm with humor. “Wouldn’t want to take a tumble this early.”

Genevieve straightened, her pale gaze met the eyes of the boy beside her. He was tall, with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes, his dimpled grin made it seem like he was never not smiling. His eyes, a deep ocean blue, studied her with a mixture of amusement and concern. 

“I was fine,” she muttered, pulling her arm free, though she could still feel the warmth of his grip. 

“Of course,” he replied, undeterred. “But a little help never hurts, right?” 

He fell into step beside her, adjusting the strap of his own bag. The ease with which he walked up the path, his balance seemingly unaffected by the incline in comparison to her still slightly disoriented stance, irritated her more than she cared to admit. She didn’t need help. Not from him, not from anyone. 

“I’m Liam,” he said after a moment, his smile widening as if he hadn’t noticed her annoyance. Or maybe he just didn’t care. “Liam Mairi.” 

Son of Colonel Mairi, Genevieve’s mind filled in the blank. Our families knew each other. 

“Genevieve Hale,” she responded shortly, focusing on the path ahead. She wasn;t interested in making friends. Not now. 

“Well, Genevieve, I hope you’ve got a good head for heights. Parapet’s going to test more than just your balance.” He winked, and she had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. 

She brushed her hair back—a habit from when it had been longer, through now there was nothing left to pull away. Liam’s eye flickered from her bandaged wrists to her hair, then back to her face, but he didn't comment. Instead, he gave a once-over, his gaze lingering on the blade at her side. 

“Nice dagger,” he remarked. “You only brought one?”

Genevieve’s eyes flickered to Liam, catching the trace of amusement in his deep blue gaze. He had a way of speaking, casual and confident, that was grating on her nerves. It wasn’t his fault—he was only trying to help—but she had spent too long relying on herself to feel comfortable accepting anyone's assistance. Especially not here, not on the treacherous path to Basgiath that seemed to enjoy reminding her that she hadn’t climbed more than twenty steps in the last 400 days. 

“I didn’t exactly have time to shop for more,” She replied, her voice sharper than intended. She adjusted the dagger at her side, fingers tightening on the hilt, the only thing that felt like hers despite being taken as well. The rest of her gear—stolen or ‘borrowed’---hung awkwardly off of her frame. The ill-fitting clothes, the worn boots, even the cut of her hair made her feel raw, exposed in a way she hadn’t anticipated. But this dagger, the one thing she had been deliberate in taking, gave her a sense of control. “I’ll make do.” 

Liam’s grin didn’t falter. “Fair enough. A single blade can be enough, as long as you know how to use it.” He gestured toward the Parapet, now visible through the mist as they broke the cloudline. “And I’m guessing you do. Wouldn’t be here otherwise.” 

Geneiveve didn't respond. She didn’t need his validation. She knew what she was capable of. But something about the way Liam moved beside her, easy and confident, made her hyper-aware of how much harder this climb was for her than it seemed for him. She couldn’t help but feel out of place here among these other recruits. Thank gods I practiced sparring down there. 

The rounded another bend in the path, the crowd pressing tighter as the cliff’s edge loomed uncomfortably close. She glanced down at the rocky drop below and immediately regretted it. Heights had never bothered her before, but this was different than before. 

Liam, sensing her discomfort, spoke again. “Scared of heights?” 

“No,” Genevieve said smoothly, but her rigid stance proved the discomfort in her words. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “You won’t fall. And once you’re up there it’s all about keeping your focus.” 

Genevieve bristled at his tone. She wasn’t scared. At least, not of the Parapet. She was scared of failing. Of not living up to her grandmother’s expectations, of proving that maybe she wasn’t so remarkable after all. But she would never admit that out loud. 

“Thanks for the advice,” she said tersely, quickening her pace to move up the line. The wind whipped at her uneven hair, and for a brief moment, she missed the feeling of her tight braid, the way it used to ground her, the way her grandmother used to use it as a comfort. 

But that part of her life is over now. 

Liam easily matched her stride, unfazed by her obvious attempt to distance herself. “You’ve got the spirit, I’ll give you that. But there’s no harm in accepting a bit of help. We’re all in this together, you know.” 

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. “Are we? Because last I checked, it’s every rider for themselves once we’re up there.” 

He shrugged, unbothered. “True. But you need a friend and I need a friend, and the children of disgraced political leaders should stick together. It’s a long year ahead, and I’ve got a feeling we’re going to see a lot of each other, and my instincts are always right.” 

Genevieve clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to tell him to leave her alone. But she knew better than to push away potential allies, especially this early. As much as she hated to admit it, she might need someone like Liam far down the line. 

For now, she focused on the path, the Parapet going closer and closer with each step. The mist and dark clouds surrounded them, obscuring the edges of the cliff and the narrow stone bridge ahead. It loomed like a shadow, a narrow walkway stretching between life and death. 

Were the clouds darker, or was that her imagination? 

“Your turn next,” the tall man in front of Genevieve nearly barks as she reaches the top of the tower, Liam in tow behind her. She watches a flash of recognition and relief cross the taller man’s face as he sees Liam, but the expression is quickly masked. “Name?”

His eyes were dark, with flecks of gold swirling around like a dark storm, his hair was equally as dark and his skin tan. Good gods, that man is attractive. 

“Genevieve Hale” she responds, despite her swimming thoughts, she focuses on the bridge in front of her. They gesture for her to start, and she steps onto the straight stone bridge, the river raging beneath her. 

Genevieve’s heart pounds as she steps on the bridge, the turmoil in her own stomach was the fault of her own last name. The tall man’s gaze lingers on her briefly before shifting to the task at hand, his presence unsettling in more ways than one. Her own racing thoughts mirror the storm brewing around her, the intensity of the moment heightened by the onslaught of wind. It’s as if the sky itself has come alive to challenge her. 

The first raindrop feels like a memory, the coolness shocking her skin as if waking her from a deep sleep. She stands there, frozen, not by fear but by the sheer strangeness of it all. Rain? It’s been years since she felt it, and for a moment, she’s no longer on the parapet, but back in Aretia, running through the endless fields with her sister’s laughter chasing after her. 

Her heart clenches at the memory, bittersweet and far too fleeting. But her body remembers the movement, the joy of running free under the rain. Before she can even register the thought, her feet carry her forward, the world narrowing to just the stones beneath her and the storm above. The roar of the river below fades as the rain envelopes her senses, the wind catching her soaked hair and flinging it across her face. Her breath quickens, not from panic, but from something else–adrenaline, maybe, or a long-forgotten thrill. 

Her steps quicke, each more sure than the last, the fear of falling forgotten. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat pulses in time with the drumming of the rain on stone. One more step. One more step. She pushes forward, the bridge narrowing as the winds whip around her, but she feels no hesitation. Each footfall is a declaration against the storm, against the odds stacked high, against the months of being told what she couldn’t do. The storm becomes her dance partner, pushing and pulling but never breaking her stride. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows how dangerous this is—how one misstep could mean the end—but the knowledge is distant, buried beneath the raw exhilaration coursing through her. She blinks through the rain, eyes stinging, she’s halfway across the parapet. Her pulse thunders in her ears, and the river rages below in harmony with the beat of her own heart, but she’s not afraid. There’s no room for fear in his moment, only the rush of life flooding through her veins. 

Her breath shudders as the end of the parapet draws near, the final few steps ahead. She should be exhausted, shaken by the elements tearing at her, but she isn’t. There’s a strange, fierce joy in the struggle, in the feeling of pushing through when everything else wants her to stop. She presses on, heart steadying, and she knows that she’s already won something here. 

Stepping off the Parapet, she comes to a stop right in front of the roll keeper. 

“Name?” The man with the scroll asks, and she’s slightly short of breath, but she’s elated. 

“Genevieve Hale,” She breathes out, a smile painted on her face. 

“Hale?” The rider asks, his voice raising, and she quirks her brow. 

“Yes, Hale,” Her eyes narrow on his. “Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all,” He says. “Just wait in the main area, maybe you’ll find more people like… you.” 

And with that she was all alone, walking blind for a few moments. But in reality, it was the effects of adrenaline leaving her body. It ran its course, leaving her tired and empty, wandering the field around her. And while it was full of cadets, she was alone. 

“Hey! Hale!” Liam was already behind her, catching up with a grin that was entirely too bright for someone who had just crossed the Parapet. 

“See? Told you, no big deal.” He said, clapping her on the shoulder like they had been friends for years. 

Genevieve stiffened under his touch, but forced a small nod. “Yeah, no big deal,” She echoed, though her heart was still pounding in her ears. She couldn’t tell if it was the adrenaline from the Parapet or the excitement from Basgiath, but the rush was not fading. 

Liam walked beside her, unfazed. “You know, I was serious about what I said earlier. About needing allies. We’ll all be in the same fight soon enough, so it doesn’t hurt to make a few connections early on.” 

Genevieve exhaled slowly, eyeing the rest of the cadets gathering in the main courtyard ahead. The thought of relying on others grated at her—she’d learned the hard way not to trust anyone but herself. But Liam wasn’t entirely wrong. She could see the clusters forming, groups of cadets gravitating toward each other for safety, strength, or maybe just out of fear. 

“I don’t need alliances,” she said, though the weight of her words felt thinner than before. She glanced up at the towering spires of Basgiath ahead, and the uneasy knot in her stomach tightened. Graduation was still a long way off. The trails, the challenges—none of them would be fought alone. 

Liam gave a nonchalant shrug, clearly not offended by her coolness. “Maybe not yet. But don’t be surprised if you change your mind down the line.” 

He waved her a quick behind, flashing an easy grin at her while she watched him go, her arms wrapping around herself in the cooling air. She hated how easy he made everything seem. The confidence, the casual charm—it was as if Liam had been born into this world, while she was a stranger. 

The air was thick with anticipation, the murmurs of the crowd quieting as a commanding voice boomed from the front. 

“Three hundred and two of you have survived the parapet and have become cadets today,” Commandant Panchek’s voice rang out, smooth but laced with an unsettling edge. “Good job. Sixty-seven of you didn’t.”

A brief, unintended hush fell over the crowd—a fleeting moment of silence for the fallen, though the Commandant’s tone suggested he saw it more as a statistic than a loss. Death was part of the game, and Panchek was keen to remind them of that. 

“But as the Codex states,” Panchek’s voice rose again, sharp and commanding. “Now begins the crucible!” His words cut through the crowd like a blade, the excitement and fear of those around Genevieve palpable. “You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. All the way to Threshing, where if you are chosen, you will become riders. We will see just how many of you make it to graduation.”

Genevieve scanned the sea of faces around her—confidence gleamed in some eyes, arrogance in others. Smirky, cocky grins, and the swagger of the untested. But Genevieve knew better. She didn’t come this far by being naive. She knew why so many cadets didn’t survive. The world they were stepping into wasn’t just dangerous—it was designed to break them. 

Panchek’s voice dropped to a final note of mock encouragement. “Good luck to you all. You are now in the hands of your Wingleaders.” 

With that, he turned on his heel, the rest of the staff falling in line behind him as they exited the stage. All that remained now was a brunette woman at the front, looking barely older than Genevieve. Her posture radiated authority despite her youth. 

“My name is Nyra,” the woman’s voice rang clear, cutting through the buzzing crowd. “I’m the senior Wingleader of this quadrant and the head of First Wing. Section leaders and Squad leaders, take your positions.” 

A flurry of movement rippled through the crowd as squad leaders moved to the front, joining Nyra and the other Wing leaders. Genevieve’s heart quickened, eyes darting to assess who was who, already mapping out the next phase of survival. She wasn;t stupid—there was no margin for error in this place. Every decision, every step, could mean the difference between life and death. 

Nyra’s voice called out the squads, her tone brisk and efficient. “First Squad, Claw Section, First Wing!” A tall man raised his hand, marking the squad’s position at the front. Genevieve watched as cadets began falling into line, tension mounting as names were called. She barely registered when Liam’s name when he was assigned to Second Squad, Tail Section, Fourth Wing. But then–

“Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing!” Nyra’s voice carried over the crowd, commanding attention. “Ridoc Gamlyn, Rhiannon Matthias, Violet Sorrengail…”

Genevieve’s heart lurched at the sound of that name. Violet Sorrengail. Her eyes narrowed, instincts flaring. 

“...Genevieve Hale.”

Fuck. 

So this is how it would go. She’d been expecting it—dreading it. Of course, they’d put her in the same squad as Violet. Fate had a twisted sense of humor. 

The thought shot through her mind like lightning. Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white. She’d been able to avoid even knowing that Violet Sorrengail existed for this long, but now? Now she was stuck. They’d be fighting side by side. She’d have to look Violet in the eyes every day. And worst of all, she knew one rule in the codex: she couldn’t kill a squadmate. 

Reluctantly, Genevieve made her way to the front of the squad, her gaze locking on Violet as he fell into line beside her. The tension was immediate, thick in the air between them. Violet turned to her, her expression unreadable but her concern clear in her voice.

“Are you okay?” Violet asked, her question soft, even tentative. Despite everything, Violet’s intentions seemed genuine, her worry over Genevieve’s well-being evident. No relic adorned Genevieve’s arm, signaling to everyone she hadn’t been targeted for retaliation. But the look in Violet’s eyes suggested to everyone that she knew the danger hadn’t passed. 

Genevieve’s smile was cold, a mockery of warmth. It didn’t reach her eyes, and the simmering rage behind her stare was impossible to miss. “No,” she said, voice low but sharp as a blade. “I’m not okay, because now that we’re in the same squad…” she leaned in slightly, her grin darkening. “I can’t kill you.”

—————————————

The summer sun blazed overhead, its relentless heat turning Genevieve’s pale skin even more vulnerable. After being confined for so long, the harsh light felt like fire on her skin. 

Xaden Riorson, who Genevieve now knew to be the wingleader of Fourth Wing, stood before them, speaking with authority, but Genevieve barely registered his words. Her mind drifted until the sound of her squad shuffling into motion snapped her back to reality. Dain Aetos and his squad, her squad, were being reassigned. She blinked in surprise. Now she was part of the Fourth Wing. With Xaden Riorson. How convenient. 

A quick glance at him showed an indifferent expression, while Liam looked genuinely thrilled that Genevieve was in his wing. But Genevieve’s stomach twisted. She had been so close to Violet Sorrengail. Tomorrow’s challenges would have given her the perfect opportunity to end the girl’s life, to take revenge, swiftly and cleanly. But no. Now, she had to wait. Three long years. She had to hope that Violet would survive long enough for her to finally strike. 

Riorson’s voice broke through her thoughts, booming with the weight of command. “You’re all cadets now,” he declared. “Look at your squad. These are the only people the Codex guarantees won’t kill you. But just because they can’t doesn’t mean others won’t. You want a dragon? Earn it.” 

Genevieve caught Violet’s eyes on hers, and her fists clenched. Some cadets cheered, but she remained silent. 

Riorson wasn’t finished. “I bet you feel pretty invincible right now, don’t you?” he goaded, sparking more cheers from the crowd. “Surviving the parapet, you think you’re untouchable! On your way to becoming elite. The few! The chosen!” His words whipped the crowd into a frenzy, but it was the sudden roar of wings that stole their attention. 

A riot of dragons descended, casting enormous shadows over the courtyard. The air vibrated with their power, and Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat. Gods, they’re magnificent, she thought, her heart aching with both awe and longing. She had only ever heard the sound of their wings echoing above her prison, distant and unattainable. But now, they are here, real and close. One day, if she survived, one of them might choose her. 

The dragons roared, and the world erupted into chaos. Screams filled the air as some cadets bolted, only to be incinerated by streams of fire. The stench of sulfur stung her nostrils. The red dragon was the first to strike, but the others followed, their jaws gleaming in the sunlight. Around her, the other cadets recoiled, panic spreading like wildfire, but Genevieve stood rooted to the spot, unflinching. She was terrified, but this wasn’t fear—it was beauty. 

How could anyone run from something so powerful, so divine. 

Xaden Riorson’s voice cut through her reverie. “Anyone else feel like backing out?” His gaze swept over the  crowd, what seemed to be his blue dragon looming behind him. “No? Excellent.” 

The rest of his speech faded into the background for Genevieve. It was all the same: You’ll die, you’ll struggle, you’re not special. She had heard it all before. 

Her entire focus was on the dragons. 

—--------------------------------------

Later, in the first-year dorms, Genevieve wandered alone. The large, empty hall felt stifling. Liam was three floors up with some brute named Jack Barlowe, who Violet had been complaining about earlier. She had no idea where to settle down until the girl standing besideViolet caught her eye and waved her over. 

“Hey! I’m Rhiannon Matthias,” the girl greeted her warmly, extending a hand. The girl was tall, with beautiful brown skin and neatly braided hair that cascaded down her back.. Her smile was inviting and gentle, as she waited for Genevieve to answer. “We’re in the same squad now. We should stick together.”

Genevieve glanced between Rhiannon and the empty bed beside her before setting down her mostly empty bag. She hesitated, torn between the friendly girl in front of her and the sour presence of Violet nearby. The tension twisted in her gut. 

“I’m Genevieve,” she finally responded, shaking Rhiannon’s hand with a small, tentative smile. “Genevieve Hale.” 

At the sound of her name, Violet’s gaze locked on her with a sharp intensity. Genevieve could feel the recognition settling over her like venom, burning through her skin. How Violet had missed her name when they were calling out squads was beyond her. 

“You’re Genevieve Hale,” Violet whispered, the weight of her words dripping with meaning. 

Genevieve’s mood darkened in an instant. “And what of it?” she snapped, her voice cold and cutting. Whatever pleasantness she had shown a moment ago vanished. 

Rhiannon, sensing the tension, placed a coming hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “We’re all in the same squad now,” she said firmly. “The least we can do is be civil. Don’t you think so?” Her tone left little room for argument. “Now, Violet, introduce yourself.”

“I’m Violet—”

“Sorrengail. I know.” Genevieve’s voice was sharp, her words venomous. “Your mother is responsible for the death of my father. I’m not becoming your friend.” 

Rhiannon’s eyes widened at the words, clearly not expecting them. “So, you’re—”

“A rebellion kid?” Genevieve interrupted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “No relic, see?” She yanked up her sleeve, showing her bare arm. “No, no, I’m something far worse.” 

Without hesitation, she pulled her shirt over her head, revealing the ratty sports bra and chest bindings she had managed to fashion from scraps. Across her back, a swirling, inky black mark twisted from her collarbones down to her waist, its dark tendrils crawling across her skin like a curse. At its center was an empty circle, a void of power that made her feel hideous. The scars on her back stood raised, a testament to the trials she suffered in becoming a weapon for her squadmate’s mother. 

“I’m the daughter of the disgraced General Philip Hale. Sister to the fallen riderQuinn Hale,” Genevieve hissed, her gaze locking onto Violet’s wide, horrified eyes. “My father was a traitor. But I’m not here for redemption. I’m here for justice. And you, Violet Sorrengail, are the key to making your mother pay.” 

---------------------------

Hey guys! I'm not really doing a strict upload schedule for this, just uploading when I have chapters ready, so heres chapter 2! I'm procrastinating doing my supplemental essays for my college applications by writing this, so there will be a lot more chapters coming soon. I hope you enjoy!

[localplaguenurse]

Midnight Moonlight

Vampire Pantalone x GN Reader Smut (Kinktober Finale)

Happy Halloween everyone! I think you all knew I HAD to get my darling Regrator in this little challenge. This has been an absolute pleasure! I plan on doing this again next year as I have QUITE a few ideas that didn't make the cut this year. I wish you all a safe and sweet Halloween!

WARNINGS: Honestly, none really. Mostly biting and use of the word "pet," which is pretty par for the course with vampires I think. Definitely tame compared to the other stuff I've written this month.

Minors DNI

Moonlight slips in through the open windows, the snow outside glowing in an almost ghostly, ethereal light. The glass fogs up a little with your breathing as you peer through the glass. It’s nearly midnight, and here you are, in the dark, utterly alone and searching for the master of this abode. His visage is depicted in portraits all throughout the manor, skin of porcelain and hair of night, eyes striking with shimmering jewel tones.

Your footsteps pad softly against the carpet as you continue further down the dark corridor. Every window you pass causes your shadow to stretch against the wall in the silvery light, though you do not take note of it. Instead, your focus lies on the door at the end of the hall. There is an air of darkness, you dare say even danger, and yet you are enthralled. You know what and who is behind that door.

The door opens without fanfare, not even a creak. You slip through the crack and shut the door as silently as you opened it. Moonlight stretches over the bed, a massive thing of blankets and plush pillows, a dark canopy hanging around the bedposts. It’s almost fit for royalty, you muse quietly to yourself, but it’s odd. If he’s not here, then where would he be? You’ve looked everywhere for him.

You are immediately corrected when the presence hiding behind the door presses up against your back. Startled, you twist and jump in an attempt to see the presence and move away, but find yourself thrown back and pinned against the bed. Cold hands grasp your wrists, and you know by the way the fingers squeeze the skin that you can’t fight him off. In most people, the scenario would elicit understandable and expected fear, but in you it sends a thrilling shiver up your spine.

His black hair, speckled with strands of silver, hangs down from his face like a midnight curtain. His lips are painted red and curled into a smile, and you catch a glimpse of pearly white teeth. You find yourself entranced by the shimmering gemstone colour of his eyes, trapping you in a hypnotic gaze. 

(Though it’s not like you would need to be hypnotized to be enthralled.)

Your lack of fear is evident and clearly amusing to the Regrator by the way he chuckles sardonically. “A brave little thing you are,” he teases, “coming here all by yourself. Didn’t your family ever teach you that curiosity killed the cat?”

“Hasn’t killed me yet,” you reply, earning another laugh from the vampire above you.

“That is true,” he concedes. One of his chilled hands slides further up your wrist, taking hold of your hand. He brings your hand up to his lips, his kiss reverent and eyes hungry. “Besides, I wouldn’t ever dream of letting my favourite little pet fall in harm’s way.”

You pull your hand back to cup his cheek, and without breaking eye contact, he smiles wider and leans into the warmth of your palm. When you place your thumb against his bottom lip, he doesn’t hesitate in opening his mouth. Unlike his hands, his mouth is warm, welcoming, and you feel another pulse of want when you feel his teeth graze the little appendage. He does not bite, merely teases before he releases your thumb.

“Don’t tempt me, darling,” he warns, amused by the look on your face when his leg slides between yours, “I don’t think you realize how hard it is to keep myself from indulging in the blissful warmth of your flesh.”

“M-Maybe not,” you reply, “but perhaps you could show me anyways, f-for future reference.”

“Your naïvety and desire to please is charming,” the Regrator comments, a subtle fondness in his voice, “but no. It’s for the best.”

You pout. “Oh come on, I’m not that fragile. I can take it.”

“You say that, and then you start begging for mercy when things get a little rough.”

Your face flushes. “That was one time, I really, really want it this time.”

He hums, pretending to mull it over. You watch his gaze trail down the unblemished skin of your neck to the top button of your blouse. “... I suppose indulging just this once wouldn’t be too harmful.” 

You feel his fingers pop the buttons open one by one, exposing more of your unmarked flesh to the starving gaze of your beloved vampire. You move to sit up and let the shirt fall off your shoulders, but a hand pressed against your heart pushes you back down to the bed. His palm is still a little cool, eliciting a little shiver.

“Ah ah ah, we’ve talked about this,” he lightly scolds, “you stay put until I tell you otherwise.” “Right, sorry…”

“Oh, don’t sound so sad, little pet,” he coos, his hand trailing up to your neck, “it’s for the best, after all. You need to conserve your strength for all the things I want to do to you. You know that, right?”

You nod, and for your understanding, you are rewarded with a kiss. It’s hardly gentle, it’s a needy, starving thing that threatens to steal the air from your chest. With your hands free, you cling to the Regrator, gripping onto his cape with one hand and taking hold of his hair with the other to pull him in even closer. He laughs into your mouth, as if the way he’s pressing up against you is any more subtle. A moan slips out between your lips when you part them to let his tongue in, a little sound that makes the man above you press into your body just a little more. You taste wine on his tongue, full and red, his favourite.

When he pulls back, panting, you admire the red smear around his mouth and the thin strand connecting to yours. His tongue slips out to catch it, and you give him a quick peck when he brings his mouth close. He chuckles, and when his body settles on top of you, his face dropping into the crook of your neck, you feel his length press against you through his trousers, and you notice the little hitch in his breathing when it does.

He presses his nose into your pulsepoint, taking in the scent of your shampoo, the perfume he gave you, and your natural scent, and his pleased sigh is hot on your skin. You feel his fingers flex around your throat before he removes it to pepper the territory with kisses. His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, considering the circumstances, leaving a little wet trail that feels cool when he pulls back. His eyes meet yours, and your little eager smile is enough silent permission for him.

You keen and cry out when his teeth clamp down on your skin. Immediately he lifts his head and the hand that was holding your neck presses a finger to your lips. “Mind your voice, darling. Screaming won’t help you.”

You nod, and he continues nipping and biting at the skin. On the more sensitive spots, he takes his time gnawing and sucking at the flesh, determined to leave his marks on you. Normally he’s careful with where he marks you, preferring to leave marks on your chest and thighs, but tonight he seems more than thrilled to make his claim over you, his beloved pet and favourite toy, evident to anyone who would dare cast their lecherous gazes upon you. 

While it’s not particularly gentle, and the little pangs of pain cause desire to pulse through your body, this wasn’t what you had in mind. While your lover is still kissing and biting at your neck, you speak up. “H-Hey, what happened to indulging?”

“What do you mean?”

“You… you’re allowed to bite a little harder,” you tell him.

The Regrator shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you–”

“I can take it,” you insist, “just once, please? I-I’ll never bother you again, but I want to feel it just once.”

“Darling–”

Light floods the room and Pantalone immediately pulls back. He looks over his shoulder, a look of surprise on his face before it scrunches into a scowl. You pull your shirt closed and sit up to see who or what it is.

With his hand on the lightswitch, Tartaglia laughs at the scene before him, the hockey mask pushed up to the top of his head. He points at you with the large plastic machete in his other hand. “So this is where you two went! I was starting to worry about our hosts with the most.”

“What the hell do you want?” Pantalone snaps, pink spreading across his cheeks and even to his ears.

“Well, I was going to ask you where you got the wine,” Tartaglia explains, “but then I realized your minion was missing too, and so I decided to have a little look around.”

“Thrall,” you grumble, as if the semantics of your costume will make the situation any less embarrassing.

“That doesn’t mean you can just waltz into our room uninvited,” Pantalone hisses. “It’s common sense and etiquette!”

“I know it’s your house, your rules, but you two couldn’t wait until the party was over before you started fooling around?”

“Tartaglia.”

“What? I’m not judging. Honestly, it’s sweet that you two are still having fun after all this time–”

“If you do not get the hell out of my room in the next two seconds I am going to halve your budget and cut your holiday bonus,” your husband growls, “now leave and forget you ever saw anything.”

“Alright, alright!” Tartaglia laughs. “Do you two want the lights on or off?”

“GET OUT.”

Tartaglia turns off the light and shuts the door behind him, and the two of you can hear his laughter down the hall as he makes his way back to the party. Your husband is still glaring at the door, so you sit up, cup his cheek and turn his head before he can burn holes through the mahogany. His expression softens from anger to simply embarrassment when he sees you, awkwardly smiling.

“I would reckon he’s going to tell everyone about where he found us,” he remarks.

You peck his cheek. “Probably.”

“Perhaps we should put a pin in this for later, then.”

“Oh no, absolutely not.”

“What do you– hey!”

Pantalone can’t help but laugh when you shove him down on the bed and clamber on top of him. He sits up, meeting your lips in a giggly kiss that still tastes of wine. You pull back, grinning ear to ear.

“All anyone is going to talk about is how Tartaglia caught us in the act,” you say, “and it won’t matter if we tell people we were barely getting started because they won’t care or believe us.”

Pantalone nods, watching as you finally toss your shirt aside. You rock against his hips, grinding down into his cock and getting a pretty little moan in response. His hands find purchase on your hips.

“We may as well have fun with it,” you purr.

Pantalone chuckles. “You’re more insatiable than I am,” he teases, “and I’m supposed to be the bloodthirsty, ravenous vampire here. Maybe we should have swapped costumes.”

“We can do that after you fuck me,” you tell him before catching his mouth in a hungry kiss.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Snowfields

Synopsis: A cold walk atop the mountain with Valdor.

Relations: Valdor x female Emperor shard

Warnings: Suicide attempt

This is relatively tame for what I write, and I wrote it in one sitting when I had roughly 20 minutes to spare. Ty for your time!

“Do you remember Ararat, my liege?”

No. No, she didn’t remember Ararat. She has never heard the name before. But she will. By the gods, she will. 

The air was cold. It rattled through her lungs when she tried to breathe. The white seemed to stretch forever, like malignant bones, the wind laid bare and rattling its screams. It would rise like a frosty howl around the two of them, wailing like a soldier who had lost a limb, weeping its cries for eternity. The cold bit at her, tore at her, the snow would have frozen mortal blood solid in mortal veins. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A crack of lightning splits the sky in half, purplish white against the ghoulish grey. 

His cloak was warm when he wrapped it around her. But his touch, without doubt, without even question, was unfathomably cold. Without even thinking of it, she had shrunk away.

Valdor’s grip had only tightened then. He fastened the clasp of the too-large cloak, the stench of incense and parchment wafting from the silk. A small smile, the emotionless movement perfected by a mind that could not actually smile, flashed briefly across his visage as he took her wrist, trapped it so effortlessly between his fingers and kissed the soft skin there.

“There was a Primarch once. A magnificent man. One that even I respected, in some regards.” Valdor led her, slowly and patiently, holding her up when she stumbled through the knee-high snow. The mountaintop seemed to rage against her. Well, too damn bad. She hated mountains, and she hated snow, and she was about to teach him a lesson out of spite. It was pure pettiness, but it was hers, it was one last plan she held to herself, one last wish she was certain was hers and not his, and if she was going to die, drowned limb by limb into the unseeing gold, she wished to at least pain him with it. 

How had it gone so wrong? How had angels of such glorious aurite turned into nightmares wrapped in gold and crimson? 

She yanked her arm away. Valdor let her go without struggle, simply rising back with a singular, elegant motion, as if he were a dancer performing a long-awaited waltz. When she stumbles over another snow-covered rock mere moments later, he was there, as if he had never left, one arm gently wrapped around her waist as he hauls her upright. This time, when she tries to pull away, his grip only tightens, as if he was defying the very storm itself.

“The snow reminds me of him. The Cataegis Primarch of the IVth legion. You watched us duel atop a mountain not so unlike this one, my liege, when the storm ended. It felt like the top of the world. We were in a deadlock when you appeared, your attention straying just for a moment to our fight. I snapped his wrist with a twisting motion, and slammed him into the ground hard enough to snap part of his spine. Your attention had departed by then, but it was enough. You still remember the frost, do you not?”

No. No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Valdor’s hand, so gentle, so damnably gentle, placed itself under her chin. It stroked her hair, his gauntlets’ touch heavy yet tender, the jewels flashing dully through strands of hair that were quickly becoming darker, swallowed first by brown and then by black. He had not forbidden her to cut it. Out of spite, she had ordered him to cut it for her. 

It didn’t matter.

The strands had grown back, with an unrelenting zeal, glossy and luxurious and flowing like ink over water. She was innocent once, she was mortal, she lived among men and walked amongst mortals, and she will never be again. She will never live again, and that truth was simply so jagged, so broken, so horrifyingly caught between her chest and her throat that it was as if something broke a little further every time she took a breath. Valdor had only quietly polished, brushed and glossed over her hair, his movements methodical and calculated, even when silent tears rolled their way down her cheeks, her vision blurred by the salt and the water but just visible enough to see the flakes of gold swirling in her pupils. Still clear enough to see herself die.

She had felt Valdor’s fingers through her hair then, braiding it carefully in an intricate style she had never seen before, but one that tugged at familiar roots she had never felt before. 

Her hair. Some mewling, broken part of her(was it her dream or His? Was there a difference anymore?) instinctively felt like it should be darker. Longer. Wreathed with gold, and weighed down by a crown. But it was her hair. It was her hair, once upon a time, and she had lost it strand by strand, inch by inch, as the gold swam up through her vision and blocked out her eyes.

A rock clattered over the side of the mountain, followed by dull, distant thunder. It jolted her back to her mind, to her body, to the world that she did not rule over and should have never ruled. 

Numbly, she felt herself shake her head. Valdor only raised an eyebrow, and adjusted the clasp.

“I remember the rock, my master.” Valdor was saying. His voice rose and fell like a litany, carefully retracing steps the Emperor had once guided him through, when He was a king and gods walked the earth. She felt so small against him, so tired, so far from the invincible god-warrior he had once served, but that was alright, He had returned to him, and he would shepherd Him, guide Him, protect Him, through this life and through this death till the last. “Even the rocks felt cold. It was black, and it glistened like oil whenever the sun shone. There were storms every day of that campaign, as if the heavens themselves were against us, as if the gods had conspired to strike you down, but yet you gave us the order to march. And the wind. You told me that you heard it screaming. Malcador jokingly asked that if you should live again, you would choose to enact Ararat during the summer instead, if only out of sheer annoyance from the wind.” Valdor’s smile was nothing more than a reflex. There was no humor in it, nor human emotion. “Do you remember it then, my master?”

The wind. Had it screamed then, as it screams now? Had it screamed, beneath the weight of the betrayal, wailing with the sheer horror of what it had taken? Did it scream, singing a threnody with the thunder, as the skies growl and hail shudders from overcast clouds ahead? She shivers underneath her layers. The finest climate suits had been prepared, coupled with the Custodian cloak over her shoulders, but she felt cold, so unspeakably cold that it was nearly painful. 

Oh Throne. She was cold, so cold. 

“Constantin?” she rasps. Her voice was not her own. It was rusty from disuse, and cracked, and weak, but yet some part of it resonated, it echoed like the tongue of a god, speaking through the plaintive shell of a mortal, just enough to hiss like a shadowy undertone. It should have been more sonorous, it should have been softer, it should have been the voice of a conqueror, it should have been the voice of a girl snatched away from her home by an angel and transformed into a god. It should have been hers, but it was His instead. She licks her lips and tries again. “Constantin.”

“Yes, my lord?” he was at her side(was he always so close?), the memory jarringly left unfinished. The hand once gently guiding her and became more insistent as he knelt down until they were eye to eye. 

“I don’t remember the mountain.” she replied flatly. Her voice was weaker than a whisper. She didn’t care. She knew he’d hear it anyway. And if he didn’t, she no longer cared enough to ensure he did. She no longer believed she had the strength to stomach that voice any longer. 

The cliff looked dizzyingly as she peered over the edge. She wondered if even a Custodian could survive a fall at such a height. 

“I don’t remember the snow, Constantin.”

“That is alright, my liege.” He was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet, so unerringly gentle. It made her want to claw at him, to crack him, to see what could finally burrow under that invincible flesh and make him howl. It made her wonder how the Emperor broke him to make him the man he had become, how deeply He must have laid His tongs in the forge of flesh and fire. 

She wondered what his screams would sound like, if he could scream at all.

“Do not trouble yourself, my liege. Your form is still young.” Of course, he could afford to wait. He had waited for ten thousand years, and he would gladly wait for ten thousand more. In that broken, delusional mind of his, it was only just, after all. He’d speak litanies of loyalty, roaring them over the screams of her brethren, he’d speak praises so numerous that they’d drown out the sobs of her family. “Your memories will return, when given due time. I can tell you about them. The preliminaries, the campaigns, the plans you undertook.”

Of course. They’d have to return. They must return. They will return, and He will live again, born out of this mortal shell under Valdor’s guidance. Valdor simply could not be, must not be, could not accept, could not live in a world where his liege has fallen forever. 

The snow was no longer biting her. It seemed to have been cowed, laid low beneath the vengeful eye of its rightful master. Even the storm seems to have settled, briefly, at least for now. For the eye of the King, the Emperor, the god-sorceror. 

It was so cruel, the revelation, the realization that welled up in her when she gazed dully back at him with listless eyes. The revelation that came for her, and not for him, for he would be nothing if not for his delusion. How quickly she understood the truth beneath why she had called him here, why she had suddenly finally accepted his offer to visit the mountain, when she had been delaying it, dreading it, putting it off for weeks upon months. 

The edge. 

The end. (And not the death).

She wondered if even a Custodes could survive a fall from this height. She wondered if it mattered anymore. 

The plan had been formulating itself for weeks now, brewing like boiled flesh in a cyst, nursing itself, grieving its wounds, growing stronger, gaining weight. First she had refused to eat, then to bathe, then to move at all, all the dreary, listless days crushed into the same monotony as brass as she had sat still upon a throne she did not want and stared off into oblivion, as he occasionally knelt by her and asked for her commands while she numbly stared off in the distance, her eyes a thousand yards away. Her gaze had been lost in a time beyond time, beyond memory itself, and not even dreams could steal her away. 

First it had only been how she stopped even trying to hide from him. She simply let him follow her, on her aimless, little walks aboard the massive ship that had become her only location. Then it had been how her tongue had stalled and she no longer even greeted the serfs that occasionally came by to deliver her food she did not eat, water she did not want, utensils she did not use, how she simply stared ahead, as reactive as a corpse, about as conscious to the world as the dead. Valdor had cared after her then, when even her memory had failed her, when she lay still and sullen like ash, the weight of the world upon broken shoulders, silent, painful tears trickling a cheerless trail from her eyes to her duvet. How he had lifted her up and cradled her to him, asking which stories she wished to hear, which glories she wished him to recount. Which memories that were not hers but soon will be, tales he regaled her of His conquests, of His victories and His lessons, His mantras drilled into her bones as they have been drilled into his.

She had left the world, bit by bit, husk by husk, until she felt as if she weighed no more than one of His eagles’ feathers did, frailly clinging onto the world with a whisper and a dream. It was as if she was sinking into some calm, clear, colorless water and feeling the waves close in above her, but there was no sensation of drowning, no voiceless cry in the deep. Simply the noiseless struggle in her own dreams, as she prepared herself for the final breath before oblivion. 

(Did she have the strength? Did it matter any longer, when he could overpower her no matter the answer?)

It was so beautiful, up here, at the edge of the sky. She could hear the storm breathing in the clouds. It was close enough that she could close her eyes, and dream of Ararat, listening to Valdor’s words. An end. An end, just like the Thunder Warriors He(and she?) slaughtered so long ago. The final unraveling. She didn’t want to die, but was she truly living? An immortality without life, without passion, without even joy itself, was that truly living when she was little more than a corpse, kept alive through obsession?

If the Emperor had loved them, He would have never created them at all. What merciful god would create such grotesque angels? 

If the Four were merciful, they would have sought Valdor, as they sought the Primarchs. They would have whisked him away, upon winds of change, tainted him with their mark, made sure He would never accept him as a servant again. They would have saved him, corrupted him, broken him, taught him what it felt like to dream, before the golden light shone again, and His dream took over his. 

But he was a servant, not a master. He was not a leader. He knelt, instead of ruling, and the Emperor had sunk in His claws so deep even the Four could not pry it out. And so he was His, forevermore.

He died ten thousand years ago. And somewhere, inside that twisted, broken Palace that was a mind, His dog was still waiting loyally at the door, waiting for Him to return. 

He was kneeling beside her now. She had never even heard him move. With infinite reverence, he cups her features, admiring the black strands falling over his gauntlets, the golden eyes - so broken, so gorgeous, so His - staring back at him.

“It was the end of the Unification Wars, my liege. And the start of your rule. The Imperium was born that day, your coronation happened atop that bloodstained snowfield, when Malcador held up that laurel, and crowned you King. How could you forget how I, the first of your Custodes, knelt first and rose last, when the ceremony ended?” 

So careful. So gentle as not to hurt her.

“Tell me about them.” a small, cruel smile had found its way onto her face. She was no longer looking at him, instead smiling serenely, blankly staring out upon the sky. The mountain truly was beautiful. It was such a shame this was where she would die. She should have felt something then. A sense of guilt, perhaps. A moment of horror for what she had become, for taking advantage of something so deeply broken into him that it was written into his very bones. Obedience was carved into his blood, seared into his marrow. He would know no other way but to obey. 

“The Unification Wars?” Valdor asks, the question poised so effortlessly, head tilted like a loyal dog, perfectly prepared to obey his master’s every word. 

It would be almost easier, she thought, if he had been a crueller man. Easier to break him, easier to hate him, easier to gaze upon that perfect, immaculate features and wonder what if he had lost those duels. If he had been taught to be mortal, what his screams would’ve sounded like, what sounds of pain he might wheeze out when his perfect, immaculate dancer’s grace falters and he learns, he learns the price for immortality. 

He was never meant to love. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if he can feel pain. If she’ll even care, if it’ll even matter. For a creature who loved no one but his master, would it even be a sin?A sin, to teach him what it meant to fear? To taste the copper tang of terror, to twist the knife in him as he had twisted the knife in her. And to die, exalted, knowing she would have hurt him, knowing she brought down a demigod. 

You can’t reason with a mad dog. You can’t plead with someone who knows they’re right. You can’t gaze into the eyes of Constantin Valdor and expect to see reason back, when his master was right in front of him and alive, so sickeningly alive he would rather kill than forget Him again.

Would he even mourn this time? Did he even know what mourning felt like? She had an inkling that he did, however twisted it may be. Because, for him, the tale isn't over yet, the tale must not be over. His Emperor is not dead, it cannot be, he cannot be, in a world without the Emperor, it simply is not possible. Without Valdor, the Emperor could not lead His Custodes, but without Him, the Custodes could not live. 

“No.” she replies. “The mountain. Tell me of them.” The smile that stretched across her face felt nothing like her. It did not belong to this life. It was too old, too heavy, too sad and too cruel for a face that was once joyous and wide with mischief. She had an inkling of the words Valdor was about to say, the bitter, treacherous words she would weep to hear, and regret ever having forced him to speak. 

“The Thunder Warriors.” she murmured. She had closed her eyes again by then. The plan was formulating, inking itself together with the same mindlessness of crawling, squirming things beneath the earth. And she didn’t want to see what the ground would look like when she fell. She didn’t want to see what it felt like to die a second time. This was only a distraction, a charade, a pitiful illusion built by a mind almost broken. There was no one here but a madman, a broken girl, and the ghosts of the storm calling out its mournful rage overhead. 

“Tell me what became of them. Of that Primarch you spoke so highly of. And no lies.” she sighs, and the voice that whistles out of her is too old, too broken. She brushes his hand away. This time, he doesn’t even insist on remaining. “Tell me what happened on Ararat. I want to hear the truth from your lips.” 

If there had been anything left of her heart, she might have mourned for him. For what he had become, living not for himself but for another. Living His life for Him. And when He died, what could become of him? What could become of him except to endure? When he had slaughtered brothers, lovers, children upon the snowfields, betrayed loyalists and watched life fade from their eyes, all in the name of Him, what could be left of him if not to serve?

He served, and loyalty was its own reward. Loyalty, unyielding, unbreaking, even in death his duty would not end.

Valdor tilts his head like a confused dog. “What good will it do now?” 

She utters a dry, raspy laugh. It had no inflection within it, no actual human emotion. 

“I command you, Valdor.” she spoke. There was nothing behind it, nothing even when the command hurt him. It stirred nothing but a deep, dull ache and the brief knife of guilt, which was quickly surpassed by the lasting numbness that did not seem to leave her bones. “I command you to speak of them. On Ararat. What happened on Ararat?”

She turns from him, walking slowly, and without care. She needed to be on a ledge. Distantly, thunder shrieks, and the storm crashes down. Lightning briefly illuminates her features, skin half-tanned, black hair flowing and golden eyes peering through the brume, and in that radiant flare of lightning she looked positively divine, a half-god caught on earth, if not for the weary, haunted gaze of a hunted animal. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements withered, as if her bones could no longer support her weight. She walked without a singular care in the world, and Valdor trailed immediately afterwards. She knew to jump was no longer an option. Even the stormclouds seemed to mock her. It was foolish, so foolish, she knew. He could not let her die. He would move faster than she could even think, he could catch her, snatch her around her waist and carry her to a safe distance before she could even advance an inch towards the edge. 

She could not die here. He would not allow her to die.

And they both knew that.

Voicelessly, soundlessly, she gazes up upon the stormladen sky. Its grey dances across her golden irises, the stormwind playing with her hair. Thunder crashes, and she feels herself scream back, wordlessly, soundlessly, without even conscious thought. Dully, she knew she was raging, screaming, that her mind was seizing at the clouds and tearing at them, begging them to save her, but physically she made not even a single move. Her body was frozen, the snow pelting her shoulders, Valdor’s cloak swirling from the wind. She felt frozen, too. Her mind was no longer wreathed with such self-pity it once had, it was churning, clawing, raging like a caught rabbit in a trap, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow it whole, not as a kind of freedom, but as a final form of spite to the hunter.

Thunder crashes around the two of them. Neither of them move. The edge was close, so dizzyingly close that she could feel the wind gusting around her. Valdor was watching her closely, the same way a starved wolf may watch a weakened deer.

When Valdor finally speaks, unable to resist the bluntness of her command, his eyes were still distantly focused on the memories of Ararat. And his voice was passionlessly dull, carefully kept neutral and utterly without pity. 

“I slit his throat.” he confesses dully, flatly, without even a hint of inflection. “The Primarch. I slit his throat on Ararat, from ear to ear, then from ear to clavicle. I only stopped when I felt bone scraping against the edge of my knife.”

Surprisingly she laughed, and the sound was garbled, as grim and as dry as bones. “I suppose you killed him then?” she asked. One more step. One more step and she would be at the edge. He would not let her. He would move faster than the earth could drag her down anyways. But it did not matter. Slowly, incredulously, she could feel herself smiling. It was going to be alright. She could feel it in her bones, the static, the storm. Even the snow seemed to be on her side. For a moment, she felt like a god, standing at the top of the world, the conquered earth groveling beneath Him, knowing that even the elements would fall beneath His gaze. 

She could taste the ichor then, sweet and lifeless and pouring from the sky along with the snow, the charge in the sky and the thunder. The vengeance it held. The sheer rage, an echo of her own. She would rule them. She did not want to rule. She would rule, for one singular moment in her wretched life, she would rule, and she would hurt him, as he had hurt her. For the serfs he terrorized, for the Sisters he slaughtered, for the martyrs he first betrayed and then hung out to die. All in her name. All for her wishes. She no longer wished to wish. She no longer wished to reign. 

Let her abdicate the throne of skulls. Just once. Just once, she prayed. 

“No.” Valdor shook his head. He was already moving, one hand reaching out to grasp her arm and drag her back before she could approach the edge. “It would have been a kinder fate if he had died then. It would have been a kinder fate if-”

“-if you had granted him an honorable death.” she finished for him. She spoke softly, plaintively, as if this was a comfort. She had turned her face a little, just enough to see him, just enough to see his elegant features illuminated by the storm. To gaze upon him, one last time. The way he held himself, like a dancer, his lean features accentuated by the lightning as the thunderbolt carved the sky open and struck the ledge beside her. The way his auramite had shuddered from the lightning as he had, for the first time in her memory, stumbled, his gait not utterly perfect before the divine rage. The first word she had heard him say that was not perfectly calculated.

The lightning snaps the ledge like bone.

The surprised intake of breath she had uttered, a squeal that was nearly a gasp as the rock beneath her feet had caved in, and then crumbled as she had desperately hoped, the weathered stone no longer capable of supporting its own weight bending and breaking and shattering as the lightning arced through it, the smite separating the ledge like the same way Valdor had carved through that serf. That poor, poor serf who had slipped her a kiss upon her request. It was little more than a peck, that poor thing. And he hadn’t even been able to scream when Valdor separated his bones like paper. 

In a silent vow to him, in a wordless vow to them all, the corpses he laid so she could climb atop her throne, she promised she wouldn’t scream as she fell.

Grimly, lips drawn in a tight line, she only felt the distant thunder as she descended like a one-winged eagle, her face utterly expressionless, lightning briefly dancing sparks against her hair as if in reverence. 

Valdor’s cloak, still wrapped around her, its silk as crimson as spilled blood, unfurled around her as she fell.

Distantly, from somewhere beyond the mountaintop, thunder roared. 

~~~~

It was warm, when she finally awoke. She muttered something, tried to turn, and decided to burrow deeper against the warmth instead. There was a rumble, a purr-like sound, and the slow, drifting scent of incense as one titanic hand came up to rest against her hair. 

With careful reverence, it adjusted the master’s laurel. 

“Welcome back, by lord.” the voice purred. “You expressed quite the interest in the Cataegis Primarch.”

She groaned. Golden irises flickered back and forth, as if in distress, beneath her lids. Valdor’s other hand reached up to stroke through her hair, careful not to upset the laurel.  

“I had thought you would have recognized him, my lord. It was, after all, his grave that I showed you that night upon the mountain.”

He makes a long, slow chuckle, almost like amusement, if he had been capable of it. “I had expected you’ve greeted him already, my master. You were standing atop his bones.” 

Somewhere, distantly, thunder growled. And without even being conscious of it, she shivered, and tried to burrow closer to his warmth.  

Pinglist(checks notes, holy fuck!): @nonus-secundus @badbobdooley @bleedingichorhearts @starfrost740 @katie-faye1 @sigtamds @troylovesdoomguy @the-pure-angel @metronix36-blog @krynnmeridia @distantmoonbeam @futuristicchaospoetry @liar-anubiass-blog @subtle-like-a-brick-to-the-face @squishyowl @slaanesh @absent-still @sharenadraculea @idonotknowhowtochoosenames

[icarusignite]

These Violent Delights (1)

Chapter 1: Marigolds and Mayhem

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x OC

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Academic rivals, Coriolanus Snow and Artemis Highbottom must compete for the Plinth prize. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: Check out the masterlist for a better synopsis lol. As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Masterlist

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It was the third nosebleed of the night and Artemis was just about tired of it. She didn't even bother stemming the flow, allowing the carmine rivulets to trace an unhurried path from her nostrils to the marble below.

The hush of running water met the heavy rhythm of a beating heart, and there she stood—a lone figure, framed by the harsh edges of the sink, her grip upon it almost desperate. She could feel the sharpness imprinting into her skin, and yet still she clung, her skin stretched across her knuckles almost comically grotesque.

She watched the blood, in an almost detached sort of way. It could be art, she mused, the juxtaposition of sanguine against sterile white. A whispered revelation danced at the edge of her consciousness—anything could be art if you framed it the right way. Even the bloodiest of carnages. A spectacle, a thing to be enjoyed.

Artemis looked up, and her reflection stared back, menacingly. The mirror, an unforgiving oracle, revealed a distorted visage, one she both did and did not recognize. Her dark hair, cascaded in disarray, entangled in the aftermath of sleep's elusivity and her eyes harbored shadows akin to a painter's bruised palette. The reflection mocked, a cruel mimicry of the composed persona she so ardently sought to maintain.

Out of control.

Unbidden judgment pierced through her thoughts, a verdict she loathed to acknowledge.

No that could not be right.

Artemis Highbottom was always in control.

She despised this discordance, this disruption to her meticulously curated world. To her, it was anathema, but nature could not be controlled, and what was more natural than blood? Perhaps it was fitting, that this fundamental of humanity could not be dominated.

Blood could never be dishonest, and it had the power to reveal one's innermost truths.

With unyielding determination, Artemis scrubbed at the remnants of the crimson tide that painted her face, an act of restitution against the chaos that dared to invade her pristine sanctuary. Each abrasive stroke was an attempt to erase not just the physical residue but a deeper discord. She worked quietly, although there was no one else to hear. There was never anyone to hear her, her gilded halls always vacant, but Artemis spoke silence like a second language and old habits die hard. She spared her father a brief thought, wondering where he could possibly be at such a late hour but it didn't really matter. He just wasn't here. He never was.

Raw skin met her touch, and the blood, now vanquished, left in its wake a battlefield—a canvas of sacrifice for the sake of semblance.

The mess was an unwelcome intrusion there were far worse ways to be awoken. If she was busy cleaning up after her nosebleeds, then she wasn't sleeping, and if she wasn't sleeping, then she wasn't dreaming.

The walk to the Academy's Heavensbee Hall was a brisk one, although, in the sweltering heat, Artemis found herself increasingly short-tempered. She was going to be late, but she kept her pace measured. She would not arrive a panting sweaty mess like some savage. It had been a foolish idea, she knew that, but she had given her own driver the day off anyway, waiting instead for her father. His presence was expected, and she imagined it would have been a pleasant change of routine to accompany him. He was probably running late, she told herself. After all, she hadn't seen him return, and she would know, she was awake half the night.

The grand staircase up to the Academy could hold the entire student body, so it easily accommodated the stream of officials, professors, and students headed for the reaping day festivities. Artemis sped up, taking three steps at a time, while still attempting a casual dignity. Every other person she passed stopped to wave her down and exchange pleasantries, and although her impatience was rising, she kept a placid smile stretched across her lips as she greeted them all in turn. She nodded when they asked after her, and then nodded some more, albeit less enthusiastically when they asked about her father.

She made her way through an entry draped in black banners, then sprinted down a vaulted passage, and into cavernous Heavensbee Hall, where they would watch the broadcast of the reaping ceremony. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that she wasn't quite as late as she believed, and the official ceremony hadn't yet started. The hall was humming with faculty and students and a number of Games officials. 

Avoxes wove through the crowd with trays of posca, a concoction of watery wine laced with honey and herbs. One passed by Artemis, and despite her parched throat, she waved him away. On principle, she avoided any and all intoxicants. It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years she had seen many make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply. Artemis would be damned if she allowed herself to lose control like that. That and given her father's dependence on morphling, she imagined she must be genetically predisposed to addiction. 

In the great hall, she was once again forced to make her rounds, as faculty and students alike beckoned to introduce her to their circles. She eventually travelled past the hundreds of cushioned chairs set up for the occasion and onto the dais, where the communications professor, Satyria Click was regaling a mix of Academy professors and Games officials with some wild story. Amongst the gathered crowd was the biology instructor, Alfred Stanton, who stood off to the side, eyes deliberately wandering the area as if to make a show of his boredom. When his eyes caught sight of Artemis, he brightened, his face lifting in a smile as he waved her over. 

Oh great, more greetings. If Artemis had to utter another false pleasantry, she'd lose her breakfast. 

No, she wouldn't. She knew better than that. Besides, she was Professor Stanton's teaching aide, and it was quite literally in her job description to be at his beck and call. 

When she arrived, she scowled internally. It was inevitable, she knew that, but she was hoping that at least today of all days, she'd be delayed in setting eyes upon the one person who held the power of ruining her mornings. 

"Oh, Coriolanus!" Satyria drawled, as the blonde boy gave her the customary kiss on the cheek. "Here’s my star pupil.”

Artemis held no qualms against Satyria, not really. She was amusing and not overly uptight, one of the few professors who allowed students to call them by their first names. It was her teaching aide against whom she held a grudge. 

Professor Stanton, not to be outdone, clapped his meaty hand on Artemis's shoulder, making her stagger. Maybe the man needed to lay off the weightlifting for a bit. He announced her presence to the circle enthusiastically, earning a scowl from Satyria. 

"And Artemis, my star pupil. We were afraid we'd miss you this morning."

Artemis ducked her head bashfully, mumbling something about running late, but Professor Stanton only laughed boisterously, as he continued to speak. 

Coriolanus Snow was seething. Well, no that was perhaps a little extreme. Artemis Highbottom did not deserve such a reaction from him. She didn't deserve the energy. When he hadn't seen her earlier today, he had deluded himself into thinking that she simply wouldn't come. She was never late after all, so the fact of the matter must be that she simply wasn't coming. With her gone, he could be the sole beneficiary of the crowd's attention, networking his way into their hearts. 

Then he had seen her arrive, panting and slightly out of breath and he had to admit he marveled at the sight. Her coffee skin flushed and her hair thrown over her shoulder haphazardly as if she'd been running. Coriolanus had been amused, to say the least. He had hoped that she wouldn't wander over to his little corner, that he would be able to have Satyria's circle all to himself, but it was wishful thinking. People knew of him of course, being the son of Crassus Snow and all, but he realized that they tended to forget about him in her presence. After all, it was far easier to garner the good graces of one's father if he was still alive. Even if said father was Casca High-as-a-Kite-Bottom. Snow sniggered at the nickname, a creation of his own genius. 

Almost as if she could read his mind, Artemis shot him a withering glare, and Coriolanus stiffened, standing straighter to shoot her one back. The circle had shifted, placing him right next to her and if he stretched his fingers, they'd brush against hers. Not that he'd want to of course. How utterly repulsive. 

“Beautiful shirt. Where did you get such a thing?” Satyria was addressing Snow now, surveying him carefully. 

He looked at the shirt as if surprised by its existence and gave the shrug of a young man of limitless options. They didn't have to know that all that was left to him was his name. The world still needed to think of Coriolanus as rich. 

“The Snows have deep closets,” he said airily. “I was trying for respectful yet celebratory.”

Artemis held back a snort. 

Celebratory, my ass. 

The Snows' closets were as deep as their pockets, which was to say, containing all the depth of a bottlecap. Standing this close to him, she could almost smell the faint scent of dead marigolds and potato starch his shirt was emitting. 

"Is something funny, Miss Highbottom?" Coriolanus turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

Just your pathetic fibbing skills, she wanted to say. Perhaps she had not been as discreet with her expressions as she thought she'd been because he was still waiting for an answer. 

"Not at all, Mr. Snow," Artemis gave him one of her very best saccharine smiles. "I just agree with Satyria. That is indeed a lovely shirt."

Their professor beamed, happy to be validated.

“And so it is. What are these cunning buttons?” Satyria asked, fingering one of the cubes on his cuff. “Tesserae?” 

“Are they? Well, that explains why they remind me of the maid’s bathroom,” Coriolanus responded, drawing a chuckle from her friends. 

This was the impression he fought to sustain. A reminder that he was the rare person who had a maid’s bathroom — let alone one tiled with tesserae — tempered with a self-deprecating joke about his shirt. 

He nodded at Satyria. “Lovely gown. It’s new, isn’t it?” He could tell at a glance that it was the same dress she always wore to the reaping ceremony, refurbished with tufts of black feathers. But she had validated his shirt, and he needed to return the favour.

As he did so, his eyes couldn't help but return to the figure at his side. While Satyria's renovated dress made him feel better about his own attire, brought to life only through his cousin Tigris's efforts, Artemis's had the exact opposite effect. It was new, almost obscenely so. Wasteful extravagance, he thought to himself bitterly. What a vain and shallow creature, but such was the case with all the Capitol women he supposed. 

"What a wonderful ensemble, Artemis!" Satyria crowed once again. "You absolutely must give me the details of your dressmaker. Doesn't she look lovely, Coriolanus?"

Snow blinked. The question was directed at him, clearly, but he couldn't force the words out, even as his professor looked at him expectantly. 

“Elegant,” he finally stated blandly.

Liar. 

Artemis's eyes flashed at him triumphantly, almost as if calling him out. 

The adults wandered off, and their company was replaced by that of their classmates. Arachne Crane slipped her arm into Artemis's as soon she was within range, and Artemis sent her a smile that was only slightly less false than the one she had been wearing all morning. 

"Finally, and here I thought our star pupils would be too busy to give us humble folk time of day," she complained. 

"Don't ever use the word humble, Arachne," the boy to her right, Festus Creed, scoffed. "It does not suit you."

Arachne rolled her eyes and sipped her drink petulantly. 

"Have you tried this lamb, it's scandalous!"

The only thing scandalous is the president's son eating with his hands, Artemis thought to herself, but she knew better than to say it out loud. 

Lucky for her, Festus didn't. 

"Only the vulgar eat with their fingers, Felix," he chastised. "What, daddy not teach you table manners?"

"Maybe he would have if he wasn't so busy running the country!" Felix retorted. 

The conversation veered off in the direction of the Plinth Prize, and their eyes were drawn to the family standing off to a corner, speaking amongst themselves. 

"Who would have thought that you could buy yourself into the capitol?" Felix muttered derisively. 

"You can buy god himself, provided you have the resources," Artemis finally commented. 

"You can't buy class though. Did you see Sejanus's mother's outfit," Festus paused for dramatic effect before sniggering. "Sorry, his ma's."

At least he had a mother who cared for him, which is more than Artemis could say for the imbeciles around her exhibiting motherless behaviour. 

"Dress a turnip in a ballgown and it'll still beg to be mashed," Snow jeered. 

Artemis scoffed. And here was the biggest motherless moron of them all. 

"Interesting that you of all people should say that, Coriolanus," she eyed him carefully. Gone were the honorifics she had addressed him by earlier in front of the professors. This was a battlefield and there were no pleasantries in war. 

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

The two stared at each other, neither wanting to be the one to look away first and their classmates glanced between them uneasily. 

Eventually, Coriolanus blinked, his ears burning, and Artemis flashed him a grin. If he wasn't thinking about carving the smile from her face, he might have thought it suited her. 

If it was a battle of wills, Artemis was a born victor. 

Their conversation about Sejanus came to a halt when he approached them. He didn't bother greeting any of them but he smiled at Artemis, which she heartily returned. Arachne shot her a questioning glance, but if the Capitol was a hierarchy, Artemis outranked her, and therefore did not have to answer to her. 

Coriolanus eyed their interaction sullenly. He was a charmer, it was the only currency he had access to after all, and over the years he had made his best efforts to charm the Dean's enigmatic daughter. Perhaps he thought it'd make Dean Highbottom detest him a little less, if he had Artemis's favour, but although it appeared that she shared nothing else with her father, she shared in his disdain for Coriolanus. There was nothing he could do to endear himself to her, and he had long since stopped trying. 

It especially irritated him, that it was Sejanus of all people who had managed to make friends with her. He did not even need the networking opportunity it provided. Snow observed the brunette boy now, his soft charcoal gray suit that reeked of money. 

Sejanus’s father was a District 2 manufacturer who had sided with the president. He had made such a fortune off munitions that he’d been able to buy his family’s way into a life in the Capitol. The Plinths now enjoyed privileges that the oldest, most powerful families had earned over generations. It was unprecedented that Sejanus, a district-born boy, was a student at the Academy, but his father’s lavish donation had allowed for much of the school’s postwar reconstruction. A Capitol-born citizen would have expected a building to be renamed for them. Sejanus’s father had only requested an education for his son. 

For Coriolanus, the Plinths and their kind were a threat to all he held dear. The newly rich climbers in the Capitol were chipping away at the old order simply by virtue of their presence. It was particularly vexing because the bulk of the Snow family fortune had also been invested in munitions — but in District 13. Their sprawling complex, blocks and blocks of factories and research facilities, had been bombed to dust. District 13 had been nuked, and the entire area still emitted unlivable levels of radiation. The center of the Capitol’s military manufacturing had shifted to District 2 and fallen right into the Plinths’ laps. When news of District 13’s demise had reached the Capitol, Coriolanus’s grandmother had publicly brushed it off, saying it was fortunate that they had plenty of other assets. But they didn’t. 

Sejanus had arrived on the school playground ten years ago, a shy, sensitive boy cautiously surveying the other children with a pair of soulful brown eyes much too large for his strained face. When word had gotten out that he’d come from the districts, Coriolanus’s first impulse had been to join his classmates’ campaign to make the new kid’s life a living hell. He was glad he didn't because when Casca Highbottom's daughter befriended him, it put an end to all public acts of cruelty. They still mocked him in private, but that couldn't be helped. His district blood simply invited the scorn. Coriolanus's decision to simply ignore the boy had only reinforced his image. The other Capitol children took it to mean that baiting the district brat was beneath him, and Sejanus took it as decency. Neither take was quite accurate, but both worked in his favour. 

"Sejanus," Festus grimaced. "You made it to the reaping for once."

"And you made it to graduation Festus, we're both shocked," the brunette boy responded. 

"Spill it, who won the prize?" Arachne inquired. 

Sejanus scoffed. Like any of these rich Capitol children even needed it. 

"Oh no, I'm not going to ruin my father's big day. No one here actually likes him, but they all love his money. You know what that's like, don't you Arachne?"

Arachne scowled, leaning up to whisper in Artemis's ear about what a stuck-up thing he was. Artemis did not grace her with a response, but when the bell rang, and the students began to assemble in front of the dais, she took the opportunity to slip her arm out of Arachne's. Sejanus fell into step beside her then, taking the opportunity to slip a bottle of water into her hands. 

"And this is for?" she raised an eyebrow. 

"I know you can't stand the posca. Thought you might need something to drink, given all the talking they have you doing around here."

"And you thought I couldn't get myself some water?"

"I thought you shouldn't have to," he rubbed his neck ruefully. "Although I realize I might be a little late."

"I appreciate the gesture anyway. Thank you, Sejanus."

Artemis granted him her only real smile of the day. His sheepish smile reminded her of the day they first met, when this district boy with the cloddish accent first wandered up to her, offering her his bag of gumdrops.

She followed him to where a special section of chairs, six rows by four, had been set up for the mentors. To her chagrin, he took a seat to the right, leaving the only vacant seat next to one Coriolanus Snow. She felt the childish desire to kick his chair out from under him as he went to sit down, but shook away the traitorous thought. It was beneath her. 

When her father began to speak, Artemis suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of the Hunger Games, presented himself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and, as usual, doped up on morphling. Artemis zoned out as he went on his usual spiel of how the Hunger Games, his displeasure at the whole event evident in his tone, although perhaps that was just the drugs talking. 

"There has been a change this year. One final assignment to prove your worth, because the esteemed citizens of the Capitol have grown bored of the Games and simply aren't watching anymore. And if the Games are to continue at all, there must be an audience," he continued rambling. "Head Gamemaker Dr. Gaul has stepped in to incentivize patriotic values with her own unique flair. Starting with you. The Plinth Prize will no longer be determined by who has the best grades...but by who is the best mentor in the Hunger Games."

Nervous whispers fluttered among the students, as they exchanged uneasy glances. A subtle unease threaded its way through the crowd as they leaned in, both captivated and unsettled by the Dean's cryptic words. 

Artemis had been aware of this turn of events, and so did Sejanus, as it was his family's money involved, but she took great satisfaction at the dumbfounded expression on Coriolanus's face when he heard the news. It made the dourness of the entire situation as a whole much more bearable. 

"Your goal is to turn these children into spectacles, not survivors," Dean Highbottom announced. 

Artemis was right. Anything could be art. Anything could be turned into a spectacle, even the most depraved of carnages, and what greater carnage was there than the Hunger Games? 

Artemis did not need the Plinth Prize. She imagined her father would finance her higher education as he did all her other luxuries, but perhaps he might look at her differently if she won it. Perhaps it might gain his admiration. Perhaps he might respect her if she earned something of her own for once. Perhaps he might finally return home sometimes. 

She did not care much for the Games, in the sense that they held no significance for her, so far removed were they from her daily life. Her classmates were a varied spectrum on where they stood, ones like Sejanus speaking out firmly against the ritual, and others enjoyed the butchery, the slaughtering of district lives. Artemis simply did not care. They were irrelevant, but if it meant gaining her father's approval, Artemis would make herself care. 

As the large screens in front of them came to life with life footage from the reapings, Dean Highbottom began to recite the mentor assignments. 

"District One, boy, goes to . . .” he squinted at the paper, trying hard to focus. “Glasses,” he mumbled. “Forgot them.” Everyone stared at his glasses, already perched on his nose, and waited while his fingers found them. “Ah, here we go. Livia Cardew.” 

Livia’s pointed little face broke into a grin and she punched the air in victory, shouting “Yes!” in her shrill voice. She had always been prone to gloating. As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol. Purely by chance, Artemis exchanged a cursory glance with Coriolanus just then, secretive like a private joke, which left her feeling quite unsettled. 

Coriolanus felt increasing desperation as Dean Highbottom stumbled through the list, assigning each district’s boy and girl a mentor. After ten years, a pattern had emerged. The better-fed, more Capitol-friendly districts of 1 and 2 produced more victors, with the fishing and farming tributes from 4 and 11 also being contenders. Coriolanus had hoped for either a 1 or a 2, but neither was assigned to him, which was made more insulting when Sejanus scored the District 2 boy, and Artemis the girl. 

Unlike Livia, Artemis received news of her good fortune with tact, pushing her sheet of raven hair over her shoulder as she studiously made note of her tribute in her binder. Their brief moment of camaraderie during Livia's outburst was forgotten as she shot him a smug smirk and he seethed. 

District 4 passed without mention of his name, and his last real chance for a victor — the District 11 boy — was assigned to Clemensia Dovecote, daughter of the energies secretary. Something was amiss when a Snow, who also happened to be one of the Academy’s high-honour students, had gone unrecognized. Coriolanus was beginning to think they had forgotten him — perhaps they were giving him some special position? — when, to his horror, he heard Dean Highbottom mumble, “And last but not least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

[the-broken-truth]

Missing Piece - Yandere Leona Kingscholar [Part 3]

Summary: Under the cover of darkness, Leona pulls up to a rather interesting club where the answers to his questions are waiting for him after a month of being patient.

Tag-List: @vee-love

A firm hand gripped the top of the steering wheel of the black Acura NSX as the car slowly crept into a parking lot across the street of the driver's target - A Night Club known as the Viper's Pit. The light of the car turned off as the engine died when the key was removed from the ignition and placed into the jacket pocket of the driver, who looked out of the window of the car before using his hand and opened the car door, stepping out of the car, and closing the door behind him. The green eyes of Leona Kingscholar looked upon the building before him before putting his hands in his pockets and walking across the street before reaching out, grabbing the handle, and pushing the heavy wooden door open before slipping into the building.

The Viper's Pit was a nightclub with a calm atmosphere; good food, calming music, and dim lighting gave the place an air of secrecy; Leona knew that some shady people did business there due to the hidden rooms. As much as the Kingscholar Heir didn't like being in places like this, this was critical information he needed and he was going to do whatever he needed to do to get it. He took a few steps into the room when a familiar and cheerful voice called out to him.

"Leona! It's been a while! How are you?!" The voice came from Leona's right, causing him to look in that direction and come face to face with Kalim Al-Asim, Co-Owner of the Viper's Pit and Younger Brother of the Other Owner [Yes, in this story, Jamil and Kalim are brothers].

Kalim Al-Asim was the definition of a walking ball of sunshine, always looking at the bright side of things and trying to see the good in people; even those with the darkest of souls. His snow-white hair and crimson eyes along with his tan skin and bright smile made him rather easy to recognize; even during their time at Night Raven College when Kalim was Dorm Warden of Scarabia, his kind and naive nature never changed. How he became Co-Owner of the Viper's Pit alongside his brother is a complete mystery to him.

"Where is Viper, Al-Asim?" Leona asked as he looked around the bottom floor and bar for any visage of the hoodie Former Vice Dorm Warden of Scarabia but didn't see him anywhere down there; was there another floor where he could be lurking?

"Jamil is in his office on the top second floor; he told me to let you know where to go when you got here." Kalim smiled before returning to the bar to continue serving drinks to the clients with the rest of the bartenders while the cooks were in the back preparing food. Leona looked towards the stairs before heading in that direction and walked up the stairs, his very aura commanding respect as he reached the second floor. Leona scanned the nameplates on the doors until his eyes landed on the one he was looking for.

Jamil Viper - Owner

Leona marched towards the door and opened it without knocking; coming face to face with the hooded male he was looking for who was sitting in his chair, looking at Leona from the shadows his hood cast on his face.

"Still lacking manners as you always did, Kingcholar. Did your parents tell you to knock before entering someone's room or place of business?" Jamil asked with a smirk on his face.

"I don't have time for manners or other ridiculous things at the moment, Viper. Do you have the information I asked you for a Month Ago? I've already sent you the payment in advance for services." Leona said as he glared at the hooded man, Jamil exhaled before gesturing for Leona to sit in the chair across from him, he reached into his desk and pulled out 2 folders; one containing images and the other containing written profiles of everyone involved in those images. Leona grabbed the folder that contained the images first and started looking through them; the first one he saw was of a house in a rather decent-looking neighborhood, according to the black Sharpie writing in the corner - this was the house where Yuu and Leonis lived.

"Yuu was gifted this house when she came back from the hospital with Leonis; her father - Issac Sato - purchased it in full in one payment while her mother - Yuna Sato - purchased all of the furniture and other things for the house. From what I understand, Yuu has no intention of moving from that location at all since it was gifted to her by her parents for her and her son." Jamil started.

"Our Son, Viper." Leona corrected before flipping to the next image but Jamil's chuckling caused him to look up, "What's funny?"

"Can you truly lay claim to Leonis as your son when you wanted Yuu to get rid of him when she told you that she was pregnant? Can you really say that you have that right when you haven't been there for that boy for the past 6 years, Kingsholar?" Jamil asked as he leaned against his fist with a smile on his face.

"It was my mistake, Viper, I would have been there for my son and Yuu but I was too blind to see that; I'm going to make up for that." Leona looked at the next image - Leonis standing in front of a school building in his uniform as he waited for someone, the image after that one was of Issac in a black shirt, black jeans, and boots coming to pick Leonis up and there was a picture of his license plate for identification later.

"Issac Sato is a retired veteran, well respected and commanded respect in his platoon; he is known for getting his team out of enemy lines during a stealth mission, he managed to take down everyone without alerting a single solider to his presence. People around here call him 'The Silent Stepper'; regardless of his massive size and strength, he's able to get anywhere he wants without being found." Jamil explained.

Leona kept looking through the pictures and Jami explained everything about the targets; he found out where Yuu worked, where she lived with their son, and where Leona went to school; those were the real critical things he wanted to know. He reached the last image and his blood appeared to start boiling as two new faces entered the image - faces he knew very well.

Ruggie Bucchi & Jack Wolf - His Two Former Dormmates from Savanaclaw House at Night Raven College.

They were in the image with Yuu and Leonis and appeared to be playing at a park; from the time stamp, this picture was taken yesterday. That meant...

"They knew. They knew about Leonis and never told me. They kept that a secret from me!" Leona said as he jumped up fro his chair and grabbed the folders before marching out of the room, down the stairs and out the Viper's Pit, back to his car before getting in and starting it up again before flying out of the parking spot and down the darkened street; anger swimming his in green eyes.

[Ruggie's Kitchen]

Ruggie exhaled as he turned off the Open Sign and turned to face Jack, who was gathering the last of the dirty dishes from the tables; it was another successful day for the business but that made them rather tired. Ruggie thanked Jack for doing the dishes this time even though it was his turn before the wolf went into the back room while Ruggie started wiping off the table; he was on the last table when the door burst open, and he was about to tell whoever it was that they were closed but his eyes locked with green eyes and he gasped at who it was standing before him.

"Leona? What are you...?" Ruggie tried asking but was cut off as the Kingscholar Heir marched up to him and grabbed him by his apron.

"Bucchi, you bastard! You knew! Both of you bastards knew and you kept that from me!" Leona roared in anger before socking Ruggie in the face, making the Hyena Beastman crash through one of the tables, his nose started bleeding and he looked at his former friend with shock in his eyes

"What the hell is wrong with you, Leona?!" Ruggie asked as the lion once again grabbed him by the front of his apron and slammed him into the floor through the broken table pieces.

"You knew about Yuu! You knew about Leonis! You know she gave birth to my son and you have been spending time with them! You knew about them and you never told me! You were supposed to call me the moment you found Yuu and yet failed to do that, You Useless Hyena!" Leona roared as he started punching Ruggie in the face over and over again, holding nothing back; he was so fueled by anger that he didn't notice the back door opening until he was grabbed and thrown off Ruggie by Jack Wolf.

"That's more than enough, Leona!" Jack started, "You are correct, we knew about Leonis, and we knew about Yuu's Whereabouts, but we didn't tell you because she asked us not to! She didn't want to see you after what you did to her and Leonis! Can you blame us for following her wishes?!" Jack barked.

"They are my family! MINE! YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT YOU KNEW SHE GAVE BIRTH TO MY SON AND WHERE SHE WAS, INSTEAD, I WAS IN THE DARK ABOUT MY OWN SON FOR 6 YEARS BECAUSE OF YOU!" Leona roared.

"You have no right to call them yours, Leona; you wanted Yuu to abort Leonis and she decided to keep him and discard you because you refused to change your stance! Leave before I call the police and have you arrested!" Jack said.

"You both... You've betrayed me for the last time; I'll make you both regret keeping me away from what belongs to me." Leona growled before turning his heel and walking out of the restaurant; he was going to get what belonged to him, now that he had Jamil's Information, nothing was going to stop him now or ever again.

'They belong to me and I am going to get what is mine.' Leona swore to himself as he drove off into the darkness once again.

[END]

[myesmi]

Hi! I heard you wanted some requests? So, I was wondering if you could do something where both the reader and Billy (you can make this poly or not, totally up to you!) take care of a very sick Stu Macher? They had all previously been messing around in the snow (kind of a winter setting I suppose!) but when they head back inside, it’s clear that Stu is developing some cold symptoms.

(Scenery is that they mostly stay at Stu’s house seeing as his parents are always away for trips. Also the reader can be any gender you would like! Totally doesn’t bother me! <3)

You don’t have to make this btw! A writer is always entitled to not do requests if they wish!

HAT & GLOVES. 𓂅 ˖ ࣪ ( poly! ghostface x gn! reader )

cw. vulgar language, established polyamorous relationship

note. this was such a cute idea and such an exciting first request! let me know how you like it hon! billy is a little ooc perhaps, same with stu since i’m still a new blog, so it’ll be awhile till i fully capture horror slasher personalities in my writing — either way, hope you enjoy! <3 comments and reblogs appreciated!

requests are open. masterlist.

stu’s cheeks were a perfect rosy red color, the wind nipping at his uncovered ears. his short hair was messy, white flakes of snow wetting his hair. you’ll never forget the perfect visage of your boyfriend, head laid back in the snow next to your own, his signature wide smile adorning his face. his bare hand was intertwined with your own gloved hand, his fingertips red from the cold air. you had tried to convince him to wear gloves, but after already convincing him to shoulder on a coat and scarf, he refused any more protection against the cold winter weather.

you smiled over at him, feeling how your own cheeks dully ached from the cold. his head lulled over, his smile reaching his eyes cutely, laughter erupting from his chest. it was hard to believe he was anything but a sweetheart sometimes.

the crunch of snow under boots reached your red-tipped ears, stu’s bright laughter that mingled with your own breathless giggles and chuckles fading as you both peered up from your spots, laying comfortably in the soft white snow.

billy loomis, in a coat, scarf, beanie, gloves, and boots stood over you both, something of a smirk adorning his face. “having fun?” he huffed, leaning over to grab stu’s hands, pulling the lanky boy up from the snowy ground. next was you, as you reached up to meet his outstretched gloved hands. he hefted you up from the ground, grimacing as a cold breeze ripped through the tender moment between you three. billy was never one for the cold.

and soon, you found yourself wrapped up in stu’s surprisingly strong arms, his face nuzzled into your neck as he stretched out on top of you where you both laid on his living room couch. billy was still heard in the kitchen.

“we told you to put those damn gloves and hat on.” billy chided, almost like a worried mother with his furrowed brow and scowl on his face. however that didn’t hide the fact that he was still standing in the kitchen, making stu his requested soup and hot tea.

stu grumbled into your neck, his warm breaths nothing compared to how his forehead practically burned your skin, as stu sported a light fever. “make him stop, (y/n)!” stu whined, pulling his head away from your neck briefly to throw you his best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

you winced looking at his face, cheeks reddened and his hair ever so slightly damp from how sweaty he was starting to get, despite refusing to move from being so comfortably laid within your welcoming arms.

stu glared at your wince, and you laughed, “sorry, sorry!” you chuckle, pulling your arm away from being wrapped around his waist to place your palm against his forehead, “i’m just worried is all. billy too.” “i’m not worried!” billy shouted from the kitchen before walking into the living room.

he wore stu’s mother’s kitchen apron, holding a tray that held a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a cup of warm tea.

you raised an eyebrow, looking billy up and down before nodding. “mhm,” you hummed as billy rolled his eyes. “shut up, you’re lucky you’re not sick.” “oh stop whining, just because i didn’t wear a hat or earmuffs doesn’t mean i’m gonna immediately get sick!” you huffed, clutching stu closer to you as he happily snuggled closer.

billy set the tray down on the coffee table, moving towards you both on the couch. he simply lifted your legs, slipping under you both to sit on the other end of the couch, letting both you and stu’s legs lay across his lap. he tried his best to ignore you and stu’s giddy smiles at how gentle billy could be as he grabbed the tv remote, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent his own smile.

© myesmi . . . do not steal, translate, or repost.

[thescribeoflostmemories]

Type: My vows to you/ Yandere

Pairing: Pantalone x Fallen Deity! Reader

Ahhh am I doing this correctly?? I’m a big fan of “I’m Just Doing You a Favor” so can I pls request them for this event?? Thanks for giving us smth to look forward to in the future :>

The Fancy Fiance and The Bejeweled Bride

(Yan! Pantalone x Fallen-Deity! Reader)

"Remembering; is forgetting” - Scribe

Redid some mistakes. ~ P

Disclaimer: Yandere stuff, crazy cryptic bs going on around here. No beta, we die like that guy in the story.

" Please, help me find her!" 

The strange stranger couldn't help but laugh at the notion, and merely glance at the soup of tears in his hand. Seeing the hardened reflection of your perflex-ion, “You are certainly [lucky] that the lady of compassion has blessed me to tell you, dear hale and hearty friend.”

The strange stranger revealed a beguiled smile, knowing the person will arrive upon their destination at the last light of day, a road that winds in an almost serpentine like suggestion. And the journey brings them to such tenuous and disarray terrain of the ophidian's keep.

♡¥~~~~~~~¥♡

Face nearly pressed up and against the glass pane. Showing the snow gently cascades down on the ground and dim lights from the distance is the city where the event would be held.

You couldn’t wait for it, ever since your first day of devotion, today is the day of vows.

“Doll, what's wrong?” You hear Pantalone called out to you from the door, you didn’t hear him enter.

“Dearest, It is nothing to worry about, though the thought of going to the festival of vows tomorrow..” Frail hands cupped your own cheeks, feeling the warmth emitting from it while your face hid behind the veil, sighing lovingly.

Practically you could hear his merriment when you mention your excitement for tomorrow.

You felt incredibly lucky that a person like Sir Pantalone, or at least that is what he liked to be called, would take you in and share a cup between you two.

Despite him telling that your face looked fine, but the hideousness of your own preface is what made you wear the thin curtain. You never forget the day you woke up upon these lavish beddings and claimed to be yours. 

“It is a good thing I came in prepared for you, come here.” Before you stand are dresses, each more lavish than the last.

One; it was a simple white ball gown like wedding dress, each embedded pearls from white gold to the darkest black jewelry. Gaudy yet somehow simple in his eyes.

Next would be a rather cute color of cold blue admiration, one with simplified accessories and the like. Wonderful ribbons that criss cross across your skin.

The last is a rather foreign red silky robe, with simple gold prints and an odd headdress. It felt so familiar, like seeing an old friend.

“When did you have the time for this?” You smiled going closer and touched the third dress, eyes twinkling in joy. Hands playing with the intricate hidden laces of the outfit.

“No need to worry about it, doll. By the morrow, I swear it will be a happy day for us." 

You couldn’t help but smile and hug him tight, “Thank you! Thank you!”

Feeling his gloved hands petting your head, “It is no problem, my lovely. All that matters is that you’re here and I’m here, right my sweet?” The roll of his 's' would make anyone weak in the knees.

Everything feels like a distant past somehow, yet there’s nothing better than what is in front of you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon the day of Vows, you wore the red exotic robes and donned the veil that sweetly hid your well kept secret.

"Pantalone, look, snow!" Small gestures made seemingly fragile steps into the cold, that made the Regrator held onto you tightly so as to not slip and slide.

“Be careful, my dearest. I do not want you to get hurt.” Concern is clearly conveyed on his visage and voice. Despite him not being as muscular as the rumored Captain of the Fatui, you feel oddly safe especially with the umbrella he possesses and carries everywhere he goes.

“I know, you do not have to worry about me.” Your heart skipped a beat as he continued to hold you closer.

“I’m just scared that you’ll leave,” That made you smile and cupped his face.

“I will not just up and disappear, silly.” Embracing him as well. Seeing the warmth smile upon his face never felt so endearing until now.

“Shall we?” His gloved hands gestured to the event where it is being held, you could hear laughter and cheers from there.

“We shall.” Hand in hand, the pair of love-locked couples made their way to the busy area.

Women, men and occasionally children dressed in their finest and spent time with their beloved ones. You had to sit out one of the main events due to you not being able to fight for the bouquet of flowers, so you had to settle for a slow dance with your beloved Pantalone at the dance floor.

“Thank you for inviting me, it really means a lot to me, Pantalone.” A dreamy sigh escaped your rozen lips.

One-two-three, one-two-three, The dance isn’t well suited for one that wears garbs like yours. Often or not, you’d trip on your own clothing and Pantalone had to catch you. Embarrassing as it may be, though the time spent together. The smile that could go on for miles, stretching outward into the ocean.

During the ruckus caused by the bouquet hunting spree, you and Pantalone got separated. Participants armed with various weapons. Giant spoons, arrows of love, knives that are the size of an adult.

Amongst the throes of people, your feet had guided you to a frozen lake with snow covered trees that arched over the pool.

Alone were you with tender courage, “Charity is such a pretty word, oh, but where oh, [where] did it go?" A robust voice could be heard. 

A strange stranger in tattered frightening mora colored garbs, a rather keen entity of sorts appeared by the corner of the eye briefly. It was only a jest of the light, you explain to yourself.

Loud shrieks escaped your small lips, turning around to face a blurry visage of non, who had their hand on your shoulder.

“Miss? Are you alright? You were staring for a while at nothing.” Accent low similar to yours, soft spoken yet refined. They dressed in fine physician-like robes, calm watered jade color.

“Yes, quite so, just merely strayed a little from the event,” You took a step back to give some space. This man, he speaks in bells. None could ever ring such things other than your fiance.

With a light spangle of the red veil cast still-ly shade, "I, I am sorry but can you help me find my fiance? I am not that well acquainted with the curvatures of the road ahead.” Gentle voice of yours made his lips curved up a bit.

“Of course,” Even with the blurriness of his image. You could faintly make out him nodding at the notion of helping. “I just so happen to be in search of my sister, she is deathly ill,” voice rang with rye worry you couldn’t help but try to aid him in his quest.

“I am sure my fiance could help you after all you are assisting me back to him.” The bellow of the wind was cast.

"Thank you, kind spirit." He seemed to smile. 

"What is her name?" Curious who was the lucky girl who had such a loving brother.

"[*]" Was the name he told, another set of bell-like that tolled and odd enough it made one see a weasel in the horizon.

“[I] see– Ah! Pantalone!” You felt a smile on your lips the moment you heard a familiar voice behind the stranger.

“Doll.” The raven hair man chuckled as he embraced you tightly. His own smile did not fade yet it seemed affixed to his own visage. “Did (he harm you)?” Asking softly in your ear.

Shaking your head no, to assure him you were fine. And quietly explain to him you were lost and he kept you company. Adding to the mix is your request to find his sister.

“Hmm, Oh, how could I (deny) you, doll.” Kissing the top of your head before he turned his attention to the searching brother with an unknown facial expression.

Holding you still so closely, “You do not have to worry, I once lost someone as well, I will do my best to help.” Yet, why does it displease you so?

The brother’s voice said in glee, “Thank you, thank you, kind sir!”

“I will be with you in a moment, so please stay at home for a while.” Pantalone says as he ushered you to the care of his employees. The gentleness of his tone can be heard as he commanded the others to escort you to your shared abode for now.

Looking back at the two figures left alone in the winter snow.

"[Don't look away…]" You could have sworn a feminine voice whispered into your ear.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three hours have passed since the guards took you to your room. All alone with your thoughts that seemingly eat away at your mind.

Every time you try to remember, the distance widens with each time a headache is a force to be reckoned with.

Your own eyes darted around your chambers, a room painted in luxury filled with exotic items. A sigh only escaped from your lips as you sat on your bed to try and recollect. Even with these items, it doesn't seem enough…

It all just feels fuzzy. Some of the items in your room are already here when you have awoken. He claimed that it was his relative's and he'll be glad to give it to you.

A knock on the door can be heard. "Pardon my intrusion, My Lady." It was Pael your appointed handmaid. Still even until now, you were uneased whenever she tried to help you in dressing up.

"My Lady, I know Lord Pantalone has not come back yet. But, do you want some soup? It is rather cold even in the supposed summer month." in her hand is a tray with a bowl of soup.

The scent of jade knowledge wafts through the room, the herbs and spices reminded you of a star.

"On the table, please. I will eat it soon." Replying to her, though curiosity beckoned on to you from its peak.

"Understood, my lady." The single eyed maid placed the tray upon the intricately carved mahogany wood.

The one eyed maid chuckled, "Fancied [you]rself [look]ing [back]?" She smiled 

"Pael, When or how did Pantalone find me?" You say, sitting down on the chair next to the warm bowl of soul.

"You could say that, Pael." There is something that even you cannot explain. But the terrible dread of something amiss is about.

"Well, it was really snowy at the time, you were white as a ghost. If you weren't [taken] in by the young master, the harsh winter would have let you a sweet and peaceful [faux] warmth." Stitched is her smile that was presented to you, her lips stretch a bit wider after a while of awkward staring between you and her.

"My Lady, it's rather cruel to think of what good you used to have. I better suggest to [look forward into] the future instead of [dream]ing of something that barely grows with [time]." Gentle push of her gloved hand to nudge the intimate style bowl holding a hydro colored jade soup.

"A childish, imaginative mind will [turn] into a noble ambition. Young admiration can turn into the most passionate of bonds." With that, Pael offered a silver spoon [for] you to consume the reflective, -though opaque, pool of jaded clarity.

"Perhaps, you are right. Though, I cannot [help] but wonder." Something about her words seem to wound you, yet none to spill.

"Wonder all you like my lady, but, no," Pael stops herself then lets out a soft chortle. "Nothing, it was just (me) humoring myself." she bowed before leaving.

Peering down at the bowl, another sigh left your lips. The scent and the warmth enticing you to take even a little sip.

Pushing all shadows away, your dainty hands scoop a portion of it to your lips. A moment to cool it down before taking a faint lick.

The silence halted as you started to cough violently, trying to force it out of your system along with dropping the spoon down to grip on the table.

Soreness of your throat is evident, the gentle voice turned hoarse and crass. Mind-numbing delight has stained your tongue, as the sound of blood pumps unevenly in your ears. Accompanied with blank staring at your fingers that grasp at the wood, feeling every grain on it.

"…!… Doll. Are you okay?" It was Pantalone, holding you in his arms. You don't remember falling, nor holding on to his gloved hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything felt heavy, nauseating to the point of puking into a corner. Your heartbeat pumps slowly making you almost aware of its sounds.

"J[us]t… woo…" You could see his mouth moving, though you couldn't hear a word he said.

Soon the other maids came rushing in with a large arm bag.

"Pan- Pan?" It felt like crystals forming in your throat causing you to tear up yet nothing fell. Hand grip tightly onto his for a moment before letting go.

~

That was the last you had recalled when you woke up. The room is covered in red and blue luxuries. Sweat drips down your forehead, "P-pael?" Your grainy voice tried to call out to the one eyed maid.

"Doll." Another voice called out next to you, causing you to yelp from surprise. "Doll, calm down." It was Pantalone, holding both of your wrists that attempted to hit him.

Appalled by your own actions you looked away from him and laxed your movements, "Dearest! Forgive me! I got scared and that drink, what was that? Where is Pael?" So many questions tumbled through, yet only the batman could only manage to.

For a moment, his face has a foreign expression. It didn't seem like he wanted to hear that. "There's no need to worry about her, she tried to poison you." He hissed, gripping on your wrists tighter then pulled you into a protective hug. "She's all taken care of." 

Shaky frail hands grasp firmly on his back as he dips his head between your neck. "Pantalone… I'm fine…" 

He didn't seem convinced as he let out a soft puff of air. Despite the room being warm, the chills of the winter glade seeps through. "If you say so, though. I will have a doctor to examine you okay?" 

Knowing him he would only persist, "Very well." You nodded.

Then another thought entered your mind. "What happened?" he then replied with a curious hum back.

"That strange man, he rings bells." You tried to put into words what you could describe of him.

"You usually think of other people," The word of annoyance is riddled on his evermore smile.

He then opened his eyes ever so slightly, it was of spectacular color that looked at you so teary gaze. "Don't let go of my hand, please." 

Confused, your only reply is "What?"

"Don't you know how much I worried when I found you laying on the ground?" He muttered as he protectively hugged you, your face pressed to his chest.

"Face pale as the snow itself, spasming, gasping for air, and yet you cared for the stranger rather than yourself." His heart beat is almost like music with how slow it is. 

"But that's what is so special about you. (Your love for others could cost you everything), you know?" Woe written all over his tone, he kissed your forehead.

"I could give you everything you want. Just tell me. Name it and it's yours. In exchange…" Odd that he stopped himself any further, "No, that's not right…"

He pulled back and looked at you, his face "Exchange is a strong word, I prefer to refer to it as returning the feelings. Just looking or even listening to me is enough for me, dearest."

"I'm an honest person, all I want for you is to [run] into the future."

[megalommi]

This is exceedingly indulgent, a song fic!

I wanted to write Baggs using his powers with his voice in another way (also because I don't write him using his powers enough, oddly)

The specific cover this is inspired by is the NSP cover of Don't Fear the Reaper, but I pitched and slowed down while i was writing this, fits the more dark and seductive mood better.

(Can't share it here for obvious DMCA issues that would cause, but would highly recommend seeking that out).

This is non canon.

Each snow packed step takes so much effort, your legs are heavy and you are so tired.

The path was far behind you, having taken off in sheer terror into the thick woods.

What you had seen at a gate in the middle of the road, seeming to await your arrival, a skeletal face with a knowing grin, like the visage of death.

But now, you were hopelessly lost, tired and numb from the cold.

The still, frosty forest seems to swallow any sound, so you startle when under the crunch of your footfalls and your laboured breath, something else pulls your attention.

It drifts so softly through the trees, hard to pinpoint from where, a gentle humming of a tune you think you recognise from somewhere.

It's deep and warm like hot chocolate, oh so pleasant to the ears. You can't help but bask in it a little longer, you think you actually start to feel warmer.

Something tells you that's not a good sign, you need to get out of this cold.

You continue your trek again, the humming is closer now. You note a burgeoning urge to find the source, and you can't help scanning your surroundings for signs of the owner.

All our times have come

Here but now they're gone

The humming blends into a sweet serenade, the words echoing, drifting sweetly into your ears.

Is someone out there? Their words are gentle, a cadence that comforts you instantly. Something tells you this stranger will help you.

Seasons don't fear the reaper

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain

The buzz of anxiety tensing your body starts to settle, your gasps of exertion evening out and slowing down. The numbness in your limbs are replaced by pleasant tingles.

The snow is no bother to you now, it's effortless to follow that wonderful voice.

We can be like they are

Your mind supplies, a soft trilling in the base of your skull that doesn't sound like your inner voice at all.

Come on, baby

Closer now, peering out from the darkness, a pulsing, pretty magenta glow.

don't fear the reaper

The sweet, tempting voice in your mind urged, chanting the mantra over and over, deep in your mind.

Baby, take my hand

We'll be able to fly

You're reaching out before you can even think to. You feel floaty and nice, you want this stranger to take you away.

Baby, I'm your man

He steps into view, a skeletal face with a knowing grin.

Your heart drops and you still, panic cutting through the haze that had fallen over your mind.

But he serenades you still, a pretty melody like a soothing lullaby, his arms open and inviting.

And like fingers stroking through your hair, tension massaged from your shoulders, your body relaxes.

Your thoughts and fear fall away again, chased by wonderful fuzzy niceness that sends your reeling from the whiplash.

You sway, dizzy with the heady feelings flowing through you, your only anchor is the heated gaze of white and magenta, brightly glowing in their sockets.

You stumble into his arms, that encircle you like a warm blanket, chasing away the cold.

The world falls away into darkness with the sensation of falling, and you squeak in terror, only for that emotion, too, to be scattered and forgotten.

~

A golden, regal hall bathed in streams of light pouring in from high arched stain glass windows.

You are steadied on solid ground once again, and it's so warm that your skin prickles with the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Valentine is done

The song echoes through the halls, it's just for you to hear.

Here but now they're gone

You think you catch a ripple in his expression, but you're turned around, led to a window.

And you hardly believe what you're seeing.

Romeo and Juliet

Are together in eternity

A kingdom that stretches to the cavern walls. Fields of lava surrounding so many homes. A beautiful grove flowing with water. And a little isolated town caked in snow.

And twinkling above it all, pretty, false stars embedded in the ceiling of the cavern, shining down on so many trapped and desperate people.

40, 000 men and women everyday

like Romeo and Juliet

That tempting voice at the base of your skull whispers to you, and you understand.

40, 000 men and women everyday

So many people to save.

redefine happiness

It's for the best.

Another 40, 000 coming everyday

we can be like they are

Gloved hands smooth up and down your arms.

Come on, baby

You're not afraid.

Baby, take my hand

You accept his outstretched hand. You're lead away, his hands cupping your own.

We'll be able to fly

A hand at your back, and your hand held out in his, your world suddenly spins as you're led in a waltz,

dancing to the thrumming pulse that starts in your chest and radiates calm through your whole body.

Baby, I'm your man

You step perfectly in time with him, spun and dipped, expertly lead by his control.

You don't know how to dance, it does not matter.

The entrancing melody drifts through the hall, his cape flows in a graceful arc, his grip is strong in your hand, his gaze warm and smile amused.

It's all so magical, you must be dreaming.

He slows and lowers you in a deep dip, and he's so close, breath intermingling with yours.

He's stopped humming.

You utter a sleepy murmur in question.

His expression darkens, his grin sharpens.

And that magenta eye

pulses

expands

rings of cyan

magenta

cyan

magenta

cyan

magenta

flow over you, through you, into your mind

and you helplessly drop down

down

down

sickly green ambient lights that cast long shadows

~~

Dark, clinical halls

The smell like a hospital, sharp and clean

down

You pass darkened hallways, and not even the fog could dampen the chill down your spine.

You're moving?

You're on a padded table. You can't move.

You're strapped down.

You feel like you should be more afraid. But you are drifting under waves of bliss that smother your thoughts and emotions as quickly as they build.

Finally you've seemingly arrived at your destination.

An operating room, filled with complex looking machines and devices, some you recognise as heart monitors, drip bags.

Some are completely alien, nothing like anything you'd find in a human hospital.

Before you can even sluggishly blink, you're hooked up to all manner of devices, tested, poked and prodded, in a process that's typical of a hospital check up.

You are overwhelmed by the rush of activity, and you lay your head back.

There's an enormous structure above you, that hangs down from the ceiling.

A machine, but shaped like the skull of some animal you couldn't hope to identify.

But with terrifying teeth like a predator.

Pointed right at you.

You startle as you feel a skeletal hand on your cheek, pulling your focus back

to him.

He trains his features into one of sympathy, but you can see the sharp pull of his grin, the excitement in his eyes.

Love of two is one

But you can't resist.

Here but now they're gone

It almost seems taunting, but you're helpless as you sink into the false, saccharine sweetness.

Came the last night of sadness

He strokes your cheek in something meant to be comforting. You are comforted beyond measure, warm and tingly once more.

And it was clear she couldn't go on

It was true, somehow

Then the door was open and the wind appeared

The machine above stirred awake

The candles blew and then disappeared

Lights blinking and flashing, the engine a deep, monstrous rumble, as if it were alive, as if it were hungry.

The curtains flew and then he appeared

He filled your vision once more, turning your gaze, twitching with your terror bubbling up to the surface.

Saying don't be afraid

Your vision shrunk down to just the two of you, alone in this moment, he was here for you.

Come on, baby

He reached out to hover his ungloved, skeletal hand just above your chest.

and she had no fear

You sunk into bliss.

And she ran to him

A glow burst from your chest, and he crooked his finger in a beckoning motion.

then they started to fly

Your soul hovered pliantly in his gentle hold.

They looked backward and said goodbye

Distantly, you felt the machine lowered closer and closer to your chest.

To your soul.

she had become like they are

Hadn't you seen vials full of other souls down here?

She had taken his hand

His visage had broken into a crazed triumph, too perfect teeth wide and sharp.

she had become like they are

It was for the best.

Come on, baby

Cyan

Magenta

don't fear the reaper

[shoolb]

[id: a digital drawing of snow white from d20′s series neverafter. snow white is depicted as a young woman with an eerie, corpse-like visage; extremely pale, blue-tinged skin, heavily shadowed eyes with black sclera and white pupils, and ribs so concave they seem almost skeletal. her ears are pointed, her feet bare, and in her hand she holds a half-eaten apple. on her head of long black hair is a crown of silver shards reminiscing ice. her gown is made of black lace on black lace with red accents. these red accents, the apple, and the ruby red of her lips, are the only color to be found on her.]

the first in my princess series: snow white

[havenlyd]

The Other Prince

"Oh, Stranger. If she cannot be mine... by all means, make her yours and take her with you."

Named after his aunt Rhaena Targaryen, Rhaenor is the fifth child of the King Aegon III and his consort, Queen Barba Bolton. He younger twin brother of Prince Baelon. The Prince was born in winter of 141 AC.

Prince Rhaenor is known for his comely visage. He adores the dramatics, often shows up in gilded cloak of intricate embroidery of flayed dragons. The Prince Rhaenor has snow white hair and pale grey eyes, and very pallid, pale skin. He'd often be seen wearing a skull necklace that Queen Barba gave him on his tenth nameday.

Prince Rhaenor was born weak and feeble, and grew up to be sickly with weak constitution. He would get ill in the summer and thrive in the winter, and prolonged exposure to sun caused his skin to develop rash.

When he was four-and-ten, he was sent to Winterfell to ward under Lord Cregan Stark. Rhaenor then became very close to his uncles, Brandon and Belthasar Bolton, and would accompany them to the wall and beyond.

Rhaenor seemed to thrive well in the North—thus eased Aegon's worries, as Rhaenor being far from him clouded his mind immensely.

However, that relief would not last long as Rhaenor would eventually disappeared beyond the wall, and returned bringing back Aegon's greatest nightmare with him.

[miasmaghoul]

chewing on swiss and cumulus

uh oh

i was bitten by the somno bug

swiss using his spooky shadows for nefarious (but consensual) purposes under the cut

She looks so pretty when she sleeps.

Well, she always looks pretty, but especially like this.

Bathed in moonlight, pale skin and snow white curls shimmering against deep navy sheets. Her ample chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, pale pink lips parted just enough for him to hear her soft sighs. She's uncovered, blanket bunched by her feet, clad only in a set of thin shorts and matching camisole.

She looks so peaceful. So delicate.

So vulnerable.

In truth he's been waiting since Cumulus got his attention in the common room. Since she wound her tail around his calf while they watched a baking show with Aurora and Mountain. Since she'd given his leg a surreptitious squeeze, just enough to draw his attention, before loosing an exaggerated yawn.

He's been here for a while now, leaning by her open window and simply...watching. Well, waiting may be a more apt term, but both apply.

"Think I'm gonna turn in early," she'd murmured, stretching enough that her shirt slid up, exposing her soft tummy and the bare undersides of her breasts.

Swiss had pretended to keep watching the show, but all of his attention was squarely on the ghoulette at his side. On the way she squeezed his hand, the way her tail slid up his leg. The way its feathery tip brushed over his crotch.

"Aww, c'mon Lulu," Aurora had pouted, raising her head from Mountain's thigh, "it's the semi-final! Don't you wanna see?"

"I've watched this season four times, snowflake," she'd replied with a chuckle. "Don't worry, I'll watch more with you tomorrow."

She'd sauntered over to plant a quick kiss on the other ghoulette's cheek, leaving Swiss no option but to stare at her ass. Mountain had made a soft chuffing sound, and of course she'd had to give him one too. Swiss had smirked.

"What, no love for me, Lus?"

Swiss had put on his best puppy dog eyes, and all three of them had snorted. Everyone knew those only worked on Rain. Maybe Dew, on a good day. Still, though, it had the desired effect. Cumulus had swished her way behind the couch he was on, leaning over to plant a kiss on his temple.

"Knew I was your favorite," he'd said, and had earned a playful smack to the back of his head for his troubles. She'd yawned again then, just as obvious and showy as before, and Swiss knew that the sparkle in her entrancing silver eyes was meant just for him.

"Good night," she'd sighed to the room in general. Mountain had echoed the sentiment, while Swiss gave her a wink that the others couldn't see.

"Sweet dreams," Aurora had called after her, blowing a kiss that Cumulus happily caught. Her smile was lazy, sweet, and aimed right at Swiss.

"I'm sure they will be."

Finding her door unlocked an hour later had been the only further invitation he'd needed.

A cool spring breeze rolls through Cumulus's open window, rustles sheer drapes, and when it ghosts over her ethereal form Swiss has the singular pleasure of watching her nipples stiffen. They poke through the pale blue silk of her camisole in a drool-worthy way, and the ghoulette gives an unconscious shiver. Poor thing must be chilly.

Swiss will make sure she doesn't stay that way much longer.

He likes to take his time when Cumulus allows him this freedom. Likes to watch, to absorb. To burn her serene visage into his memory for later use. Someday he'll have to ask if he can photograph her like this; she's just so beautiful, it's a crime she can't see for herself.

Swiss smiles to himself when she shifts, readjusting so one arm rests over her belly and the other by her side. Her soft curls have fallen into her face, and he can just make out the edge of a drool stain on her pillow. Deep asleep and completely oblivious.

Perfection.

Swiss palms himself as he pushes off the wall, striding on silent feet to the foot of the bed. He's been chubbed up since Cumulus teased him with her tail, had to hide it from Aurora and Mountain with a strategically placed pillow. One he certainly hadn't been tempted to hump, not even a little.

His shadows follow, a hazy aura of darkness gathered around his shoulders and dripping down his arms. They float when he moves, fluid in the way smoke is. It's rare that he gets to flaunt this little skill of his - few know about it, and he'd like to keep it that way. Every ghoul has their secrets, it's true, but getting to let loose always sets his skin buzzing.

Swiss takes a deep breath and focuses on the scent of the air, the feel of hardwood beneath his feet, the sound of Cumulus's gentle breathing. Makes himself one with the space around him in every way possible. Slowly, so very slowly, the shadows begin to move, to spread. They coat his arms, his chest, weaving intricate patterns over his skin. He doesn't really need to be naked for this, but it's not surprising that he is.

Dark whorls snake their way down his thighs, his calves, bleeding into the shadows at his feet. It's a jarring feeling, but not an entirely unpleasant one - his influence may be magickal, but the shadows themselves are like an extension of himself. He can feel all manner of things through them, depending on his point of focus. Can slip them into someone's silhouette to parse their emotions. Can smell bitter fear and taste sugary-sweet elation. He can listen too, sliding his unearthly ears wherever the dark allows.

If Imperator knew the secrets Swiss carries with him, he'd be banished before he could blink.

He sighs heavy through his nose when they find warm skin, a thin snake of darkness slithering its way over Cumulus's outstretched ankle. It shouldn't be so warm, wouldn't be if he were just using his hand, but like this? Like this she feels hotter than Dew.

His favorite thing, though, is this.

Touching. Feeling. Exploring. Letting his wispy tendrils get acquainted with his surroundings. It's easier now than it once was, Cumulus's chambers have long since become familiar territory, and in no time at all Swiss can guide his shadows creep up the legs of the bed frame. Onto the mattress. Over the sheets.

It takes no effort at all to guide his magick up her leg, tattooing her with his power in delicate swirls and ripples. He's gotten more adept at directing them since they started doing this, and Swiss takes a moment to draw a sweet little heart on her knee just because he can. It won't stay, of course, but it's the thought that counts.

The shadows continue, slipping up her plush thigh to tease the edge of her shorts. They sit high on her hips, exposing so much decadent skin. Swiss focuses, licks at the air, and finds his mouth filled with the taste of honey and lavender - Cumulus's body oil, the one Mountain makes just for her. No wonder she's shimmering in the moonlight. It suits her.

Cumulus adjusts in her sleep again, smacking her lips and making a soft sound that can't quite be called a word. Dreaming, he imagines. He can't tell, that falls more into Aether and Aeon's realm of expertise. His own sliver of quintessence gets him this far, and Swiss can't complain. Would he like to see inside her mind? Of course. Will he complain about sneakily getting in her pants instead? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

It's easy to slide under the hem of her shorts, reaching into the little pocket of darkness beneath them. A second shadow creeps its way up towards Cumulus's arm while the first explores the hidden skin beneath soft silk, wrapping itself around her elegant fingers as if it wants to hold her hand. A little bit of tenderness goes a long way, Swiss thinks. Even at times like this.

His own hands are busy doing some exploring of their own. Impossible not to when every fiber of his being can feel Cumulus's warmth. It radiates from his toes to his scalp and everywhere in between - Swiss would be concerned for anyone who could keep their hands off of their dick under these circumstances. He holds his at the base, twisting two fingers around the last inch or so just for the sake of pressure. His other hand mirrors the path of his first shadow, creeping up his own thigh, over his hip, up to his happy trail. He should be feeling coarse hair and his own delicately twitching stomach muscles.

Instead, all he feels is her.

His second sliver of shadow slips over her shoulder just as the first wriggles its way out from under the waistband of her shorts. It curls along her belly, just visible where her top has ridden up. Her breasts spill out from the edges of the camisole, pale fabric hugging the soft mounds, their tips still peaked with the chill of the room. That worming shadow sneaks along her neck - Swiss finds his nose filled with sweet perfume - and down over her chest, sliding beneath lace and silk to trace her curves.

He takes a moment to drink her in, coated in his power and yet still sleeping soundly. No reason she shouldn't be, this part is more for him than it is for her. It allows him to surround himself in the ghoulette, to revel in everything she is. Sometimes he'll take a few extra minutes to glide his magick along her horns, her tail, her feather-tipped ears. Really soak in the sensation, occassionally sending pulses of magick through the shadowy appendages to find her sensitive spots so he knows just where to press.

Tonight, though, he's already leaking onto the hardwood floor. Besides, he's done this enough to know her body. Better than she does, even. Cumulus would argue that fact whenever she needed a quick cum - after all, Swiss was more than eager to prove himself.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, fills his lungs with a heady combination of lavendar and ozone, and on exhale pushes more magick into those searching tendrils. Inch by inch they thicken, gain density. They shift from dark but translucent to opaque black, the new weight of them settling into her skin and forming bulges beneath her pajamas. The rush of it makes him dizzy - this is Swiss's newest skill, he's still not an expert - and the ghoul has to catch himself on one of the bedposts. It's hung with gauzy white fabric held by shiny blue rope, and Swiss briefly finds himself wondering if Cumulus would let him use them on her.

A thought for another day, surely. It makes his balls ache just the same, and Swiss has to give himself a lazy tug. Not too much, the best part is coming up. He wouldn't want to ruin it by getting too excited now.

Cumulus makes a soft sound when Swiss nudges the bed, but doesn't wake. He cocks his head as he takes in the shape of her, the curves and lines of her body. His tentacles - that really is a better word for them in this solid state, Swiss thinks - follow them, so striking against her skin. Gently, slowly, he urges the one in her top to move. To slither its tapered end up the curve of her breast, his eyes tracking each movement under that silk as it moves. As the flexible tip wraps around the stiff bud of her nipple, Swiss rubs his own. The sensation of it still reflects on his own body, but its dulled now that the shadows have solid form. It's something he's grown to expect, but Swiss likes to think he's come up with a creative solution.

He may not be able to feel all of Cumulus's pleasure, but he can sure as hell imitate its cause.

With a shivery exhale from Swiss, a third dark tentacle sprouts from the pool at his feet. It wraps its way up his calf just as Cumulus's tail had done earlier in the night, cool and smooth against his skin. He watches it crawl upwards, looping around his thigh and brushing against his heavy sack in the process. Swiss groans with it, a barely audible sound, guiding its length up his chest to tease his nipple. He makes it squeeze, makes the one on Cumulus do the same, and the combined sensation takes Swiss's breath away.

He can feel how heavy his eyelids have gotten, knows his breaths are already coming in harder. He can't help it, playing like this does something incomparable to his brain and body alike. And it's not like Cumulus isn't getting something out of it too; she'll wake up with wet shorts in the morning and know exactly why.

Swiss swirls a finger in the air and the slender appendage at her chest wraps itself around her full breast, squeezes, and Swiss mirrors every bit of it on his own pec. It's unconscious now, syncing them up. He'd struggled at first, made things a touch awkward, but now it's second nature.

Just like the fourth tentacle now coursing its way up his other leg, the thing wasting no time in matching how its twin rests on Cumulus's stomach. Hers wriggles over her beautiful pudge to press into her navel, prodding at the divot with teasing intent. Swiss smiles when his does the same, mostly because he feels the way it tickles her.

Cumulus makes her first real noise when Swiss rubs at her nipple again, the thin tip of his shadow flicking over the taut nub. It's no more than a soft, sudden inhale, barely noticable, but Swiss feels it in every inch of his body. She's never really noisy like this, but he's learned the ones she does make by heart.

The gasp she looses when he squeezes her nipples.

The quiet "nnh" sound that escapes when the second tentacle curls around the side of her shorts and tugs them slowly down just enough to expose her pretty pink cunt.

The breathy "oh" that marks the moment that dark, squirming arm slides its tip along her slit.

That one is his favorite.

She's slick to the eye, and Swiss's stomach swoops when he thinks about Cumulus touching herself before she dozed off. Got herself worked up, probably got so close, but didn't let herself cum. Probably stroked that gorgeous, fat clit of hers until it was aching and her whole body quivered. Until she was nice and slippery and open for him. Just for him.

Oh, Swiss will let her do whatever the fuck she wants to him tomorrow.

His own tentacle still follows, gliding up over his hip to settle at the base of his cock, replacing his tight fist. Swiss immediately grips the bed frame instead, still holding its post with the other, hunching with a choked gasp. It all feels so much better than it has any right to, he swears it. Even still, he allows the tentacles to move; Cumulus's dips itself between blushing lips to gather her slick, glistening in the low light, before Swiss directs it to the beautiful length of her clit. It's still reddened and puffy from Cumulus's own ministrations, and the second that tentacle glides over it, his own tickles his rapidly purpling tip.

They both make sounds then, Swiss a nearly-silent curse and Cumulus a low "ooh". Her tongue pokes out between her fangs when he repeats the motion, the corner of her eye twitching. He sucks his lip between his teeth when she starts getting stiff for him, that little bit of length going firm the more he works her. His own matches it, working his thick head and wriggling against his frenulum enough to milk drop after slippery drop of pre onto her soft sheets. His cock bounces with each one, Swiss giving a wholly involuntary rock of his hips when Cumulus throbs. He watches her hole clench and knows for certain that this will not be a long session.

Good thing he knows her so well.

The tip of the tentacle between her thighs stays at their apex, but further down, where things get just a bit thicker, the body of the thing starts to bend. To fold over on itself, doubling up into a curve of not-small girth. Not as thick as Swiss, of course, but enough to feel and a thousand times more flexible. His cock gives a hard twitch when the rounded end of it slips between her folds, his own working it's way down his shaft in response.

Fuck she's so warm inside, so velvety. He feels it tenfold like this, heat blooming low in his belly when his shadow presses into her welcoming hole. She lets out a brief groan at the stretch, the pressure, but Swiss doesn't relent. He invades her body with his power, matches it on his own, and only stops when the end of his tentacle wraps around the thick base of his cock. A pale imitation of the real thing, perhaps, but something about fucking her like this makes Swiss ache.

The first shallow rock of his hips is a revelation.

Evey time they do this, he swears he'll make it last. Tells himself that this time he won't fall apart so quickly. That he won't lose his composure like a teenager sticking his dick in a warm hole for the first time. He tries, he swears he tries, but -

"Fuck," he squeaks out, throat tighter than the slippery length squeezing his cock, "so wet, you're so wet Lus, shit."

She can't hear him, he knows she can't, but the way she flutters around him and huffs seems to suggest otherwise. She's so responsive like this, weak to every twitch of the ropes of darkness helping themselves to her body. Her chest has started to heave just enough to notice, her cheeks stained pale pink, and Swiss can't hope to keep himself from rolling his hips.

He's close so quick, the tentacle writhing around him in a perfect facsimile of Cumulus's wonderous body dragging him swiftly higher. He moans deep in his chest as his balls start to tighten, gritting his teeth and focusing all his attention on the ghoulette before him.

The tentacle on her chest has since wrapped itself around her other breast, rock hard nipples still jutting against the fabric as it teases them. Swiss's matching one does the same, little shocks of pleasure zipping straight to his groin with each touch.

The one between her legs works expertly to draw utterly unconscious moans from her parted lips, Swiss curving it just enough to drag over the places that he knows will have her soaking the sheets. Cumulus has started getting noisier with each thrust, so Swiss keeps them slow and even. The only measure of control he has left.

It doesn't make him last longer, though. The feel of it is too maddening - Swiss has to let himself go, he simply has no other choice. But he's nothing if not a gentleman, and he's certainly not going to cum before she does.

That wouldn't be proper.

Swiss has the tip of that slick tentacle working her clit again in a rabbit-quick heartbeat, flicking over the stiff head of it just the way she likes best. Swiss mirrors it with his tongue and drools as the taste of her fills his mouth, hips stuttering when his dick kicks hard. Honey-sweet musk overwhelms his senses, and Swiss has to hang his head as he humps the air with jerky, amateurish motions.

It's no time before the tentacle undulating around him goes telltale tight, and Swiss's whimper is impossible to hold back. He chokes on his exhale when Cumulus's breathing goes harsh, and with one last pump of his eager hips he's shooting hard and heavy onto her bed.

It hits him like a truck, an orgasm that feels like it starts in his toes and ends at the tips of his hair. Swiss paints her sheets with pearly white stripes as his cock bobs and jerks around, leaving a huge mess behind. He couldn't care less, not when Cumulus shudders and grunts through her own orgasm, a hot rush of fluid coating his shadow while her thighs quiver. Every inch of him throbs with it, his cock drooling out everything has.

He's so dazed he can hardly see straight, entranced by the way she twitches through it, the way her breath catches. He works himself right into writhing oversensitivity in the name of wringing every last drop of pleasure from her. He'd stay like this forever if he could, lost in their combined buzz of sensation and blessed relief.

One of these days he'll last more than five minutes.

Swiss waits until she's breathing normally before he lets his shadows retreat, sighing as they slip slowly back into the dark. The one that slides from her cunt leaves a shiny, wet trail along her thigh and Swiss drools down his chin.

Exhaustion hits hard once the magick fades away, makes him sway in place, and with a mighty yawn Swiss forces himself away from the bed. He shuffles alongside it as he blinks impending sleep from his eyes, a dopey smile firmly place as he takes in Cumulus's lovely face. Perfectly relax and deeply satisfied, obvious even in her sleep. He leans down to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, and has to press a quick kiss to her forehead on his way back up.

Swiss gathers her bunched up blanket then, tucks the ghoulette in right up to her neck. Blocks out the returning chill and relishes the soft hum she gives in return.

He doesn't fix her pajamas, though. Leaves her top askew and her shorts around her thighs. A little something to make her throb when she wakes up, before she even feels evidence of him. He knows it'll pull the loveliest chiming giggle from her, one he's heard before, and even the thought sends a delightful shiver down his spine.

He stumbles back to his room on drunken legs, flops face first into bed, and knows that when he wakes up in about a dozen hours it'll be to her mouth on his cock.

Swiss falls asleep with a smile on his face.

[prismaticpichu]

Me: Okay!! I ain’t writing a thing until college supplements are done~

*Part 2 trailer drops; Baby!Angeal & Miniroth exist*

Me: Uh-oh.

(Also posted on AO3 if you prefer to read it there!!!)

~

Everywhere…

It was everywhere.

Blinding, burning, engulfing; left, right, up, down… The snow buffeted the boy’s cheeks in a merciless, bladelike strafe, a thousand knives that sliced icy wounds into the tender flesh, the bestial snarls of wind spiraling around him like the vicious, disorienting dance of a vortex, a hurricane. He clenched his teeth against the assault, teetering left—right—threads of silver whipping and cracking his face, slapping his skin, bringing him down into the snow below, crumpling to his knees. Teal eyes cracked open to see only the endless expanse of White stretching ahead, all around him, all-encompassing.

Everywhere.

No horizon, no dividing line, no escape; just a consuming inferno of White that made his eyes burn against its raging intensity. He forced his eyes to close, jaws clenching tighter, hugging his arm around himself as he struggled to stay grounded amid the ruthless tempest, a helpless droplet of black staining the perfect, holy backdrop of snow.

He shivered.

“H…h-help….” the boy could barely manage, just barely able to reach a breathy whisper against the storm, and he immediately locked his jaws again.

F-… f-orget it… No one would hear him…

No one would even listen.

“H-… h.. hel…p…”

He couldn’t stop himself from trying.

“P-p-p… le.. ase…”

Why… why did no one ever listen…?

His breath wavered, growing weaker, sadder.

“…M-Matt… L…u…”

He strained his eyes tighter, growing mistier, almost impossible to open.

“…Gl… e …nn…”

Gone…

Gone.

No one was coming.

Mindlessly, he used the last of his strength to bring his fingertips to his chest, grazing them across his heart, searching for the cherished piece of metal that he would be able to touch… touch just once… o-one… one last time…

“M… mo… the… r…”

His fingers searched, but nothing was there.

Nothing.

Nothing…

Gloved fingers slid off his chest, completely numb, unfeeling.

…Right… she was never there… no one was… no one would ever be…

Never, ever again…

N-nev… er…

N… e… v… e… r…

N… eve—

—————————

“Wake up, Sephiroth.”

—……..

…….…

….r?

“Sephiroth.”

Groggily, the young SOLDIER nodded awake, teal eyes fluttering against the cloudy dusk streaking in through the chopper window, swatting away the lingering haze of sleep.

“….Ah! There you are. We’re almost there; I wanted to talk to you.”

…

…And who exactly was this?

Blinking, Sephiroth rolled his unimpressed gaze aside, and he couldn't say he was too thrilled to see another young SOLDIER plunking down on the seat beside him; strong physique, parting black bangs, a serious yet curious visage…

Oh joy.

This meant conversation, didn’t it?

Sephiroth only stared.

“…I’m Angeal,” the teen introduced without prompt, burly arms over his chest. “Angeal Hewley.”

…Well, he clearly already knew his name, so there was no need to say anything in return.

“I’m not much older than you, you know, even though I’m still a rookie.”

…

Yay.

Letting out a bored, irritated grunt, Sephiroth merely let his head loll back against the window, teal eyes drooping shut all again, beckoning for another peaceful sleep to come and claim him before they arrived.

…Until then, he was content being consumed by blackness.

[midnightsun-if]

My friend pestered me to make this little snippet since they saw my post about the Arlatha game, as I mentioned I have somewhat of a plot in mind, and I agreed due to the fact that it’s somewhat winter-themed and it’s almost Christmas… So a small holiday present for you all. 😅

It’s nothing too long, just a small moment between the MC and their older brother. (Small Note: The MC is technically adopted, but it’s a complicated situation.)

Howling winds rip through the air, bringing specks of powdered white along for the ride, covering the expanse of land in a cold blanket that wouldn’t thaw until the first rays of light appeared over the horizon when spring returned.

From where you sat, nestled safely against the window in the grand library of the castle, you could just barely make out the blurry visage of Wintervale— the culmination of nightfall and snow not doing you any favors. Growing up in The North, an unimaginative name for the icy landscape, meant that you either grew used to the cold or perished; a harsh lesson to learn. Of course, growing up within the castle, among the fineries of life and the loving warmth of family, meant that you didn’t have too severe consequences for failing in the teachings of it, but you’ve known more than enough people that have fallen prey.

Not to mention what could have been if certain events hadn’t transpired…

“What are you doing up, little wolf?” The smooth baritone voice interrupts your musings, your attention quickly shifting from the world outside panes of glass to gentle argent. “I thought mother put you to bed hours ago.”

Despite the reproachful sounding words your older brother doesn’t lose his soft expression, amusement dancing within the flames of his silver gaze. White hair falling across his forehead in messy waves, fair skin tinged red from the cold, telling you that he had been outside in the stables. No doubt visiting Chione, you muse. Ever since his Lycana had bonded with him you hadn’t seen them apart for longer than a few minutes. Not that you could blame him. You couldn’t wait until the day you had your own.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question Kal?” You tilt your head, deliberately looking over the fur-lined cloak hanging off broad shoulders, specks of white still clinging to the black leather of his boots. “I thought mother said to stop visiting Chione once nightfall approached.”

A charming smile catches his lips, Kaladin easily settling beside you on the plush seat. “I suppose that means we both have a secret to keep.” He nudges you playfully with his shoulder. “I won’t tell, if you don’t. Deal?”

You nudge him back. “Deal.”

“So what’re you doing up?” He looks over your form briefly, a small frown of concern appearing. “You’re not feeling unwell, are you?”

“No,” you sigh, resting the side of your head against cool glass. “I just didn’t feel like going to sleep.”

You didn’t have to say anything else for Kal to understand what you were implying; his warm presence nestling against your side, a strong arm wrapped around your shoulders, giving you the feeling of protection that always seemed to follow him. Fighting away the looming darkness that the night can bring with his gentle presence.

“Would you like me to stay until you fall asleep, little wolf?”

“You’re tired too, Kal,” you argue. “Don’t think I don’t know that you had to spend all day in court.”

Kaladin huffs out a gentle laugh. “I may be tired from irksome lords, little wolf, but never enough to leave your side when you need me.” Standing up, Kal offers his hands for you to take. “Come on.” Mischief sparkles within his gaze. “Before we head to bed why don’t we raid the kitchens? I think father hid the sweet bread in his usual spot.”

You take his hands, a light feeling settling within your chest. “You’ll let me have the bigger pieces this time, right?”

“Anything for you.”