#so it can mean ‘reflection’ or even ‘shadow’ or ‘silhouette’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

todoriin · 2 months ago

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adore me, hold me and explore me | moze x afab!reader

18+ NSFW, MDNI or i will delete your account, vanilla ass sex, no established relationship, obsessive themes from moze, cunnilingus, p in v, porn no plot

Being Feixiao’s closest advisor means you get to experience various interesting interactions.

Since joining her ranks, you feel as though you’ve lived through countless lifetimes, consulting and strategising with her and Jiaoqiu against formidable foes and expansive armies. You’ve seen the Merlin’s Claw swing her blade and slash countless enemies in half, learnt medicinal techniques from Jiaoqiu that may cure simple illnesses, like the common cold.

However, the most interesting soul, without a double, is a certain Shadow Guard of the Xianzhou Yaoqing, one you have the pleasure of working with most intimately. Figuratively and… literally.

There’s a creak coming from the windows of your bedroom, the hinges wincing softly as they’re pushed open gently but too wide to be an action of the wind. At this stage, you’re no longer surprised by the stealthiness of the intruder, after all, you had purposefully left the windows open, waiting for the moment an intruder who could coat himself with invisibility would show up.

Besides, it’s nearing dusk, he promised he’d visit then.

“Good evening, Moze,” you greet, back turned to him as you look in the mirror, swiping balm over your lips before puckering them.

A breath of satisfaction leaves you when he finally materialises before you, purple haze clouding out around his silhouette, revealing the usual, skin-tight attire he opts for daily. It’s a shade you’ve grown to love now, seeing it everyday (and taking it off for him a few times a week).

“You look nice,” he comments, words curt but sweet.

You omit to tell him that you didn’t doll up because you doubt he’ll live longer with that information. “Thank you,” is all you say, smiling up at his reflection. Then, a cold hand comes up to your neck, fingers resting over your pulse as he traces your skin, eventually snaking back to fix your hair.

“The lipstick you wore today also looked nice,” he mumbles, meeting your gaze with his piercing one.

You turn around in your vanity stool, swinging your legs over to the other side of the seat as you look up at him. His hands move up slightly to cup your jaw, indiscernible eyes gently admiring your features as you look up at him. Here, in your home, he can unwind, a skilled assassin let in to a haven too safe for him and the blood on his hands.

That’s why you’re perfect for him, because you know how to slice a man’s neck and leave him begging for more.

“Did you like it, Moze?”

He’s silent as ever, opting to just play with the strands of your hair. There are moments when Moze is silent because he does not wish to speak, but there are always thoughts circulating in that head of his, you realised that a year into the job when he started providing a sarcastic retort whenever he could. This time he’s silent because he doesn’t know how to respond, rendered speechless as you blink up at him.

It’s an honour to render a man like him speechless, but you still want to have your fun.

“So quiet, I’ll take it as a no?” You ask, rising from your chair and walking past him. An arm snakes itself around your waist before you could get too far, tugging you right back against the chest of the Shadow Guard. “Use your words, Moze.”

“There are no words worthy enough to describe your beauty.”

Your mouth drops slightly as a sudden shyness creeps up your expression, an uncontrollable smile that you can’t hide behind your hands tugging on your lips. “Smooth talker,” you retort, pushing his chest lightly, but he hardly budges.

You’re used to being the one to initiate all the conversations, as well as ending them.

“The day must have been treacherous. I’ll make some refreshments for you.”

Just as you turn to go downstairs, he’s once again tugging you back against him. This time, he leads you to the edge of the bed where he sits down with you standing between his legs, now a head shorter than you. Your positions have switched, now it is you running your fingers along the hood he keeps on his head, looking down into his multi-coloured eyes.

“No need for any of those,” he denies, “I am well.”

“Are you sure? No tea, snacks?”

“I have no desire for any of those, only you.”

You look away from him, bashful from his flirtatious words that he says in that serious tone of his. Seriously, how can he say that with a straight face?

“Okay, fine. You can have me,” you mutter and a phantom of a smile appears on his expression, eyes glimmering when you finally give him the indication he’s been waiting for. The thin strap of your top is being dragged down your shoulder and you shudder when he hovers a ghost of a kiss over your pulse point, getting flustered when you then feel him smile against your skin. “Please don’t tease.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” in an instant, your chest is bared to him and his hands creep up to explore the expanse of your body, touch gentle but purposeful, as if he was sculpting your curves himself, careful not to ruin you with any rogue or unwelcome grazes. “I’ll reap what’s mine.”

Then, he yanks your shorts off and cups the back of your thighs. A yelp leaves your lips when he suddenly switches you around so that you are now sat on the edge of the bed, and he, awaiting on his knees before you with hungry eyes.

There’s no time to think because all of a sudden, his mouth is on you, infiltrating your most sensitive part and the whimper that leaves you cannot be held back. You don’t know when your leg got on his shoulder, but it grants him more access as his tongue licks up a slow, torturous swipe up your entrance.

“Moze!” You exclaim, legs twitching as if trying to kick him away, but he immediately holds you down you, an arm wrapping around your thigh to keep you there.

You’re his target after all, he won’t stop until he’s through with you.

“Be good and take it,” he says against you, pressing a kiss to your clit before sucking and you gulp at the sensation as filthy sounds fill the atmosphere. No matter how many close nights you’ve experienced together, you’ll never get sick of him, grip inhumanely tight to keep you still as you beg for mercy, but the feeling of his mouth is too sweet to push away. The apex of his tongue circles the nub as his spare hand crawls up, collecting the slick from your entrance before two fingers intrude, breaching your walls.

When he curls them, you know you’re done for, falling against the mattress to try and deal with the onslaught of pleasure that Moze knows how to inflict. It keeps coming in waves and waves, and neither his fingers or tongue lets up. You didn’t even realise you were crying until you felt tears drop down your face and onto the sheets.

He’s pumping into you, briefly curling and scissoring his fingers, and his ministrations on your clit go from suckling to tracing shapes with the bud; a cruel torture that eventually results in a buildup of tension in your lower abdomen.

You warn him about your incoming orgasm with a shrill cry of his name and a babble of words that loosely resembles a sentence, and the only thing he says in response is:

“Let go, pretty.”

So you do, mind becoming cloudy, hazed with nothing but the feeling of pleasure. Moze has now swapped his mouth and fingers, tongue lapping up everything you give him, licking you clean whilst his thumb rubs your clit in circles, trying to prod more out of you; a routine choreographed for your demise.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your core, letting you come down from the high as he presses a few kisses up your stomach.

His hawkish eyes watches as your expression untwists itself, no longer contorted by overwhelming pleasure. He can’t help the way his gaze then drifts to your chest, how it rises and falls hurriedly, still trying to regain your breath after he stole it.

Your reverie is interrupted when you feel his tongue licking your entrance once again, folds pulled back by his fingers to bare more of you, and your nerves flinch at the sensation of pleasure enhanced to the maximum. “Moze! Stop!”

He obeys, pulling away immediately, serious expression unchanged save for the little glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.

“Next time,” he gruffly promises.

Wrapping both of your thighs around his waist, you’re maneuvred further up your mattress by the assassin, completely helpless in his grip as he moves you however he wants. You would not have wanted him to stop anyways.

Nimble hands shed his clothes and you unabashedly admire the sight between your legs, eyes so brave to wander across a scarred body that none others will get to lay their eyes upon. You trace the curve of his defined torso, how the shadows and light dance along the crevices, enhancing his already-impressive muscles. You leisurely run your gaze further down, following his abs to his cock.

Red and leaking with precum.

It was intimidating when you first came face-to-face with it, and whilst you’re still impressed by his size, he’s taken care of you through the process every time, walking you through the pain and adaptations whilst being completely patient with you.

You want to prepare and take care of him like he had with you, so without thinking, you reach out and begin stroking him exactly how he likes it and a grunt passes by his lips, composure faltering ever so slightly.

There is no other Moze would bare himself like this to and, as a sign of his own twisted desires, he wants you to think the same of him. He wants you in ways he cannot justify, especially the part of himself that drips with violent and obsessive tendencies.

Should he get too close, he fears he will devour you when neither of you are expecting it.

Although, recently it seems that Moze allows himself to indulge in pleasures that he hadn’t permitted before, and as his hand wraps around your wrist to stop your ministrations, he can’t help but smile at the small pout that graces your lips. Rubbing his erection along your cunt, your slick coats his underside whilst his hand leisurely travels around your torso. Your supple skin hasn’t seen the severities of the battlefield, hasn’t fought and handled the brutality of men and blades like he has; the distinction between the two of you almost makes him seem like a monster.

A monster who wants to hide you from the darkness in which he lives in.

“What are you grinning at?” You ask from under him.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, lowering his face to yours to press delicate kisses on your skin and you shift impatiently, eyelashes fluttering and hands clenching into fists.

He notices the subtle action, takes it as sign of desperation that he wants to devour and dissolve into his veins, as if keeping a part of you with him forever. Aligning his cockhead with your entrance, your moan is unrestrained when he finally breaches your walls.

Slowly, Moze bottoms out, hands holding your hips to press you flush against him as you squirm. He doesn’t mind the way you wriggle around trying to adjust to his thickness and length, he’ll patiently hover above you, pressing soothing kisses along your face whilst staying as still as a shadow.

Even as your walls twitch and clench, he doesn’t budge, refusing to move until you are ready for him to. In a way, being connected with you like this makes him feel closer to you, and it brings a sense of peace that he cannot find elsewhere.

You are the source of it, the centrepiece of all his desires and he cannot swallow you down anymore.

“I’m okay now,” you whimper.

He reels his hips back, almost pulling out before slamming right back into you and you cry loudly. “You sure?”

“More, Moze, please don’t be cruel to me.”

Cruel? He wouldn’t dream of it.

Setting a bearable pace, the room is filled with a cacophony of moans and continuous ‘plap, plap, plap’s of skin meeting skin. You are still the centre of his vision, eyes hardly straying away from your expression and body, keenly watching every microreaction of yours. He notices the way you shut your eyes tighter when he angles a particular way, cock breaching the most sensitive but pleasurable parts of you.

It’s insatiable, his appetite for you. The only thing he wants to do is bring you to endless highs, over, and over, and over again.

Gradually, his pace speeds up over time, violating your insides with the neverending push-and-pull. Every time his hips snap back to meet yours, cock buried to the hilt, you feel the strands of your sanity slipping away. All you can do is babble his name and whimpers of how good he feels, hands reaching blindly for any part of him that you can hold.

He dives right into your open touch, torso leaning down to now hover directly over yours and the added heat of his body temperature makes you feel even more lucid. His shoulders are so broad, the planes of his chest defined, and stomach so toned that it drives you insane with desire; added with his precise strokes and thick cock, you don’t ever want him to leave. You don’t ever want him to stop.

“Moze-” his lips are pressed against yours, swallowing the moan of his name and every other small noise you make as his member relentlessly spears you.

He kisses you again and again, never straying too far, but parting often to let you catch your breath.

“Moze, I’m-” you cry out in between kisses, “I’m gonna-!”

“Me too,” he gruffly responds, “relax for me, you’re clenching too hard.”

His words have the opposite effect because next thing you know, you’re cumming again, spasming around his cock as his strokes try to lure more out of you, draining you for all you’re worth. When you’re done, all of your nerves are fried, limbs weak and unable to hold themselves up for long without any support, but Moze hasn’t come yet, so all you can do is take his desperate and hurried strokes as he catches up to the last bit of pleasure.

Then, he comes to a halt whilst hot ropes gush into your cunt as he twitches inside you. Suddenly, his teeth latch on to the juncture of your shoulder and your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark.

You catch your breath in unison, waiting for him to finish completely before moving again, and when the final load is emptied, he’s capturing your lips in a kiss again. It’s hot, and your muscles feel like jelly, but he’s still desperate for more of you despite being as humanly close as possible.

So, only moments after both of you have descended from the peak, he begins moving again, gently shushing any of your protests with a light kiss that breaks down your already weak defences.

The squelches and plaps this time are obscene as he slowly eases in and out of you, grinding weakly whenever your walls twitch around him, but none of it is enough to quell his desire.

And he won’t stop until he has his fill.

#first ever smut lol #moze x reader #hsr x reader #moze smut #moze x reader smut #hsr smut #hsr x reader smut

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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year ago

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Steve Harrington x fem!reader 18+ [6K] friends with benefits, but oh no! there's feelings. canon adjacent, kind of? smut, summer, car sex.

You heard the rev of the engine just before the headlights flashed over your bedroom window, casting shadows over your sheets, your own silhouette on the wallpaper. You didn’t need to look to know who it was, the sound of the car idling across your street, waiting.

You did anyway, fingers parting the slats of the blinds as you turned off your television, grabbing a sweater to shove on, feet stuffed into sneakers as the knit fell to just above the hem of your skirt. A few months ago you would’ve rushed to check your reflection in a mirror, sprayed some perfume, dabbed on some gloss, maybe a cherry flavoured balm on your lips. Now, you just grabbed a set of keys from the dish in the hallway before you closed the front door as quietly as you could. You should’ve told your parents, you knew that. Hawkins wasn’t as safe as it used to be, teenagers getting murdered in broad daylight, an Indiana summer scape being used as the scene for some ripped off horror movie plotline.

But sneaking off into the night with a pretty boy was all part and parcel of being young, wasn’t it?

The BMW was parked under a street lamp opposite your driveway and when he saw you making your way down, the boy got out of his car, greeting you at the passenger side with a kiss that he ducked down to give you eagerly before opening the door.

It wasn’t always like that. The terms and conditions of this… situation, used to be a lot more strict. There were rules that came with hooking up with the guy from the video store next door. A casual fuck at a party became accidentally more and long gone were the days that you’d been pressed against a wall by someone who was more man than boy now, stubble scratching across your chin and jaw as you kissed him, tongues tasting like tequila, like cherry vodka and cheap beer.

And you’d had enough sense left in you that night to pull away, gasping, panting, your hands in his hair as his snuck up your shirt, just barely, thumbs pushing nicely into your waist. You’d let your half lidded eyes drag across his pretty features and recognition managed to take over drunken hormones, over want.

“Hey, you’re the guy that works in Family Video, right?”

And he’d nodded, smiling a little lopsided as his gaze stayed on your lips a second too long, loving the way they were glossy and bitten red by him. “Mhmm,” the boy had said. “Steve. You’re the ice cream girl.”

Not much else was said that night, not when the girl from the ice cream shop liked the way the boy from the video store tasted. You liked the way Steve held you, how he pressed you into a dark corner of someone’s house party, his eyes only on you even when there were so many other girls trying to get his attention. He’d walked you home when the sun was coming up, his sports jacket draped over your shoulders, your shoes in your hands. You’d written your number on his hand with an eyeliner pencil, smudged but there.

He’d kissed you again when your neighbours sprinklers turned on, when the birds started singing from the cherry trees out back. It was a soft thing, too soft and too gentle not to mean much but when he pulled back, he squinted at you, looking regretful.

“I, uh, I’m not looking for anything serious right now,” he confessed. Steve looked sad about it. “I don’t wanna lead you on— I just, there’s a lot going on right now, you know?”

You didn’t know, but you understood. So you nodded and shrugged, the boy's jacket moving against your shoulders and you could smell his cologne, the smoke from the party, your own perfume where it now lingered on the collar.

So you said, “that’s okay. Doesn’t have to be serious, if we don’t want it to be. We can just… I don’t know. Hang out.”

Steve grinned that night, pleased, cheeks a little pink, ‘cause you both knew what hanging out meant. So he nodded too, told you to keep his jacket and that he’d get it back later, told you he’d see you soon and maybe he could take you for a drive or something.

Casual, no labels, no expectations. No feelings.

You were pretty certain that was the night you started falling for Steve Harrington.

—————

You took Steve’s offered kiss with your chin tilted up, trying hard not to smile, failing when he held out a hand for you to hold as you ducked into the car. He shut the door for you, crossed the front of the beemer, lit up by the headlights, his white t-shirt hanging loose around his collarbones, threadbare and worn. His hair wasn’t done like he usually didn’t it, the messy strands falling across his forehead instead of pushed back. It made him look softer, like the Steve you’d grown to know past midnight.

It had been months since that party. Months of hooking up on lunch breaks, using the staff room of the ice cream parlour to make out in instead of sharing food, rushing to Steve’s parked car to fool around in the back, letting the windows steam up, a sight too salacious for daylight. You didn’t date, Steve didn’t take you out to dinner, or the movies. You didn’t ask him too. Neither of you had met the other's parents, or friends. You knew a lot about Steve’s life, but you weren’t exactly enveloped in it.

That’s how it was supposed to be. Just sex. Fun.

But then Hawkins fell to scandal, a murderer on the loose, a boy you once knew from school. Weird goings on, strange sounds from the forest, news crews parked on streets, hoping for the latest story. Steve wasn’t around as much and when you did see him, he was with people you didn’t know as well. Nancy Wheeler, a kid called Dustin, Max Mayfield and another boy from the school basketball team.

You’d watch across the street as Steve closed up the video store hours too early with Robin Buckley, rushing to his car with his friends in tow like there was some sort of emergency. So lunch hour sex sessions turned into late night drives, when the rest of the town was asleep and every house you passed was lit up by the street lights, by the aquamarine glow of backyard pools.

Subtle changes happened first. There were still no dates, no talk of feelings. In fact, whatever was stressing Steve seemed to only be fixed by fucking you. He wasn’t rough about it, not mean, nor careless. But there was a different kind of urgency when he parked up somewhere dark and hidden, pushing his lips to yours and sighing hard like he’d been waiting all day to taste you. Eyes closed, forehead pressed to yours as he let you pant into his parted lips, quiet, soft noises mixing with the slap of his hips against yours. And when you were both fully dressed again and he was ready to take you home, he pressed extra kisses to your cheeks, your hand.

He’d stare at you, longer than he used to, eyes filled with something you weren’t able to place yet and the boy would tell you to promise him you’d be safe.

Steve would watch you until you made it inside, he’d do that all the time. But now he was in the habit of only pulling away when he saw your bedroom light flick on, your silhouette waving to him from behind the glass.

After that, Steve took to kissing you more and more, sex not required. A kiss hello, sweet and chaste, a kiss goodbye, longing, meaningful - even if you didn’t know what it was yet. He was touchy, more open, talking to you and opening up when you’d get into his car and see the boy’s tired eyes. He’d tell you it was fine, that it was nothing for you to worry about. But you spotted a bat in the back seat footwell once, an old looking thing with fucking nails poking out the top.

Steve had turned a little ashen when you stared at him, promising you earnestly that it was only for protection. You know, because of everything that was going on. You weren’t sure what made you believe him so easily, but you did. Night time drives turned into make outs broken up with Steve burrowing his face into your neck as you raked your hands through his hair. You’d watch him grow sluggish, words drowsy as he spoke about how the bad guys aren’t always bad, are they? And should we really believe what the cops on TV are telling us? And wouldn’t all of this just be so much easier if people had superpowers?

You weren’t sure what any of it was supposed to mean, but you’d nodded and dotted your lips over his hairline, letting him lean heavy against you until he scrubbed a hand over his face and coaxed you into his lap, telling you softly that he’d feel a lot fucking better if he got to make you fall apart with his fingers.

You let him. And you returned the favour too.

—————

You knew tonight was different by the way Steve was white knuckling the stick shift, antsy as he brought his touch to your bare thigh instead. He rubbed his thumb there, exhaled heavily when you covered his hand with your own.

“Are you okay?” You asked him quietly. You didn’t dare break the quiet, the one that only came with driving out of town when the sky was inky, when the wheat fields whispered in the breeze and the bus stops stood empty. Hawkins was asleep, but there was something that Summer that made the town feel less than peaceful. Maybe it was the ‘wanted’ posters on every street light. Eddie Munson’s face staring back at you. “Steve?”

“Yeah, yeah, m’fine.” He glanced at you, taking his eyes off the road for a second or two. He looked heavy, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Atlas, the man with the earth on his back, cast in marble, ready to crumble. “Just a little stressed ‘bout stuff, that’s all.”

It was the same answer he always gave. You assumed it was his parents - his dad and his relentless tenacity about his job, his future. Maybe it was Keith, giving him a hard time about shifts. Maybe he had a friend in trouble. You were ready to ask, to pry a little deeper when the boy said:

“You’re not, uh— you don’t get headaches, do you? Like bad ones.”

You squinted at him, confused. You watched the streetlights run over his features, casting the boy in a white-yellow glow before they stopped completely, signalling you’d reached the edge of town. The water tower passed you both by, only fields, the road and stars for company now.

“Um, no more than anyone else who works with sugar loaded ice cream and six year old customers all day,” you joked. “Why?”

Steve didn’t laugh, shit, he didn’t even smile. He looked as serious as before and he ignored your question in favour of asking his own. His hand squeezed at your knee, affectionate, his thumb running circles into the inside of your leg before he had to let go to shift gears. “You don’t have nightmares, do you?”

You were really confused now. You leaned back against the door, watching as empty farm pastures blurred past Steve’s face. His lips were pressed right, concern in every part of his face, drawn in there like it was permanent. He looked tired, scared. Your throat drew tight. “Steve, is something wrong?”

“You’d tell me, right?” Steve was slowing the car down, pulling into an empty gas station lot that sat on an desolate road a few miles out of town. The place hasn’t been used in years, the pumps empty, the shutters on the windows covered in graffiti. But the neon sign above the roof still flickered, bathing you both in red and purple lights. “You’d tell me if something was bothering you? If you felt like…” Steve swallowed harshly searching for the right words. “If you didn’t feel safe?”

You unclipped your belt to lean forward, your hand resting on Steve’s thigh. Your brow was furrowed in concern, a worry knotting in your chest because you’d never seen the boy this serious. “Steve, what?” You watched as the boy exhaled again, a heavy, shaking thing and he looked at you with the most tender eyes. “Hey, hey, Steve, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

Steve swallowed, throat bobbing hardly and his face crumpled, frustration and worry easily read. He was scarlet lights and inky shadows, neon purple bathing the dashboard as rain started to fall on the windscreen. Light drops of it, dotting here and there until it got heavier and heavier, a dull roar against the car roof. Water droplets slid down the windows, racing each other and Steve tried to find the words.

He couldn’t.

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t really explain. Not right now,” Steve dragged a hand through his already messy and he truly did look apologetic. He looked so tired. “Just, please, you’d tell me if something was wrong, right? If you needed help with something, or, or, someone to talk to? You’d come to me, wouldn’t you? You know you can talk to me? About anything? This— this isn’t all sex, I know, fuck, I know it was supposed to be but, shit, we care about each other right? I, I care about you— ”

You nodded, eyes wide, moving as close as could over the middle console, the parking brake digging into your tummy so you could clasp his cheeks between your hands. You soothed your thumbs over the slight stubble there, eyes searching his, wondering if you’d find any answers there. You didn’t. So instead you kept nodding, hoping the boy would believe you.

“I’d tell you, Steve. I’d come to you, it’s okay. I’m fine, yeah? There’s nothing to worry about, not with me, okay?” Your voice was urgent, hushed, a frantic whisper almost drowned out by the rain.

But your words seemed to soothe the boy and he visibly relaxed, face leaning into your touch. “So, no nightmares?” He asked again.

“No nightmares,” you promised him and he turned his face into your palm, kissing the skin there, the way a boyfriend would. It made your stomach flip, an undeniably tender gesture. “Are you okay?”

Steve nodded, eyes closing briefly to gather himself and the lights made the shadows under his lashes turn a deep ruby red. The rain splashed the hood of the car, puddles in the forecourt, purple lights reflecting back like an oil spill. “Yeah. I’m sorry, fuck, it’s just— I wish I could tell you.” Steve let his head fall back onto the seat when you moved your hands. “You must think I’m insane, right?”

You smiled wryly, bringing your feet up to rest on the dash, a move he would’ve told you off - semi jokingly - a few weeks ago for. “No more than I did when I first met you.” Your skirt gathered at your thighs with the move, pooling in the cradle there, cheap silk, lilac and more suited for a trip to the mall rather than a rainy night. But Steve tracked the movement, gaze dropping to the bare skin it uncovered before his eyes found your own again. “And for the record, Harrington, I care about you too.”

It seemed to break something in the boy, those earnest words, real enough to shatter, to make someone crumble in the best way. He punched out the breath he’d been holding and he leant his cheek against the headrest, eyes on you, amazingly soft. “I just wanna keep you safe,” he whispered and the statement made your heart ache.

This wasn’t part of the agreement. This wasn’t even in the rule book.

“I am safe,” you whispered back, brow still wrinkled in confusion. “Is this about Eddie Munson? The police are looking for him, Steve, they’ll find him soon—”

“Somethin’ like that,” Steve tried to smile but it was thin and tight lipped. “I didn’t mean to worry you, m’sorry.”

You smiled, still confused but eager to bring the boy out of his strange mood. You wanted to help, you wanted to comfort. “It’s okay,” you told him, soothing a hand over his thigh again. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout little, old me.”

Something in Steve’s expression told you maybe all he really did was worry about you. But he didn’t say anything more about it, not then. He just slid his hand over your own, let his fingers wrap around your wrist and climb up your forearm, tugging gently. “Hey, c’mere,” he whispered and you knew that look, you knew that tone of voice.

Wanting, needy. Desperation coloured it this time, something new.

He’d normally meet you in the backseat, lips crashing in the middle, a faux argument about who was on top that time. But instead, Steve just coaxed you onto his lap, sliding his chair back from the wheel to make room for you, your legs spread in either side of his hips. He seemed greedy for you, wide palms sneaking under your sweater immediately, the stitch between his brows softening once he got his hands on you.

“Wanna touch you,” the boy sighed and he sounded far away, voice dreamlike now you were closer, like his worries had been eased. “Can I? Wanna make you feel good, think ‘bout it all the time,” he confessed, leaning in until his forehead was pressed to yours, his chin tilted up to meet you, noses bumping.

You nodded, eyes falling shut because all you wanted to do was feel. It was easy with Steve, easy to close off the rest of the world and put all your trust in him. The cocoon of his car felt safe, warm and smelling like leather and his cologne, the hazy light filtering through the rain on the windshield, a kaleidoscope of crimson and violet.

“Yeah, please,” you nodded and your voice sounded so much softer and smaller than before, like you were giving into it, like you were begging him.

Maybe you were.

His hands found the hem of your sweater at the same time yours found his, but you tugged at his cotton shirt with more insistence. You watched his face falter, like he was remembering something. You frowned, fingertips searching under the material for the familiar feel of his warm skin, the trail of hair that led down his navel and into the band of his underwear. Your brow wrinkled deeper when you found something scratchy, a crinkled band that seemed to wrap around him. He flinched when you pressed your palm to it.

“Steve— what—?”

“Babe,” Steve tried to placate you with sweetness, his eyes worried, his hands holding your waist and pulling you closer. “Jus’ leave it on, yeah? It’s—”

“Are you hurt?”

You couldn’t help it, worry and panic taking over and you hated that you didn’t listen to the boy but you were tugging up the hem of his top before he could protest. A bandage was wound around his torso, crisscrossing at his stomach, climbing up to the bottom of his ribs. There was a dark shadow under the right side, like there was a bruise hiding there, or worse.

Suddenly, all the talk of keeping you safe seemed laughable. Your eyes watered at the sight of him, the skin that peeked out from the edges of the wrap a little mottled, an angry red mixing with green and yellow. “What happened?” You sounded distraught and the watery concern Steve that could hear was thick in your throat and it made him fucking ache.

“Nothing,” he tried to lie, but he sounded tired, like all he did was avoid the truth. “I’m okay, I swear. I promise you. I just, I just took a bad fall. Bruised my ribs, caught myself on somethin’ sharp, or whatever, but I’m good.”

You didn’t believe him. Your heart was telling you not to. But Steve Harrington was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and he was too exhausted to argue. You stared at him, saw how he pleaded with you, silent, hopeless.

Your hands found his jaw, thumbs smoothing over the apples of his cheeks and held him like he was precious. He was. So much more than some guy you found in the dark corners of a stranger’s house party. Who would’ve thought?

“Are you in trouble?” Your voice wobbled. You felt helpless. You were trying to tamp down the ugly thoughts in your head, wondering about all the worst case scenarios, thinking about the kinds of people who could do this to someone. You wondered if your dad could help, if he’d give you some cash if that’s what Steve needed, the spare room, a way out— “can I help? What can I do to help?”

“No, no,” Steve answered with a new sense of urgency, eyes wide. “No, listen, you’re staying far away from it all, okay?”

The fact Steve didn’t deny that there was something to fear, that there was something he was caught up in - something he wasn’t telling you - made your worry spike even more. “Steve, what the fuck is go—”

You were cut off by a kiss. A crushing thing, all consuming and it swallowed your words, your worries, your tears. Steve was warm all over, his lips just as hot, soft and plush and always tasting like mint chapstick. He chased your mouth as you went to pull away, an argument still on your tongue but he kissed you until you turned pliant, hands falling from where they’d been planted on his chest to winding around his neck. You made a soft noise of defeat when his tongue licked over the seam of your lips, your mouth opening for him, the kiss turning deeper. You took in the sound of Steve’s shaky gasps, the way his hands mapped out the curve of your back, the dip of your waist.

Steve kissed you until you both couldn’t breathe.

You pulled away panting, eyes heavier and half lidded than before and Steve’s were no better. He was trying to coax you back, his fingers on your chin but you were reminded about what lay under his shirt and your features were crumpling with concern again.

“M’gonna hurt you, I’m too heavy,” you whispered, aghast, shifting onto your knees awkwardly as if you suddenly just realised you were sitting on his lap. “Steve.”

“No, hey,” Steve protested, squeezing at your waist until you sat back on his lap. He whispered your name, serious. “You’re not hurting— Jesus, stay please? I’m fine, okay? Please. Babe, please, just…” he looked up at you, words trailing off and lingering in the small space that was between you both, floating in the red-purple light.

It was still raining.

“What do you need?” You asked him and you tried not to let your eyes turn glassy but the boy underneath you was gazing at you like you were the first one to ask him such a question in years. “What can I do to help, Steve, huh? I’ll do it, okay?”

“Need you,” Steve managed to choke out and he looked lost, he looked desperate but his eyes were hungry and falling to your lips and god, god, his hands were trailing up the sides of your ribs and he was groaning softly when he found you’d left your bra at home. “I swear to god, I promise, I just need you.”

It made it easy to fall into him, lips pressed to his as you tried to hold yourself off of the boy, just slightly, enough to hopefully not cause the boy any pain. But Steve was having none of it, sighing against your mouth and tugging you forward, his hands gripping your hips, sliding underneath your sweater and along the waistband of your skirt. He groaned, a sound you knew well, his lips chasing yours as he kept you pressed down in his lap, the cotton of your underwear pushed to the denim of his jeans. You kissed him back, pliant before turning eager, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you resisted the urge to roll your hips over him.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you whispered again and you sounded scared, worried. “Steve.”

“Shhh,” Steve soothed you with a hand on your jaw, tugging you back, keeping you grounded against his. His thumb was pushing to your cheek, trailing down to catch over your lip, his mouth ghosting over yours. Your noses knocked, breaths mixing. “S’okay, m’fine, yeah? You’re fine, babe.”

Steve watched through hooded eyes as he coaxed you into moving, a gentle back and forth of your hips over his and he smiled, nodding when you let out a soft noise, forehead falling to rest against his own. “There you go, there she is,” Steve whispered and it felt fond, it felt familiar, the way he spoke, the way he held you.

It didn’t feel like something friends did, not even friends with certain benefits. Not anymore. Not with the way he was looking at you.

“I just need to, fuck,” Steve let his head fall back onto the chair, chin tilted up to watch your face, the scrunch of your nose when something made you feel good. He was blue in the shadows, navy, inky. Scarlet skin, red cheeks, purple lights making him ultraviolet. “I just need to feel you, I’ve not stopped thinkin’ about it all day, I swear. Is that crazy?”

You shook your head, lips parting as you let out a heavy breath, the kick up of Steve’s cock in his jeans hitting your clit just right. You kept rolling your hips, slow, even strokes over him. “No, s’not crazy,” you let out a quiet whine, chasing Steve’s touch as he gripped your hips a little tighter. “Think ‘bout you too.”

“Just wanna— wanna switch off sometimes, you know?” Steve groaned when you reached for the button of his jeans, wrapping an around your waist as he lifted his hips and helped you tug the denim down one handed. “Bein’ with you, it helps. It helps so much. I just wanna get lost in you— baby—”

Steve cut himself off with a groan, eyes clenched shut and the term of endearment falling from his lips too easily. You’d ached as he spoke, staring at his soft eyes, the tiredness around them, busying yourself with freeing his cock from from his boxers until you knelt up a little and pulled your own underwear to the side.

You were already wet from his kisses, the way he’d helped your rock your hips over his, but god. God, Steve was a stretch. The boy would normally work at you before hand, legs spread for him in the backseat so he could fit two fingers inside, his tongue and mouth helping ease you, melt you. Then he’d give you inch by inch, jaw unhinged and eyes dark as he talked you through it, telling you how good you were at taking his cock.

Desperation won over this time, though. It took a little squirming, a wriggle of your hips and a sharp gasp until he was fully seated inside of you and there was always a dull burn as you did. It was worth it though, to feel so suddenly full, to watch the way Steve’s brain seemed to glitch at the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him. He moaned, brows scrunched together as he pressed his fingertips into your hips so hard you were sure he’d leave a lavender coloured map of touches behind.

“Shit, shit,” the boy gasped out and he clung to you as you did him, pulling you into his chest so he could wrap both arms around you, big hands spanning across you back. “Baby, fuck, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You felt breathless at the sensation, stuffed full, your nose pressed to Steve’s neck as he surrounded you, as he held you. You shifted, just slightly, adjusting as he throbbed inside of your cunt and Steve hissed sharply through his teeth.

“You’re gonna make me fuckin’ come, ohmygod.”

You laughed, softly, not at all mean and pressed a kiss to his cheek, nuzzling closer as you stayed still, just for a minute. “Easy, cowboy,” you murmured. Steve’s hands moved to your ass cheeks, grabbing them, kneading them. “You okay?”

He nodded and you pulled back enough to see the way his cheeks flushed pink, lips parted and eyes flutter closed. The boy sucked in a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you just feel so fucking good. You’re so warm,” he marvelled.

It was getting harder and harder to stay still, your cunt clenching around Steve’s cock, making you both gasp, soft noises falling from each of your mouths and it was anyone other than Steve, you would’ve seen embarrassed at the wetness gathering at the base of his cock, coating the insides of your thighs. “Can I move?” You asked him, whispering.

Steve nodded, too blissed out already, his pretty brown eyes getting that far away look to them. Hazy, fuzzy, dreamlike. He seemed less tired now, less stressed, less tense. So you lifted yourself up gently before settling back down on him, the tip of his cock nudging deep inside of you and it made you cry out, a strangled sound that Steve stole with a kiss. He kissed you through it all, hands everywhere at once, roaming over you, sneaking under skirts and sweaters to slide over your bare skin, like he was making sure you were real.

There was a neediness to it all that surpassed hormones and urges.

So you let him, kissed him back with just as much fervour as you rode him, hips moving slow and gentle, the pressure building between you both, filling the air in the car, filling the cracks between your ribs and it made you spin, it made you dizzy. You kissed Steve until he didn’t look so blue anymore, and when you pulled back, letting him mourn at your neck, your jaw, your chin, the rain had stopped and the purple light above the gas station was flickering.

“Steve,” you sighed, your voice cracking, watery.

“I know,” the boy mumbled back and he sounded the same.

You were staring into his eyes when you came. One hand pressed between your sticky thighs as you pushed mean fingers to your clit, the other in Steve’s hair, holding him to you, anchoring yourself. Steve swore as he felt you tighten around him, pussy fluttering as you came, movements turning a little messy and unbalanced but the boy gripped you under the ass and helped you move through it all, fingernails leaving crescent moon marks on your skin.

“M’close,” Steve groaned, pressing his face into the crook of your neck and you could feel the heat from his cheeks, the softness of his hair against your throat. “Fuck, babe, I’m so goddamn close, where—?”

You doubled down on your efforts despite your shaky thighs, despite how sensitive you were. You rocked over him, pace quickening, wanting nothing more than to make Steve fall apart. You heard him gasp, lips parting against your neck, heavy breaths falling over your skin. You held him to you, let him bury himself there, helped him hide until he could piece himself back together again.

“Inside,” you told him and your voice didn’t sound like yours anymore. You sounded wrecked, wild, desperate. It’s not something you and Steve did often, in fact, you’d only done it once before and you’d both been too tipsy to really remember it. But you were on the pill and Steve trusted you as much as you trusted him. “Wanna feel it, Steve, please, inside—”

“Oh, fuck!” Steve gasped as he came, hips bucking up into you with a little less rhythm than before and he abandoned his grip on your ass to wrap his arms around you again, pulling you in, crushing you to his chest. He held you, pumping you full, cock twitching as he cried out, the sound muffled against your cheek. He whispered your name, a prayer. “Fuck, fuck. Baby.”

You could feel how hard his heart was beating, your cheek pressed to his chest as the rain started back up, heavy drops on the car roof, more lines trailing down the steamed up windows. You could hear Steve’s soft pants in between, his breath huffing over your hairline. You felt the boy skin his lips over the same spot, his nose pressed to your forehead.

“You okay?” He whispered and you nodded, pulling back enough to look at him.

He looked so much softer than before, the harsh lines gone, tension released. Steve ran a hand over your cheek and you leaned into it, kissing his palm. “I should be asking you that.” You brushed a gentle hand over his side, where you knew his bruise lay under his shirt. “Did I hurt you?”

“Quite the opposite,” Steve laughed, soft, quiet. The rain was growing louder, heavier. He was still inside you, heavy, warm, big. It was a comfort you didn’t want to read too much into. “Feel cured,” he joked.

You huffed out a breath of a laugh, smiling, cheeks warm and you winced as you shifted up on your knees and Steve made a soft noise, cooing at you as he held your waist and helped you move. You bit your lip as you moved your stretched out underwear back into place, your body burned at the feel of Steve’s come slipping from between your folds, warm, wet.

“I don’t even have anything to help clean you up,” Steve murmured apologetically, but he would’ve been lying if the idea of you going home full of him didn’t make his dick twitch again.

“S’okay,” you told him and when you made to move off Steve’s lap, the boy gripped your thighs.

You looked at him, brows raised, because this was normally the part of the night where you fell back into the passenger seat, satisfied and a little numb, laughing over a stupid joke Steve cracked before he drove you home and kissed you goodnight. “Stay,” he asked, whispering. You watched him swallow roughly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Can you just—? Stay here for a bit, yeah?”

You softened, eyebrows scrunching as you took on the emotion on Steve’s face, the shyness there, the hope. You nodded, settling gently back onto Steve’s lap and you reached out, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, using the gesture as an excuse to let your fingers trail over his cheekbone. Steve turned, catching your knuckles with his lips, a fleeting kiss.

Then he sucked in a breath and seemed to ready himself, his hands on your hips again, sneaking under the fabric of your sweater so he could rub circles into your skin with his thumbs.

“So, it all started with this girl…”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot

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redvexillum · 1 month ago

Text

TAGS/WARNINGS: fingerf♡cking, dom/sub undertone, no established relationship, dub-con, f!reader, shadow f♡cking, power imbalance, gagging, bondage, asphyxiation, brat!reader, ♡verstimulation, alastor being a lil shit, b♡ndage, alastor makes reader into his lil b!tch lykyk

EXTRA WARNING: This is not a drabble. It is 3.9K words long.

Leaning back in your chair, you mirrored the unsettling grin that stretched across Alastor’s face. His grin, a sharp crescent of teeth, seemed to carve deeper into his cheeks. His eyes squinted just slightly – enough to glint with a darker, more ominous edge.

You felt a spark of excitement ignite in your chest as you watched the subtle shift in his expression. It was a game to you now, one you’d become quite fond of.

“My, my, I do feel awful that no one listens to your broadcasts anymore, Alastor,” you purred, your voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. You stretched your arms above your head lazily, as though you had all the time in the world.

Ever since you’d come to the hotel, Charlie’s redemption exercises had left you with more downtime than you cared for, and boredom was your worse enemy. But now, you found entertainment in a much more thrilling pursuit – pushing the buttons of the ever-grinning, one and only, Radio Demon.

A wicked thrill slithered down your spine when you noticed the faintest twitch of his left eye. His head tilted to the side, a glimmer of amusement – and perhaps annoyance – flickering behind his red-tinted gaze. He scoffed, the sound like static breaking through a radio, and muttered something about the “younger generation not appreciating the finer aspects of real entertainment.”

As Alastor turned his head away, a shadowy movement caught your eyes. His shadow, usually a perfect reflection of him, rippled as if caught in a breeze that wasn’t there.

And then…it shifted.

The once-stoic silhouette frowned, its mass shrinking, folding in on itself like a chastised child. It looked almost…sad.

Oh? Now, this was interesting.

You’d never teased Alastor about his powers before, but this might just be the perfect opportunity. The idea of seeing him drop that ever-present, smug grin sent a delightful jolt of pleasure through you. Leaning forward, your grin spread wider, more mischievous than before.

“You know, Alastor, I’ve noticed something quite fascinating about you. Your powers…quite the spectacle, aren’t they? Shadow magic, if I’m not mistaken?” You tilted your head, watching him intently.

To your amusement, Alastor perked up at your words, his chest puffing out slightly, and a proud look took over his expression. He casually inspected his nails, playing into the flattery. “Ah, yes, indeedy! My abilities are rather unique – far beyond the capabilities of any other demon’s magic, I dare say –“

“It’s a pretty lame power,” you interrupted, smirking as you blew a raspberry. “I mean, shadow magic? Really? I’ve seen cooler tricks at a children’s birthday party.” You glanced pointedly at his shadow, which now seemed to shrink even more, trying to hide behind Alastor’s body. “Honestly, the TV demon has way better power. You ever see the stuff he can do? Now that’s impressive.”

Alastor froze, and in that instant, the surrounding air grew thick and heavy. The room itself seemed to fall under a strange, unnatural stillness. Before you could blink, something cold and slick snapped across your lips, silencing you of any further quips. Your eyes widened as you struggled to move, but your limbs were no longer yours to command. Invisible tendrils of force held you pinned to the chair, your body stiff and unyielding.

Alastor’s grin widened, impossibly so, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a low, vibrating hum that echoed through your mind.

“My dear,” he cooed, leaning in just enough for you to feel the pressure of his very presence, “there are some games you don’t want to play with me.”

You squirmed from the invisible restraint that rendered you mute and powerless.

“What was that, dear?” Alastor’s voice dripped with venomous amusement; his eyes gleamed with a malicious red glint. His grin, too wide, illuminated in a sickly yellow glow, casting eerie shadows across his sharp features. Slowly, methodically, he tilted his head to the side, the crack of his neck echoing through the room like the snap of a dry twig underfoot.

Your heart leapt in your chest, but you tried to maintain your composure. Glancing down at your hand, you noticed it trembling ever so slightly, a faint dark aura curling around your fingers like mist. When you looked back up, Alastor’s eyes were already locked on you, his grin didn’t falter, but the malice radiating from him was palpable, chilling the surrounding air.

“You’ve been so incredibly chatty before, and now…you’ve grown ever so silent!” His laugh was low, a dark melody of mockery as he leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed as if savouring the moment. “I’m surprised that you chose now to listen to your better!” His voice lifted into a higher, mocking pitch, echoing through the room like a twisted lullaby.

A grunt of frustration left your throat as you tried to move, but your body refused to respond. The invisible force binding you to the chair seemed to tighten, and then you felt it – a whisper of a touch against the curve of your neck. It was impossibly soft, like the brush of a feather, but it sent a jolt of electricity racing down your spine, igniting every nerve it grazed.

You clenched your teeth, eyes fluttering shut, fighting the small pitiful whimper building in your throat. You would not give him the satisfaction of knowing your weakness – specifically, your erogenous zone, more like.

Tensing your muscles, your desperately tried to suppress your whimper as it clawed its way up your throat. But the second his voice crackled to life, sharp and sinister, that resolve began to crumble.

“Interesting.”

The single word dripped with dark amusement, and your eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief. You stared at him, searching for answers in his glowing red eyes. Alastor grinned wider, basking in the silent panic flickering across your face.

Before you could even process a single thought, you felt it again – that feather like touch, teasing just behind your ear. The cool, silky sensation slithered down the curve of your neck, and this time, there was no holding back the involuntary shudder that coursed through you.

Your body betrayed you completely.

As if the invisible binding loosened just enough, your lips were freed, but not in time to stop the soft, devastating moan that slipped past them. The sound hung in the air between you like a damning confession.

“My, look at you,” Alastor purred, his voice a deep, honeyed tenor that sent a shiver of anticipation and want down your spine and penetrated into your core. Another caress – so gentle, so deliberate – skated across your hot, flushed skin. “Had I known this was all it took to get some peace and silence from you, I would have done it much sooner.”

His words coiled around you, thick with smug satisfaction, as his eyes drank in the sight of your face contorting, torn between restraint and giving in to the sensations he was pulling from you.

Summoning what little strength you had left, you glared at him through your lustful haze, the words, “fuck you,” barely managing to escape your trembling lips. The weak insult only seemed to heighten his amusement. His grin stretched wider, sharp teeth catching the dim light as he leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with twisted delight.

“You claimed my power was useless,” he murmured, his voice suddenly cold, authoritative. “So, I suppose a demonstration is in order.”

The way he loomed over you, despite sitting across from you with his gaze unyielding made you feel like a student caught misbehaving under the stern gaze of a teacher. His impassive expression only weighed in on your feelings of helplessness.

“I’ll pass–ahhnn!” Your feeble attempt to reject him was cut off, morphing into desperate gasps as those silky tendrils glided lower. They traced a slow, torturous path down your chest, brushing against the sensitive tips of your nipples. Your breath hitched as you squirmed in the chair, thighs trembling in a vain attempt to close your legs as you were sure the evidence of your desire was staining the inner centre of your pants.

“Now, now,” he crooned, his words laced with an almost affectionate mockery. “We’ve only just begun!”

Alastor’s laughter was pure and unadulterated as he declared with a flourish, “Honestly, I want you to feel comfortable around me, my dear!” His voice rang out boisterously, and with a sharp snap of his fingers, that same invisible force pried your legs apart.

You gasped, the air escaping you in ragged pants as the sensations assaulting your body intensified. The thick, musty air seemed to cling to your overheated skin, and every nerve felt as though it was ablaze, ignited by the unseen force caressing you. Your lips trembled as you bit down hard, trying – desperately – to stifle the moans bubbling up from deep within. Yet, your traitorous body, the slick heat pooling between your thighs, betrayed you in ways you could no longer control.

The unforgiving hardness of the chair beneath you did nothing to ease the ache throbbing at your core. It only heightened your frustration. Somehow, despite the layers of fabric still clinging to your skin, this mysterious, phantom touch seemed to bypass everything – touching you as though you were stripped bare.

Your nipples, painfully hardened, were being rubbed and pinched in ways that had your breath catching, your chest heaving as tears of desperation pricked at the corners of your eyes. You were perilously close to begging.

“You see, my dear,” Alastor’s voice cut through the haze, mocking and sharp, “you must not fully grasp the extent of my power if you dare compare me to that lousy ‘picture box.’” He spat the words with a venomous disdain, his eyes narrowing. “Beg for my forgiveness, and perhaps I’ll show mercy.” His voice dipped into a low, dangerous whisper, dripping with dark intent.

Your heart pounded in your ears, but something else caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it – Alastor’s shadow, the one that had lurked behind him, was now slithering across the floor, positioning itself directly behind you. Its tendrils writhed, holding you firmly in place, while its grotesque grin loomed close, mirroring its master’s. The shadow’s presence was suffocating, overwhelming as its clawed hands slowly traced a path of pleasure down the front of your chest.

“I…” You hesitated, trembling as those same spectral hands pinched your already sensitive nipples, somehow phasing through your clothes. Blood rushed to the tender tips, heightening your torment with drawn out pleasure. “I think – ah – it’s still pretty lame,” you challenged, arching a brow, your tongue flicking out to slowly trail along your lower lip, drawing Alastor’s attention.

Alastor’s eyes darkened, pupils shrinking into narrow slits as he followed the motion of your tongue. His mouth twisted into a manic grin, and let out a wild, unhinged cackle. “I’ll never understand your generation’s needless stubbornness!” He declared, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

In the blink of an eye, everything changed. The kitchen, the dim light – it all vanished. You were swallowed by darkness, an endless void that stretched in every direction. Yet, you remained seated in the same chair, surrounded by nothing. Your sight had been stolen from you, leaving you blind and disoriented.

“Fascinating, wouldn’t you say?” Alastor’s voice rang out through the void, calm and calculated. You could feel his eyes on you, drinking in your every movement, like a predator waiting for its prey to make one wrong misstep.

“Ah!” You yelped, body jerking as something – a sensation like fingers – began rubbing against the slick folds between your legs. Despite the barrier provided by your clothes, the touch was undeniable, intimate, and invasive. Your legs were spread wide, leaving you completely vulnerable to the unseen force now exploring the wetness pooling there. The soft, wet sound of your own arousal filled the surrounding silence, intensifying the humiliation as your body responded without hesitation.

Quick, shallow breaths escaped your lips as you squirmed, trying to find some way to relieve the relentless teasing. Yet, all you could feel was that luxurious, maddening touch, dipping and teasing, tracing the sensitive thick folds. The darkness amplified everything – the wet sounds, the shuddering moans you couldn’t hold back, and the ache that radiated from your core.

You whimpered softly, the desperation clear in every breath, every twitch of your body. You wanted more – needed more – your throbbing clit practically screaming for attention, while your cunt begged for release.

But all you had was Alastor’s voice, echoing through the endless dark, and the maddening, torturous touch that refused to give you the satisfaction you so desperately craved.

The same shadowy appendages rubbed and rubbed, smooth and relentless, dipping into you right at the entrance, gathering your slick before gliding against your inner folds again. Your thighs trembled as you were forced into a shameful display, and you couldn’t bear to think about what expression you wore for Alastor now. Your hips instinctively jerking to grind against the shadowy fingers teasing your wet folds.

“You know what to say, dear,” Alastor’s voice slithered into your ear, a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. In the darkness, with your body immobile, every whisper, every breath, every slick sound of Alastor’s shadow playing you amplified your vulnerable and aroused state. The contrast between the cool darkness and the peculiar warm touch of his shadow heightened your awareness, pushing you closer to the edge.

Hot tears began to trickle down your cheeks, mixing with the heat of your embarrassment as the shadow’s caress shifted from teasingly light to an almost punishing pressure. It demanded more from your greedy, slick heat. Abandoning any pretense of pride, you let out a desperate whimper. “Please, I-I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice trembling in the oppressive silence. Only your head and neck were free from the shadow’s hold, leaving you breathless and exposed.

“I’m sorry for saying your shadow power was lame,” you gasped, and your words were rewarded with a sudden fullness, the thick, unyielding digit pushing deep inside you, curling against your sensitive skin.

“Oh, my, look at you,” Alastor said, his voice tinged with mockery. “Such a pretty mess you’ve made. Who would have thought this would be your undoing?”

“Oh, God,” you moaned, your head thrown back in surrender, grateful to whatever fucking deity was listening for finally filling the emptiness that pulsed within you. “Ah, more, please, more,” you whimpered, emboldened by the darkness, free from the weight of his gaze – though you could almost feel it, a predatory presence looming over you, delighting in your plight.

A sudden tearing sound made you gasp; your pants ripped at the seam, a cool breeze kissing your exposed skin, intensifying the slick warmth pooling between your legs.

“Look at you, dear. You’re absolutely drenched, soaked your underwear right through! Hah!” Alastor chuckled, his voice a disembodied tease, echoing all around you. You couldn’t tell where he was anymore – behind you, beside you, or perhaps he hadn’t moved at all, still watching with that insufferably bored expression, like a spectator at a dull weather report.

“S-sorry,” you moaned, the undeniable squelch of your arousal filling the air, shame mingling with pleasure as whatever was touching you coaxed out your need. You strained to see, but the darkness was absolute, leaving you only to imagine those shadowy appendages moving in and out of your wet, sopping cunt – a hypnotic rhythm that drove you wild.

It felt incredible – so impossibly good – as the dexterous finger-like tendrils curled and pressed all the right spots, drawing you closer and closer to the precipice. You clenched your abdomen, desperate for release, but then the motion halted abruptly. The loss of sensation was cruel, leaving you painfully aching, yearning for that delicious stretch, for the pull and push of your inner walls.

“Now, now, don’t be greedy,” Alastor purred, his tone dripping with mockery. “Patience is a virtue, or haven’t you learned that yet?”

A snap echoed in the room, and your vision flooded with light. Across from you, just as you expect, sat Alastor, his ever-present grin splitting his face. Legs crossed, he watched with amusement flickering in his eyes. “Ah, sight isn’t the only thing I can take away, my dear,” he mused, voice dripping with sinister glee.

Your mouth was stretched wide, forced open, as his shadow lingered beside you, its hand plunged into your mouth. Its slick fingers pressed down on your tongue, holding it captive. Humiliation gnawed at you as drool leaked from the corners of your lips, a slow trickle that dripped down your chin. The warm saliva cooled quickly against your skin, but the undeniable feeling of shame mingling with the hot, burning desire of pleasure consumed you.

When your gaze flicked downward, you caught the sight of Alastor’s shadow. Its fingers danced over your swollen clit, moving in tight, calculated circles. The delicate touch was maddening as you felt it was just short of pushing you closer to the peak.

A helpless moan slipped out, muffled by the fingers lodged in your mouth. The more Alastor’s shadow played with you, the more fluids spilled, your lips trembling as saliva and arousal dripped from your needy body.

Unexpectedly, the shadow’s fingers plunged inside your slick heat, driving deep with unrelenting force. Your eyelids fluttered shut as another guttural moan vibrated around the intruding fingers in your mouth. Your throat strained with each breath, the effort of swallowing excess saliva adding to your torment. The lewd, wet sounds of your body being claimed filled the air – each thrust squelching with a vulgar intensity that only heightened your spiralling, intense desire.

Alastor’s voice cut through the haze of pleasure and submission. “Beg for forgiveness, my dear,” he crooned, his tone mocking yet lilting, as though he were offering you something. “And perhaps, I may allow you to finish.”

Your body craved release, teetering on the brink of orgasm, but the shadow's fingers stuffed in your mouth made coherent words impossible. You struggled to form even a basic plea, but all that escaped your lips were garbled moans and desperate, incoherent sounds. Your abdomen clenched, desperate – so fucking desperate – to reach your peak, but your hips remained pinned, unable to find the friction they needed.

Your eyes darted to Alastor in panic, pleading silently. His grin split through his cheeks, as though relishing in your helplessness. “Oh dear, it seems you don’t really want it after all,” he sighed with a mock expression of disappointment, his voice laced with dark amusement.

A fresh wave of frustration swirling with anger and desperation ripped though you as you continued to teeter at the edge, unable to tumble over. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and soon they streamed down your face, joining the cooling drool that stained your chin. You moaned incoherently around the shadow’s fingers, your voice trembling with need.

Alastor’s eyebrows raised, his tone exaggerated with surprise. “Well, aren’t you a lucky one? It just so happens I’m in quite a generous mood!” His tone continued its uplifting beat, matching his exterior joviality.

As if on cue, the fingers left your mouth, but before you could gather your breath, you felt a tight pressure coil around your neck. It squeezed, slow and purposeful, cutting off your airflow inch by damning inch. Panic shot through you as you gagged for air, your pulse hammering in your ears. Alastor’s shadow grinned, its face looming beside yours as it continued to relentlessly fuck you with its fingers. They moved with vicious intent, plunging deep into your walls, hitting every sensitive spot, each stroke sending your body reeling.

Your vision began to blur, dark spots forming at the edges as your head swam with lightheadedness. The air refused to fill your lungs, the tightness around your throat unbearable, until suddenly – release. A flood of oxygen rushed in to your body at the same time the shadow’s fingers curled deliciously inside you, pressing against your g-spot with merciless precision.

The orgasm hit you like a crashing wave. A raw scream tore from your throat, mixing with sobs as pleasure washed over you in undulating waves. Your body convulsed, trembling uncontrollably as the shadow’s fingers never relented, still thrusting, still curling, keeping you locked in the agonizing cycle of ecstasy.

“Ahhhh…fu-ahhhh!” You sobbed, the pleasure too much, too intense. Your clit throbbed painfully, swollen and oversensitive, and the shadow’s fingers began to slap at it – hard, wet slaps that sent sharp bursts of pain rippling through the pleasure. It was endless. The overwhelming sensation of being pushed beyond your limit clouded your thoughts, a jumble of pain, of pleasure, and of torment.

“Aren’t I generous?” Alastor asked, his voice heavy with mockery. He watched your body writhed and twitch beneath his control. “Let’s see how many times I can make you break, hm?”

The moment Alastor uttered his final words, his shadow’s fingers drove back into you – three of them this time – curling deep inside your weeping cunt. They moved fast, a blur of relentless thrusts that tore another orgasm from your exhausted body. You gasped for breath, the feeling being stretched and filled too much, your mind going blank from the overload.

“A-ah, to-too much,” you managed to cry out, though your body remained stiff and unmoving, helpless against the hold Alastor’s shadow had on you. Your cunt clenched tightly around the dexterous fingers, your core pulsing as the shadow showed no mercy, working your sensitive spots with precision.

And then – hot and wet – his shadow’s tongue trailed up the back of your ear, the same spot that had started it all. It licked and sucked at your skin, the obscene sounds filling your ears, mingling with the squelching from your dripping cunt. You could feel the puddle forming beneath you, the wetness between your legs soaking the seat. Your body trembled, your mind teetering on the brink as you felt yourself nearing the edge again.

Just as the pressure built, a sharp pinch at your raw nipple jolted you, sending you hurtling into another orgasm. This time, no sound escaped you – your scream was swallowed by the force of the release. Your body convulsed, jerking with each wave of pleasure that rolled through you, until you were nothing more than a quivering, wet, mess.

As the shadow’s grip loosened, your body collapsed forward, slumping against the cool tiles. The cold surface was a sharp contrast to the burning heat of your overstimulated skin. Your entire body continued to tremble, twitching from the aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through you. Your tongue lolled out as it took everything you had to continue to breathe despite the shameful display of drooling like a dog by Alastor’s feet.

“Now then,” Alastor’s voice chimed in brightly, his polished shoes the only thing in your line of sight as he stood before you. “I do hope you’ll clean up after yourself. This may be a hotel, but our complimentary brunch is self-service, after all.” He laughed, a sound filled with genuine mirth, before his body melted into the shadows.

The ends of your lips twitched upwards, your body still shivering as you felt the cool slide of your arousal dripping out from the apex of your thighs. You could still feel the lingering touch of his shadow still imprinted on your body.

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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Soldat

A random drabble for @startcarvingdarling

Warnings for fear, kidnap, and spanking.

Character: Bucky Barnes, side of Peter Parker

“Peter? I’m waiting,” you say as he finally picks up.

“Hmm? Waiting? What do you mean?” He asks as you hear something whirring in the background.

“What? Don’t tell me you forgot.” You sneer, “you’re at the lab, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. Where am I supposed to be?” He sputters.

“Meeting me for our date!” You snip. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed.”

“Date? What—I didn’t-- I guess I forgot but I don’t remember--”

“You never remember anything, do you? Not unless you’re getting some award or simping for Tony.” You huff.

“What? I mean it. I have no recollection of this--”

“You texted me last week. Said you want to spend some time together since you’ve been so busy and—Never mind. I’m not doing this. I’m not responsible for keeping your mind straight,” you shake your head, “bye.”

You hang up as your eyes prick. You should have expected it. You can barely get a message back so why would he follow through on this? Besides, all he ever talks about are his gadgets.

You drop your arm and turn to the restaurant. You look up and groan. He probably didn’t even make a reservation. You drag your feet away and head back down the street.

The marquee lights reflect off the dark pavement and cast your shadow across the curb. As you walk, others pass by merrily in couples and groups. They’re raucous as they head out for a night of fun. For time with people who care about them.

You turn down the next street. It’s emptier, and darker, away from the main strip. Your footsteps echo and you cross the street, undeterred as the traffic is sparse. As you get to the other side, you flinch. You turn. You thought you heard something.

As you turn back, you jump. There was a shadow there. You spin and search the darkness. You’re imagining things. Even if that’s the case, it is New York.

You speed ahead through the cones of light glowing from the tall street poles. You pump your arms as your breath hitches. Your heart is racing. You hear another scuff. You turn but see nothing.

You jump as there’s a clatter down the alley and you squeak, stumbling back. You whirl around again and this time, your path is blocked. The silhouette of a man looms between the safe haven of the lights. His shoulders are broad and his feet wide.

“Um, you—take it,” you throw your purse at him. He swipes it away. You flinch and step back. “Sir, I don’t--”

He steps forward and your voice fizzles in the air. You know him. It’s Bucky. Yet, it doesn’t seem like him. His posture is different and he has a black mask over the lower half of his face. His eyes are almost black and he move mechanically as he comes closer.

“Bucky? What are yo--”

He grabs you by your throat and you cough. You latch onto his wrist as your phone bounces off the sidewalk. You whimper. The street light is swallowed up in his pupils as brings you near. He presses his nose to yours, the fabric of the mask rough.

He tilts his head as he pulls back and launches you up. He takes a step and catches you easily over his shoulder. He veers and marches into the alleyway as you squeal. His hand cracks across your ass and your voice catches. He squeezes until your whine, digging into your flesh.

“Wait- what--”

He hushes you as he keeps going. You kick your legs and swipe at his back. He doesn’t stop. It’s as if he can’t hear you. As if your pleas are nothing, just like your weight on his shoulder.

His laughter echoes against the brick walls as he carries you into the shadows. You don’t know where he’s taking you, or why, but you know you should be afraid. This isn’t Bucky, this is what he used to be.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier #captain america #avengers #mcu #marvel #drabble

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suzukiblu · 8 months ago

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Danny/Duke(DeadLights or GhostLights), "I'll be waiting... time after time."

Duke found something weird on patrol today. He’s day shift, obviously, but near the end of his shift . . .

Well, something weird happened.

Or he saw something weird, more like.

He saw something weird that’d already happened, maybe. Or . . . was happening? Was about to happen?

It was hard to tell, for some reason. Like the time didn’t . . . flow quite right. Like the light was reflecting wrong.

So now he’s crouched in the back of the darkest alley he could feel in reasonable range, and he’s holding a tiny, tiny wisp of a thing, a faint little gossamer-fragile globe. It’s . . . light, he thinks. It looks like light. Behaves like it, a little.

But it behaves like light that he’s using his powers on, not light that just exists.

So that’s . . . new, yeah.

Huh.

Duke doesn’t know why, but he’s worried about the little light. Like it’s about to go out, and like it’d be bad if it went out.

He wonders . . .

He wraps the darkness around himself better, and thinks of it like a cradle, for some reason. Some reason he can’t quite pin down for himself. The little light flickers, thready and inconstant. It makes him think of a heartbeat, even in the silence, and he wraps more darkness around himself.

Wraps more darkness around . . . them, some part of him thinks.

Yeah. “Them”.

Huh.

Gotham is never silent unless things are going very wrong, of course. And this is a light, not a heartbeat. Not a . . .

No. It’s not a heartbeat.

It’s a heart.

Duke puts the gentlest spark of illumination on the very tip of his finger and very, very lightly touches the heart’s gossamer-lit surface. It sparks.

It gleams.

He sees something like veins on its surface and electric illumination inside it, and something alive all the way through it. Or . . . close to alive. Almost the same as alive.

Well. Maybe not alive, but . . . close enough to count, he thinks.

Yeah. Definitely close enough to count.

“It’s okay. I got you,” Duke says, and he doesn’t mean to say it that way, really, but it comes out like he’s talking to a lost little kid. He’s used to that, given the job, but he’s not sure why he’s doing it now.

But also it’s just–what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why, but it’s what he’s doing.

Is this . . . this is a person, isn’t it. But is this a person and also a kid?

He doesn’t know how he knows that, but–it is, isn’t it. This is a kid. A kid who’s gossamer-frail and weak and flickering.

Okay, well . . . he has to do something about that, then.

He doesn’t know what exactly he does need to do. It’s . . . there’s something that he needs to do, he knows. Something that he can do.

He wraps more darkness around them both, twisting the shadows up around them. He makes something like a nest, or maybe an actual cradle after all, and he lets it all interweave into something safe and strong and secure. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows he has to do something, and the best he’s got is trying to follow his instincts. Listen to what the light is . . . not saying, exactly, but wants.

It wants safe. It wants strong. It wants secure. It wants–

“Hey,” a voice says, and Duke looks up and sees a floating silhouette that burns like starlight outside his cradle of shadows, a spiked crown illuminating the air above its head and a burning ring engulfing its right hand. It looks like it’s about to burst into a supernova; like it could destroy worlds.

It’s a really cute guy about his age with electric green eyes and milk-white hair in a black hazmat suit.

. . . okay, sure. This might as well happen, Duke thinks.

“You two need some help down there?” the guy asks, and the little gossamer light glows.

. . . well, all things considered, Duke’s done crazier things than ask a really cute supernova for childcare tips.

#dpxdc #ghostlights #deadlights #duke thomas #danny fenton #dc signal #danny phantom #anonymous #rinfic #long post

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tadc-harlequin-au · 1 month ago

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Hi! Please excuse any misspellings, english is not my frist language...

Firstly I just wanted to tell you that I love your AU! Your Harlequin au was what intorduced me to lovely TADC au Tumblr community and I absolutley love it! I haven't seen alternate universes as creative as these since the Sansverse era!

Secondly, I hace a question about the Patriarch: He seems to have a very good idea of who Caine is, wouldn't he be this world's equivalent to Able? I ask because althugh his design is WAY different from most fan Able depictions, he still has that "The Puppetmaster's brother" vibe that all Ables tend to have, a peace of Caine's past that he can never get rid of!

If he is not Able then I am curious of who he is, if he is then the lore just got spicier and if you don't want to spoil anything I'll understand.

But honestly: Keep it up! Your au has filled 70% of all my daydreams, the only thing I have been able to think about for a while has only been game mechanics, combat and chase sequences!

Damn y'all are fucking sleuths istg

Though I am very proud of that because that means my design philosophy worked somehow, and for that, I'll throw you guys a bone. And also because I can't keep it a secret any longer I've been holding it in since the very beginning of this au

YES.

The Patriarch of Puppets is none other than Abel, Caine's biological brother.

When I was first designing him, I wanted every aspect of Abel's design to scream "opposite of Caine", and to hold some form of symbolism. From his megaphone head, down to the color palettes, there is meaning. Don't get me wrong, Mushy's Able is a very memorable and awesome design and I could've incorporated him the same way I did Souls-like, but I wanted something deeper for Harlequin.

While Caine is adorned in golds and maroons to symbolize his warmer nature, Abel has teals and silver, a very cold and intimidating stature. Their outfits and the colors are an opposition towards each other yet reflect one another somehow, the way Abel dresses tightly and formal when Caine is loose and open, his intense red pupil conveys his hostility, whilst Caine's eyes are softer blues and greens.

His king-size height dwarfing Caine tells just how much the Puppetmaster felt living on his shadow, HELL, someone noticed the weird "A" on the sides of his head and I had to shrug it off because I didn't want to reveal it as early as that time.

Even the megaphone head design holds SO MUCH UNTOLD STORY BETWEEN THE BROTHERS THAT I WILL CHOOSE TO KEEP A SECRET FOR NOW. I've put SO MUCH THOUGHT behind his design.

*sigh*... Which is also why I very much dislike the "siren head" jokes, because it's the one thing I didn't really foresaw when I was developing his design until I finished, and someone pointed out it might cause jokes like that to prop up. Something I thought I wouldn't mind initially, until everyone made the same joke over and over again and I just audibly groan irl.

But you know. internet's gonna internet, they see one thing that resembles a popular media, it's an immediate connection. I didn't even give a shit enough about Siren head to know how the design actually looked like, just a silhouette of the guy.

Therefore, I would really appreciate it if saying this out loud would help lessen the jokes, but ik not everyone is going to see this post so.

I do still wanna thank you for your kind words, because these kinds of asks are the fuel to my fire of inspiration and motivation for this AU, and I wish that I can keep this fire going till the very end of this AU's story :')

#thanks for the ask!#tadc #tadc au #harlequin au #tadc harlequin au #the amazing digital circus #caine #the patriarch of puppets harlequin au #tadc harlequin au the patriarch

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mimicha-arts · 1 year ago

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I have not written fandom theories for a long time, but LInkClick fuels my interest and search for meaning too much. Recently, I reviewed all the available series, and came across details that I had not connected before. For the most part, this post is speculations about Cheng Xiaoshi, as well as ... timeline.

Spoilers! Please be careful.

Considering so many details about Cheng Xiaoshi, it seems that there has always been something strange about his "symbolism". In fact, I'm really into the theory that the moment in episode 1 of season 2 (when Lu Guang gets stabbed) is the vision & flashback of the past about Cheng Xiaoshi's death. In fact, it amazes and delights me how many details in OverThink support these thoughts. At least because once a frame flashes, which somewhat resembles a scene from Lu Guang's flashbacks.

But there is more. We have 3 main points: clock, сlockwork and camera. 1. Clock - possible time of death Very specific time appear several times. The clock hands look very strange, still not 6, so probably the time is 5:20 (thus, given the symbolism of 520, I have even more questions). They show the same time in any frame.

But the most interesting thing is that at the very end, when we see Cheng Xiaoshi (with the design from the first season), for a few seconds, in addition to the patterns of gears, a very faded inverted dial of this clock appears on him, where inverted 4 is the most visible part. No need to say that 4 is a symbol of death.

This can only be seen in 1s1s ED. Because, in fact, there are 2 versions of the ED, and it's different (without these details) for the remaining 10 episodes.

Even the very first intro with characters contains very similar clock placed in the background of Cheng Xiaoshi. So, at this point, I'm guessing that this strange 5:20 was the key node and the death of Cheng Xiaoshi.

2. Clockwork - сhanging a key event Gears are shown both literally and in pattern. For a long time, I thought that Lu Guang's shadow was just a shadow, or an indistinct noise, but if you look closely, it becomes obvious that Lu Guang is covering a pattern of gears - probably as a sign of changes with clock mechanism and time. Details such as water drops and film strips are also interesting, as both OP (Dive Back in Time and Vortex) connect these elements to Cheng Xiaoshi.

One of the moments shows how the silhouette of hands (overlapping the trees, which may coincide with the background of the forest in the vision in s2s1) touches the inverted clock, after which the second hand of the clock begins to move back.

And the most beautiful thing .. The fact that the hands belong to Lu Guang, as well as the context of this action, confirms that the animation literally coincides with the scene from the end of 4th (and the beginning of 5th) episodes, when Lu Guang explains to Cheng Xiaoshi how key events (nodes) and changes in the past work. But inverted. What a coincidence, right?

Honestly, I think that all these details can further support the theories about Lu Guang, which already have enough speculation. Given all the hints, it is possible that due to Cheng Xiaoshi's death, he changed something in time, thus erasing the "future in that present" and created a new present as an alternate reality. Just a thought.

3. Camera - another timeline Let's go back to the very end again. Here Cheng Xiaoshi is holding a camera in his hands.

Remember this diamond-shaped mark. This camera is very specific, as it has appeared several times, but not in the main series (yet). There is an easter egg in the mini-series, Lu Guang has a rather similar model, only with a round (clock-like) mark.

It's importance becomes even more obvious, especially now that we have a poster for the second season.

So. What's wrong with this camera? Because there are actually two of them. The one on the table has a rounded clock mark. But the camera in reflection is the one that Cheng Xiaoshi holds in the ED, with a diamond mark.

For me... Seems like it is probably one of the main connecting elements or "anchor" between the timelines / alternate realities, at least conveys this idea. All this makes me feel excited and inspired, how it was possible to place all this so neatly. And which of these can really confirm conjectures and theories … Thanks to the scriptwriters and animators, it's nice to be a part of this game.

Or maybe I'm just overthinking… Anyway, thanks for reading to the end. Perhaps someone has their own thoughts, feel free to discuss ~

#link click #link click s2 #shiguang dailiren #shiguang #cheng xiaoshi #lu guang #link click spoilers #i'm about to lose my mind

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ancient-and-gauntly · 11 months ago

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Corridor Waltz

Sebastian x F! Reader Warnings: Just some post argument fluff and light discussion, nothing big, female reader clear Summary: After Sebastian is too stubborn to ask you to the Yule Ball and finds out who you went with instead and argue, the two of you find yourselves at a crossroad in the corridors.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset.” You break the silence,smoothing out the skirt of your dress carefully. “You just didn’t ask me, and I didn’t want to go alone so-”

“So you ask Leander-Fucking-Prewitt? The top idiot himself?” Sebastian repeats himself harshly. “I wanted to ask you but with everything going on I-I forgot and,” He trails off, sighing in defeat. “I'm sorry, Y/N. Its all my fault. Yet another big thing ruined by my stupid pride. Sebastian paced anxiously in the dimly lit corridor of Hogwarts, the shadows flickering as the torches cast dancing silhouettes on the cold stone walls. The air was thick with tension, as your argument slowly dissipates and begins to make room for regrets

You stood a few feet away, back turned to him and posture tense. The echoes of your heated words still reverberated in the quiet corridor. He had been too proud to ask you to the Yule Ball, convinced that you would reject him, and you had been equally stubborn in not extending an invitation yourself. The weight of unspoken feelings hung heavily in the air, a palpable force that pushed you two apart even as your hearts pulled you together.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Sebastian took a deep breath and approached you slowly. He reached out, his fingers gently grazing your arm. You tensed slightly at his touch, but he persisted, turning you to face him. Your eyes were stormy, a mixture of hurt and confusion. Sebastian couldn't stand to see you like this.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice breaking the silence. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things. I just... I didn't know how to ask you."

Your eyes searched his, looking for sincerity. Slowly, you nodded, acknowledging the apology. “I forgive you, Seb.” You respond, wiping another small tear from your cheek. “But we can’t keep doing this to each other. We-we have to finally draw that line in the sand as to what this- what we are.”

Sebastian took a step closer, cupping you face in his hands. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. There, in the flickering light of the torches, he saw vulnerability in your eyes, a reflection of his own thoughts and feelings swirling in them. Leaning in he pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to your lips. It was a gentle touch, a silent plea for understanding. The tension gives way to a bittersweet mixture of longing and forgiveness.

Sebastian pulled away, his eyes locked with yours. "Can I have this next dance right here?" he asked, his voice low and earnest. “Well, what I am assuming is another dance.” He adds, half chuckling.”’S’hard to tell, with the way this orchestra plays.”

You looked at him in shock and confusion. “Right here? In the corridor?”

“Of course.” he replied softly, tucking a strand of hand behind your ear. He sighs as you slowly return his smile and nods. Sebastian took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring. With his other hand on your waist, he guided you into a simple dance. “Wait I-” you attempt to not trip. “I’m not a very good dancer.” You try to explain shyly, but he just chuckles.

“Then here,”Sebastian smiled and gently pulled you feet to stand on top of his.”Now you don’t have to worry about it, and I don’t have to bend so far down to do this.” He pecks your lips softly once again

The two of you swayed together in the corridor, the torchlight casting a warm glow on your faces. Sebastian held you close, foreheads pressed together. The world outside the corridor ceased to exist, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, caught in the quiet magic of the dance.

“Sebastian,” You whisper, breaking the uncertain silence. “Why did you wait so long to ask?”

"I didn't want to ruin our friendship," Sebastian admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I was scared, Y/N. Scared that if I asked you to the ball or to even hogsmeade for a drink alone, it would change everything."

“But not asking me changed everything too," You replied, your voice a mixture of sadness and understanding. "We've been avoiding this for too long, Seb."

He nodded, his grip on your waist tightening softly. "I know. I just... I didn't want to risk losing you."

You sighed, resting your head against his shoulder. "You won't lose me, Sebastian. After everything we have been through, you think asking me to a dance would ruin it? I care about you too much for that."

Sebastian smiled, relief washing over him. "I care about you too, Y/N. More than I've been willing to admit."

As the two of you continued to dance, the tension between you slowly dissipated. Your hand found its way to Sebastian's shoulder, and you continued to softly sway together. "So, what happens next?" you finally asked, your voice a gentle curiosity.

Sebastian's eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked down at you. "Well," he began, his tone teasing, "first, we'll pack our bags, run away together, and have grand adventures across the world. Then, we'll get married in a magical ceremony under the stars, surrounded by unicorns and enchanted flowers."

You rolled your eyes playfully, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, really? Unicorns and enchanted flowers?"

Sebastian chuckled, pulling you even closer. "Absolutely. And we'll spend our days exploring hidden corners of the world, having thrilling escapades, and, of course, dancing in torchlit corridors."

“Oh really?,” You couldn't help but laugh at the whimsical picture he painted. "You have quite the imagination, Sebastian Sallow."

He grinned, his eyes filled with warmth. "Well, I figure if we're going to dream, we might as well dream big. But if that's too much, I guess we can start with the basics, like you being my girlfriend."

You smiled."Now that sounds more realistic."

"For now... Future Mrs. Sebastian Sallow." He teases, pecking your lips once more.

“What have I allowed to happen?” You giggle, pressing your forehead to his once again.

He laughed, the sound echoing in the corridor and causing your heart to skip a beat. "Just planting the seed for the future, darling. You know, for when you can't resist my charm any longer."

You shook your head, a playful glint in her eyes. "We'll see about that, Mr. Sallow."

“I can’t wait.”

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x f!reader #sebastian sallow fluff #the yule ball #hogwarts legacy

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wntrmelts · 4 months ago

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Why I view/write Kaeya as living an inherently feminine experience

(reposting this essay from twitter)

This entire post will be a long string of observations and headcanons surrounding why I believe Kaeya’s story is an inherently feminine experience. It includes canon interactions but also explanations as to why I write him in a certain way in my works. Also, I would like to establish that with ‘feminine’ I am not explicitly talking about gender expression, but more so the societal expectations and gender roles that have been put on women. By this definition, a feminine experience is not exclusive to women only.

Starting in his childhood, Kaeya is described as being gentle and polite by Adelinde (1) whilst Diluc was described as more rambunctious. As they grew up, Kaeya, being the more reserved one, seemed to always stay in Diluc’s shadow (2).

The question is whether this was by choice or something that was imposed upon him. In a way, I think it’s both. To survive, he made sure not to cause trouble or speak out of turn, listening to and pleasing the authoritative figures in his life instead.

After Diluc was out of the picture and out of the KoF, Kaeya was given a completely different role. He was expected to lead now, his previous persona would not suffice in an environment like this. He had to be respected, and in order to gain the respect of his new subordinates, he had to change. He became louder and more visible, he had to learn how to stand his ground. This isn’t only reflected in his personality, but also his appearance. A big silhouette that exudes status with the gold accents and fur coat; it demands attention and communicates confidence to outsiders.

Kaeya as we know him has a very big personality. It’s hard to definitively say whether he enjoys the attention he gets from outsiders. Where does the act stop and his true self begin?

In his hangout, we can see him scurrying away with the traveler once he starts getting approached and praised for his on-stage performance in Port Ormos (3).

From the way he treats the interactions, it seems that he can humor these interactions when needed, but does not particularly enjoy them. There seems to be a dichotomy between the way he presents himself and how wishes other people to perceive him, and his true desires. I don’t think this means that he completely dislikes the way he presents himself. After having played this part for so long, it would make sense that at least part of it melds into his true self, but it does imply that his change post-fight isn’t 100% a case of ‘flourishing into his true self’ as his Vision story might suggest.

On that note, the attention Kaeya seems to get from bystanders seems to be something he does not seem /entirely/ comfortable with. Besides the fan interactions in Port Ormos, Kaeya also mentions in his hangout that he got approached by a group of mercenaries to dance (4).

The subtext suggests they were flirting with him, and whilst it is possible Kaeya genuinely did not realize this, I don’t believe someone like him would be oblivious to the implications of the interaction. He doesn’t name for what it was, plays it off lightly, and moves on.

(To be fair, you can also take him at his word for this interaction. It really depends on how much you want to believe him. But also, my mans is not smiling in these?? At all??)

Now this goes into headcanon territory but I believe Kaeya is very aware of how people look at him. He’s been described to be eye-catching in his character story 5 (5), good-looking by multiple NPCs, even the traveler calls him handsome (6).

Point is: Kaeya looks good! He knows it, but as we’ve established before, he does not always like it. Despite his own discomfort, he still believes he can use this to his advantage. Because as we know, for him, the ends justify the means (7).

Perhaps he plays up his charm a little because he knows what it will get him, or because people will underestimate his true nature if he keeps it up.

So for my personal interpretation: he’s ‘flirty’, not because he likes it, but because it helps him get things done. The reactions he gets out of it may or may not disgust him a little, but his sense of self-worth is not enough to stop him from using these tactics to get ahead.

Lastly, I would like to discuss how Kaeya, despite everything that has happened to him, does not outwardly express any of his anger frequently. At least, not in an obvious sense. To keep up appearances and to maintain his image, he never bursts out in anger, shouts, or yells. He is always hyperaware of how other people view him, and being angry is simply not appropriate. He remains composed in the presence of others even if he might want to shout or be angry.

In short, the performative aspects of Kaeya’s character reflect a very specific part of the female experience to me. Always keeping in check with what other people’s expectations are, not wanting to take up too much space when he was younger but having to learn how to take up more space to gain other people’s respect when he got older, dealing with unwanted attention but not voicing complaints and dismissing them to not make a big deal out of it; these are all parts of it.

All of this is super self-indulgent so don’t take it too seriously~ Just wanted to justify why I think he gets to sit with the girls :D

References (yes, I'm extra):

Kaeya Hangout: Taste of Home https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Taste_of_Home

Kaeya’s Vision Story https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore

Kaeya Hangout: All the World’s a Stage https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/All_the_World%27s_a_Stage#Must_It_Be_So?

Kaeya Hangout: Poems Dedicated to the Wind https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Poems_Dedicated_to_the_Wind

Kaeya Character Story 5 https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore

Archon Quest: Prologue: When the Wind Dies Down https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/When_the_Wind_Dies_Down

Kaeya Character Story 2 https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore

#kaeya #genshin kaeya #kaeya alberich #genshin impact

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juststoriesintheend · 4 months ago

Text

II. The Lesson

Pairing: Master Sol x gn!Reader

Chapter Content: some light Jedi philosophy, lightsaber sparring, mutual pining, first kiss

Word Count: 2.7k

《 [series masterlist] 》《 I 》

In an attempt to remain as cool, calm, and casual as possible, you’ve left your cloak in your room. You’d only have to take it off in the training room anyway, so you’re saving yourself the extra time and effort. Not that you’re overthinking things. At all. You’ve only re-layered your tunics and tabard half a dozen times, adjusted your belt twice that, and very nearly stepped out with only one boot. Whatever spell you had been under in Sol’s presence yesterday has completely worn off.

You arrive an hour earlier than you normally do, which is about fifteen minutes before Sol comes in with Jecki. If you remember right, Sol is done teaching the younglings by now and is off doing whatever it is he does in his spare hour between duties. While you’re a little deflated not seeing him right away, it’s for the best because his absence allows you focus and control. You can concentrate better on the saber, on your hands, on the slicing of air and the humming of the Force without him distracting you.

After some quick stretches, you unclip your saber and ignite it. The floor and nearby pillars reflect the light back to you, as well as a distorted image of your silhouette. A lifetime’s worth of muscle memory kicks in and your body is alive, thrumming with energy as your wrist twists, then your elbow, then your torso tilts and the saber swings in front, in back, in front again. Your wrist flicks and the saber swirls above your head, down behind your back, and finishes with a flourish at your side.

It feels like coming home.

Switching the saber from one hand to the other, you warm up your other side, copying your previous moments as precisely as possible even though it’s definitely your weaker side. This is the freedom you’ve been missing. You’ve been so fixated on Sol that it’s kept you away from the calm that saber work has always brought you – the repetition of the familiar, the Force as it flows through you, the shadows and highlights cast upon the walls as your saber arcs. Nothing could ever compare to this.

The saber flies into the air after you toss it. This is one of the fancier tricks you’ve seen some of the younger Knights and Padawans practicing, and you can already tell you won’t be able to catch this one properly, not without hurting yourself, so you jump back and flick the blade off with the Force. You fully expect it to clatter on the stone floor, and you’re hoping the fall doesn’t damage the casing or the kyber, but instead it… hovers.

It takes a millisecond to search the room for the source, and another to turn your head. Sol stands near the doorway with his arm outstretched, both eyes open and his face lightly furrowed in concentration. His attention flickers to you before refocusing on your saber, and it unexpectedly flies across the room into his open palm in the second it takes for you to catch your breath.

There’s something remarkably intimate about him holding this piece of you, something so vital to your being as a Jedi that you feel empty without it at your side. Still, if there were anyone you trusted to hold your saber, your very life, in their hands, you think it would be Sol. It just so happens that you also like to watch him hold it, whatever that means to the secret, affectionate creature that lives inside you.

“I’ve never seen you try that before,” he finally says. He starts for the center of the room, his gaze still focused on your saber as he rubs his thumb over the hilt.

You’re strangely breathless and you can’t understand why. “I was feeling adventurous. Saw some of the Padawans trying it the other day and, very foolishly, thought I should try it too.”

The corner of Sol’s mouth dimples into a crooked smile.

Wait, did he just say he’d never seen you try that before? He’s aware of the type of saber work you usually do? Heat blazes across your face at the realization, but Sol is too occupied to take notice, thank the Force. He continues to turn your saber over in his hand, though you’re not sure why. It isn’t so remarkably different from any other saber.

“Why did you think you would disappoint me?”

Your saber is returned, and you clip it back to your belt just to have something to do. “Well, I’m not a Master, for one thing. If I’m going to be sparring with you, I’d like to at least look like I know what I’m doing.”

“It certainly appeared that you did.”

You duck your head the moment he makes eye contact with you. Now that he’s finally here, your confidence wavers, and you know that your concentration will do the same the moment he begins to fight.

“What is it that makes you so unsure of yourself?” he asks with all the gentleness of a man who senses discouragement and knows it like the back of his own hand. “You are an accomplished dueler.”

If only he knew the magnitude of his question, he might choose to ask you something else. Huffing a breath out the side of your mouth, you start with a lazy, “Well, I–”

The air around you seems to vibrate, then electrify as Sol summons his own weapon into his hand and ignites it. He bears down upon you, and you know deep in your heart that he would never hurt you, but this knowledge does not override instinct. Your saber is in your hand without conscious thought, brandished and burning as his blade lands near the hilt. The junction where they touch burns white-hot, so starkly bright that it hurts to even look.

What are you doing? you mean to ask, but the words never come. You’re too enraptured by the flame of blue-white light reflected in his pupils to speak. How long have you spent watching him from afar, marveling at his skill, and now you find yourself on the receiving end of it? It feels unreal. It feels jagged and raw in the same way a cold wind off the sea does, exhilarating in some forbidden sense.

He retreats and you stumble back a step as your lightsaber comes to hang by your leg, still ignited but out of the way. It’s not proper form, but you’re too dazed to care. Sol spots this and advances again, giving you only the slightest margin for error as your blade comes screaming back into position to block him once, twice, three times before he backs up again.

“You react with instinct.” He begins to circle you with his blade extended toward your face. “Good.”

You feel a flash of irritation in your chest at this. While you’re certain (at least, you hope) he means well, this feels more like a Master testing his Padawan than a fellow Jedi electing to spar with you. You are not Sol’s Padawan and you’ve already fought to make your mark as a Knight, you don’t like feeling like a child again and certainly not at his hands. That’s not the kind of feeling you want from him.

“I don’t need a lesson,” you say as politely as you can, which isn’t very much at all currently.

Sol’s head tilts slightly in the way it always does when he’s considering something. “Then why am I here?”

Electric blue flashes across your vision as he slashes his way forward and you parry away. He’s not even giving you time to answer, let alone think, and you know it’s on purpose. Your Master’s used this trick on you several times, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

“Why am I here?” he repeats. He doesn’t even react when your blade swings past his shoulder and misses. “Why did you accept my offer?”

You swing again, agitated, and miss a second time, only to be pushed aside by an invisible hand so strong that it nearly knocks your breath from you.

“Because!”

Now that there’s some distance between you, you have a moment to think, to assess yourself, the questions he’s asking, and the answers you want to give. Sol, however, chooses not to give you that time. His arm extends, fingers splayed and palm open as that same invisible hand grasps you by the tabard and pulls. His wrist twists and you come flying into his hand like your saber had mere minutes ago. Instinct and fear kicks in again, and you find yourself forced to choose between freedom with no saber and close quarters defense in the amount of time it takes to decide to breathe.

Your saber drops to the floor, the blade disappearing into itself as you summon the Force to instead push yourself away from Sol and out of his grasp. The resulting blow is strong enough to knock you both off your feet, though you have just enough forewarning to brace yourself for impact. Cold, hard stone meets shins and knees, but you’re already up and recovering your saber. Sol isn’t far behind, but he’s clearly startled. Startled enough to have dropped his saber.

You are no Jar’Kai prodigy, and indeed, it’s been years since you’ve attempted to dual wield with any amount of seriousness, but you try now. It makes sense. It feels right. Sol’s saber is heavy in your hand, heavier and wider than yours, but it doesn’t fight you when you brandish it. His kyber sings a peculiar harmony with your own, as if they were exchanging greetings, embracing each other through the Force. It tickles in the back of your brain like a shot of spotchka.

Sol’s hand meets your wrist when you bring his blade down. The leather glove creaks under the weight of your blow, but his arm remains firm. Your other arm remains frozen mid-air as it quivers with the effort of resisting his Force. He’s got you pinned and while he can’t release you without putting himself back in danger, you can no longer land a blow on him without losing any ground. It’s a stalemate in its truest form.

You’re closer to him now than you ever have been before. His breath fans out across your face as it comes and goes in quick exhalations, and you find yourself wondering if you should’ve brushed your teeth again after lunch. If you’d known he’d be so close to you now, you would have.

“Why?” he grits through his bared teeth. “Why did you accept my offer?”

Something hotter than ice burns from your shoulder down to your wrist with the effort of fighting him. “Because I can’t focus,” you gasp. You won’t be able to hold on much longer. “Keep. Making mistakes.”

He presses his advantage until your arm shudders with enough strength to completely collapse. The saber is snagged from your hand as it drops and quickly redirected to spark somewhere near the column of your neck. There’s no real threat behind it. Sol is moments away from winning this round and your body is already tired.

“Let your instinct guide you,” he instructs, and though it burns to admit it, you know he’s right. “Don’t think. Feel.”

But that’s exactly what you don’t want to do, what you can’t do. Because to feel would mean to let the sin of your affection for him seep deeper and deeper into your bones until you can no longer draw it out like poison from a wound. To feel would be the most beautiful agony imaginable. To feel would be to dream of possibilities that can never be. You would rather not feel it at all, than to feel it and lose it in the end.

You shake your head. “I can’t.”

Sol frowns. He looks so beautiful bathed in the light of his kyber. “What are you afraid of?”

The blue saber deactivates, then your own, and the training room returns to normal, but your wrist remains trapped in the palm of Sol’s glove. He’s close enough now that the voluminous lower half of his robes fall around your knees, brushing your ankles as he adjusts his stance and leans further into you. Is this not everything you ever wanted?

“Tell me.”

And it’s the gentleness of this prompt that finally cleaves through your heart. You are, quite honestly, tired. Your heart and mind are exhausted from the burden of your guilt, from the knowledge that you are already so attached to a man you hardly know. You want to fight his inquisition, but more than that, you want to give in if only to find relief from the torment of not knowing.

With closed eyes and a trembling voice, you finally relinquish your secret. “Rejection. Abandonment.” Half-concocted visions of a future without the Jedi, without the Order or your Master or the life you’ve worked so hard to build, materialize behind your lids. All this because you tend to fall in love a little too fast? How is that fair? “Myself. I’m afraid of myself and what I could do to destroy my own life.”

Something knocks at the door to your mind. It is a familiar sensation, like the sound of boots on stone or a guiding command given between the sparking of saber blades, it burns golden-brown like the sun and the tunic on his chest, and it smells like incense from a far away planet, the incense you sometimes smell on his cloak when he passes you by. You let him in.

You think, at first, that sharing your mind with someone is a bit like a kiss. A gentle nudging of one mind against the other until both become one, pressing thoughts and feelings and vague ideas together like a mouth or tongue might go against your own. You think that it feels like the kind of intimacy you’ve always yearned for but feared you would never know. Then you realize that Sol is actually kissing you.

Shock ripples through you fast and hard enough to make your stomach simultaneously drop to the floor and catch in your throat. You can’t breathe, you can’t move, there’s only Sol and his lips and the blazing freedom of peace cutting through the noise that usually clouds your thoughts.

He withdraws far too soon, and it leaves your mouth tingling and bruised. Your eyes flutter open and are unsurprisingly met with the umber-blackened hue of his pupils. So close. So real. His chest heaves with the effort of… what, exactly? Does he suffer from the same strange side effect as you, the unimaginable urge to kiss him again and delve even deeper? Is he fighting to restrain himself as much as you are?

“I feel it, too,” he whispers, and his eyes drop to your tongue as it darts across the seam of your mouth.

“What?” You don’t even dare to dream, but what if…?

Sol swallows heavily. “The pull. You feel it like I do?”

The hand not grasping his lightsaber drops lazily against his sternum as you both shuffle awkwardly into more normal, non-battle stances. “I do,” you reply. “I have. For a long time.”

There is a soft rustling of fabric and breath as Sol takes a moment to clip your saber back to your belt – the feel of his fingers, even through his gloves, lingering on your belt will stick with you forever – and to gently pry his from your hand. Then he reaches for your shoulder and lays his hand there, his thumb rubbing a semi-circle into your collarbone.

“Is this what you were afraid of? That I would not return your feelings?”

The ease with which he sees through your carefully constructed walls before completely blowing them to pieces is startling. Not even your Master is quite this forward with you. It’s different, to be sure, yet oddly refreshing.

“Among other things,” is your bashful response, half murmured to the space above his shoulder.

“We must have the courage to say what we want, even if we are afraid.” His hand resettles upon your cheek and your breath rushes out of you in an instant. All you can think is Sol Sol Sol Sol Sol, the only prayer you’ll ever need. “Are you afraid now?”

“No.”

“Then… I would like to kiss you again.”

When he smiles, you feel it curling up around your heart, a string that ties you to him, first knotted when he summoned your saber into his hand and now finished with a kiss.

taglist: @wolffegirlsunite

#master sol #master sol x reader #master sol x you #sol the acolyte x reader #sol the acolyte x you #sol the jedi x reader #sol the jedi #sol patrol #star wars #the acolyte

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jumpywhumpywriter · 3 months ago

Text

Drugged Hero Whumpee used as Party Favor at Villain's Party part 8

Warnings: living weapon whumpee, drugged sedation, torture, blood, restraints, muzzle, forced betrayal, friend pitted against friend

Ava bared her teeth up at Shadow in a feral grin, twisting her wrist around in her grip so that her open palm was facing Shadow's head -- and Shadow remembered her superpower a millisecond too late.

"Wait--" Shadow's whole head exploded with excruciating pain, her vision flashing white, and she was distantly aware of screaming -- was it coming from her? She couldn't tell.

She must have been knocked out for a few solid seconds, but when she came back to herself, her ears were ringing loudly... she was laying on the floor face-up, but she didn't know how she got there. Chest heaving, she blinked rapidly, darkness faded in the corners of her sight. Her whole body was limp aside from the rapid rise and fall of her chest with every shallow breath.

Voices. Someone was talking. But it all sounded like she was miles underwater, the words warped and too muffled to be coherent. A loud kind of silence filled her head, a buzzing static like thick fog wrapping her mind.

Thoughts were murky and dark as they drifted in her conscience, and she was only vaguely aware of her wrists being grabbed and cuffed together, her ankles following. But she was too dazed, too stunned to keep fighting. Everything hurt... why did it hurt so much...?

"You could have.... do that... asset..."

Shadow could already feel her healing powers working to restore her hearing, until she could faintly make out a few words here and there.

"I knew what I was... don't worry... be fine..."

"Nnnhhhh..." Shadow moaned weakly, eyes rolling in her skull as she tried to focus them on the blurry shape hovering over her.

"See? She's fine." Ava's face formed through the haze, grinning down at her. "Probably ruptured the eardrums, but with her unique gift, the damage won't last long."

Right. Shadow remembered now. Ava's powers were controlling soundwaves, harnessing blasts of sound powerful enough to kill at close range. It's why her Hero name had been 'Soundwave', a direct reflection of her power. Shadow was lucky she had healing powers, or else she'd be dead. She could definitely feel blood running from both ears, snaking down the sides of her head to the floor.

"Shadow? Are you with us?" Archenemy's voice.

Shadow tried to speak, but her voice slurred, and all she could manage was an agonized groan. The tang of blood coated her tongue, as coppery and wrong as everything else.

She heard Archenemy scoff. "This one's quite the enigma -- I mean, how can someone be so unkillable?! I look forward to finding out."

Another shadow crouched over her, Archenemy's face coming into focus. "...For that stunt you pulled, the muzzle is going back on along with the bit. Until we reach my lab."

Even through the fuzz, Shadow could register the threat, and she immediately clenched her jaw shut defiantly, using what little strength she had left. Her head was still throbbing and ringing, making her dizzy.

Archenemy heaved an irritated sigh, turning to his asset. "Ava?" His silhouette stood up, and Ava leaned over Shadow's prone form, right before Shadow felt a bruising grip on her jaw.

"Open." A command. One Shadow pointedly chose to ignore. Ava's grip tightened, and then suddenly Shadow couldn't breath anymore. She could feel her nose being pinched shut.

"You have to breathe eventually," Ava growled. "You can make it easier or harder for yourself."

Shadow squirmed weakly, knowing she couldn't escape. Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen. But still, she waited until she was on the brink of passing out before she had to open her mouth to gasp for air.

And as soon as she did, something sharp and metal was crammed in, pressing down on her tongue and the corners of her mouth, a second before the leather of the muzzle touched her face and was strapped tight around her head, keeping the metal bit in place.

"Mfff..." A keening whine escaped her throat as Ava started dragging her out the door after Archenemy instead of carrying her like before. It made everything hurt so much worse.

Shadow's vision was still splotchy and dark, but she could see several henchmen stare at her in confusion and surprise as she was dragged away. No doubt she was a pathetic sight, covered in blood like this. Though it wasn't the first time... and certainly wouldn't be the last.

Her sight and hearing had almost fully cleared up by the time she found herself being heaved up and strapped down to a medical table. Fear crept up the back of her throat like bile, and she fought to tamp down the rising panic as she was immobilized, leather straps pulled tight around her wrists and ankles after they were uncuffed.

Then the muzzle was pulled off, the metal bit following it, coated in foamy blood and saliva.

Shadow tugged at the bindings tethering her down, testing her range of movement. It was far more restricted than she'd expected. Archenemy had been thorough in tying her down.

"You won't be able to get out," Archenemy said flatly, mildly amused at most by her efforts. "You should save your strength."

"Curse you," Shadow spat viciously.

Archenemy cracked a genuine smile at that, running the back of a hand down her bloody jawline, making her shudder with disgust. "I always did admire the fire of your spirit," he chuckled coldly. "It's going to be glorious watching your flame sputter and die like Ava's. I think you'll present an even greater challenge to break than she was... and I like challenges."

Shadow's narrowed eyes tracked his every movement as he put on some surgical gloves, before snapping his fingers impatiently in the air. Ava appeared next to him, bringing a rolling tray of medical instruments to the side of the table.

"Thank you. Stand by," Archenemy said, and Ava took a step back, standing at attention awaiting any further instruction.

Shadow eyed the tray, her stomach churning with dread and fear. Fear wasn't new to her, she'd been afraid on occasion in the past... but not like this. Here, she couldn't fight. Couldn't struggle. Couldn't escape. Her enemy held her life in his hands, and that was the most terrifying thought of all.

She watched as Archenemy picked up a needle and blood draw bag. "W-What's that for?" Shadow hissed, but it came out shaky, despite how she tried to act composed.

Archenemy raised an eyebrow at her. "When you were being used as Villain's party favor... do you remember what I asked you? What information I requested, in return for my assistance getting you out of Villain's mansion?" Shadow hated where this conversation was going.

"I asked you the one thing you've never disclosed to me before... where your power comes from. The ability to regenerate quickly from injury... It's not like other heros' powers. It's... different, somehow. More unique." Archenemy leaned over her, his head blotting out the bright medical light above Shadow.

"I asked about it, and you said that it's in your blood. It's a part of who you are. It can't be dampened like normal hero powers. It's in your literal DNA." Shadow winced as the needle slid into the vein in her wrist, the blood easily flowing out and into the collection bag.

"...I suspect it is a mutation of sorts," Archenemy continued, "that accelerates the natural healing process tenfold. It's not that you can't be hurt, just that you get over it faster than the rest of us." The bag filled, and he carefully removed the needle. The small pinprick was tiny enough it healed over almost instantly.

Archenemy held the bag of blood up to the light to look at it, smiling excitedly. "This is exactly the secret I needed from you. I can experiment with this blood, possibly develop a serum..."

"To what? Become immortal?" Shadow snorted sarcastically.

Archenemy's dark, greedy eyes flicked to meet hers. "No... to become unkillable."

Shadow burst out laughing before she could stop herself, and Archenemy's face scrunched up in confusion, puzzled.

"I'm not unkillable," Shadow said dryly once the laughing fit settled down. "It's just... harder to kill me."

Archenemy's expression turned thoughtful. "Hmm. I'll be sure to test that theory, at a later time."

Shadow's face instantly fell at the implication of those words. Did that mean he planned to torture her? See how much pain and physical trauma she could withstand? Test the limits of her powers? She wasn't sure how much she could truly handle... she'd always been careful not to let herself get too close to death during a fight. She always knew when it was time to retreat and heal. But Archenemy wouldn't give her that luxury... would he really kill her just to sate his curiosity?

Shadow shivered involuntarily as she watched Archenemy set the blood bag on the medical tray... before picking up a scalpel.

"What are you doing?" Shadow snapped. Fear leaked into her voice.

"Planting a tracker. Can't have my prized possession running off before my experiments are finished." Archenemy smiled wolfishly, a hunter with the trophy of a lifetime as he brought the blade to her arm. "Don't worry, it'll only hurt for a few minutes. And with your gift, you'll get over it... eventually."

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @lavenderhousesposts

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wmarximoff · 2 years ago

Text

𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: you and Wanda spend Christmas Eve by the fireplace, making the same mistake you've been making for a long time again.

warnings (18+): intersex character (Wanda), smut, blowjob (Wanda receiving), vaginal sex (r receiving), cheating, mentions of pregnancy, angst. MINORS DNI.

pairings: Wanda x fem!reader, mentions of Wandanat and Pietro x fem!reader

word count: 4k

A/N: here's my slightly late, but not too late, Christmas/New Year special. it's sad but coming from me you already knew that.

masterlist|

A zephyr of gentle wind stirred the dancing of the curtains like dark specters, swirling into the living room in a winter breath that flickered the low fire in the nearby milky granite fireplace like a lantern flame, before the fingers of both your warm hands gripped and, in a disgruntled grunt under your breath, rolled down the windowpane – invading snowflakes gleaming like shavings of steel on the cream-colored ledge. The curtains quieted from their ghostly dance, settling back to rest like sleeping albino bats upside down. You didn't remember leaving the window open, but at the same time, you weren't in full control of your mental faculties at the end of the year either.

“Damn, it's snowing again,” you blurted out, your studious eyes peering at the world outside through the cloudy, stale glass about a hand's breadth away from the tip of your nose, “I... I don't think he'll manage to make it in time. It's too late anyway.”

A beam of pale luminescence penetrated the living room through cracks of ice that fogged up the glass, interspersed white streaks of streetlights that pierced the brief layer of spectral snow inserted inside thanks to the opening of the window above – a tight, dark light, rather vague, that posed in a grayish hue outside, offering the world (your car parked in front of the house enveloped in a sheet of ice, the low fence of the front yard turbid at that distance, the long-time plucked oak tree on the sidewalk and the distant cinder that was the house next door, just the yellow light from an window) the appearance of ghostly silhouettes, like the aftermath seen in a faded dream.

But inside you residence, everything was sheltered and protected by a thick layer of cozy heat coming from the fireplace flames (the orange light casted in tall shadows, shining in the depths of your eyes and in the ornaments hanging from the tall pine tree decorated with the theme nearby, fluttering on the ceiling; its warm reflections inside the living room windows), and you considered the possibility that, sooner or later, you might end up pulling your thick wool sweater over your head.

“Well,” Wanda's low, velvety voice drifted behind your shoulder, “He said he probably wouldn't make it in time for Christmas Eve, didn't he? And that he would stay in a motel in case the blizzard got worse. He'll be here tomorrow morning, honey, don't worry. He... he'll be fine. You don't have to worry about him, Y/n.”

And you understand, you understand what she means, what her tone of voice says contrary to her words. It's just that in so long, you've specialized in pretending, always pretending. Pretending you don't understand, pretending a lie is the truth. Your right fingers were still hooked on the vertical slit in the pale, soft satin curtain, your gaze lost in the stormy puffs of ice outside.

“I know, but… you know how uneasy Pietro can be sometimes, and he'd hate to miss even the tiniest Christmas celebration… I can't help but worry about him, Wanda. He's out there during this blizzard that doesn't look like it's going to pass any time soon, after all.”

The sudden high-pitched ping of a message dropping into a phone chat pierced the oxygen above the crackling hiss of the great dry wood fire burning in the fireplace, sounding just after you've finished your Christmas wails.

You then turned your chin over your right shoulder to regard her with your diligent gaze, and for a second of oxygen engulfed in your throat you just allowed yourself to admire her, Wanda, standing there in the middle of the room, being partially illuminated by the glow of the nearby fire, giving her silhouette the air of a scarlet creature from another world – the jadish eyes fixed on the phone set supplanted in the palm of her right hand, the thin long locks of brown hair that partially curtained a face holding her beautiful strong, fine features, her left fingers curled around the cylindrical body of a steaming porcelain teacup.

“It's him.”

A dizzying itch took hold of your right fingers, and you just took the time to sweep that long lock of hair behind her ear so deeply that every component cell in your body seemed to bristle and ache, as if there were grains of sand in your bloodstream and your bones were made of shards of glass. Your skin burned in the need of hers, a familiar touch, an outdated nostalgia. With your eyes hovering over Wanda's figure, there was no way your worries could sail towards Pietro anymore, not with all your attention focused on his twin sister as it was.

“What did he said?” your voice squirmed from the back of your throat, “Is he okay? He’s safe?”

And you wanted to care, but Wanda was just categorically stunning. Fifteen years ago you had already become familiar with the beauty of her oval-shaped face, but that doesn't mean that it wouldn't even have diminished with the lapidation of time – maturity dawned in a decade and a half, when her facial lines became more accentuated in a natural cut, just a new discovery for you. You still felt the whiffs of her adolescence somewhere, even if even she didn't feel them at all anymore.

It was as if, in so much time, you still hadn't discovered what it was that could actually be pointed out in the emerald shadow aligned with Wanda's gaze that instigated that thirsty burning inside you. You just wanted more of her, as much as you could have. As much as she would allow herself to be yours. In front of her, on her torso, Wanda was wearing the loose crimson and green thick wool sweater that your mother-in-law had given her last Christmas – Natasha had a pair of this piece knitted in green and red wool.

“See,” she muttered then, still with her eyes downcast, “He's fine. Here.”

Wanda's right forearm lifted her wrist to your eye level, turning the phone's pale screen into a synthetic glow toward you, her brother's contact shimmering across your retinas.

[Pietro]: Yo Wands tell Y/n I won't be able to make it in time anyway, this sucks man, a truck overturned on the road because of the snow and they won't fix it until tomorrow morning ☹ I miss her and the boys wtf!!!☹ ☹

The face of Wanda's thumb pressed the button on the side of the device after a couple of measly seconds of silence permeated by the ambience of the crackling of the incandescent firewood, and on the wide, newly darkened screen, the reflection of your deplorable facial expressions was outlined – your lower lip being sucked under your upper incisors, the streak of skin creased almost mournfully between both your brows. Wanda just lowered the device completely, moving it out of your field of vision.

“So… he won't be coming home today.”

“No,” she looked at you, her eyes flickering fire and dark green, “He won't come home today. And the boys are out like logs in their beds already,” and it was true, after all, she had read them a couple of bedtime stories herself. She always wanted to spend as much time as possible with the twins, after all.

Something sparked inside you, in heat and hunger, when the emerald color of Wanda's eyes stared at you from under her heavy lashes. It was like a non-syllabic question (can I?). You looked into her sharp cheekbones, engulfed partially by that orange reflection of the fire burning there so close to the two of you – you just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, call out her name in your needy grip on your chest. Yes, scorched will and hunger sharpened through your veins, yes Wanda, you can. Now you can.

Her phone and teacup were both placed carefully on top of the light wood coffee table in front of the sofa, placed in a spot parallel to the fireplace and comically next to the fully decorated Christmas tree, blinkers off, presents wrapped in colored paper. But her phone pinged again that night, a bitter reminder, a sick joke – a message from a different contact, Natasha, a red heart emoji next to it. Wanda looked at you when you looked at her.

“I'm a fucking horrible person,” she muttered under her breath, as close to your personal space as she could get.

“I know,” was your broken voice reply, “But that's okay, because so am I.”

And, in an act of regret, you just did what your need obligated you to do – you reached forward and took Wanda for yourself, flattening the commission of your lips against her mouth that tasted of compunction and tea, just an old comfort for the overflow of your feelings so dismayed, so much need that would soon overflow. After all, that wasn't the first time that you kissed Wanda, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time that you would look for the hold of her arms, so that she could cherish the desire bristling in the hollow of your inner groins. The desire to have her always supplanted the shame of your ego.

A sinuous dance of delicate, tangible lips that fit perfectly and neatly, like something it should be. The ardent and passionate kiss was transmuted, however, into a harmonious kiss, and the harmonious kiss metamorphosed into splashes of tiny tight-mouthed kisses that soon dismantled in a state of fear, scattered in a reality where uncertainties and worries were mere ignoble daydreams, as long as you were in each other's arms. The first kisses were always fearful, they always meant to be.

The palms of both of Wanda's warm hands felt gentle against your sides, risking to caress your hipbones with the pads of her thumbs. A wave of the urge to implode in tears swept over you – perhaps out of desire or fear, regret or the intrinsic will of flesh and bone. You just wanted her to burn you like the fire in that fireplace burned to ashes in the wood, the only witness to your act of adultery, the fire that in the end consumed everything completely, a natural destroyer of evidence.

With her melodious lips parted, her pulps pink and cracked, Wanda, in turn, began to give you infinitesimal, lingering kisses along the contour of your neck, along the area where it joined your left shoulder, along the line of her jaw located in the gap between your ear and neck, validating the traces of hickeys sitting there, like long brushstrokes of dark paint on a blank canvas.

"Wanda..." you purred like a sleepy cat, the heavy lids covering your eyes again, enjoying the feel of the warm lips splashing over the bristling epidermis.

Unguarded, perhaps even a little needy in your deprived core, you snuggled against your beloved's warm body, a guilty, lazy little dread embodied by the commission of your own wet lips. You felt a warm forehead press against your pale skin band above your brows, and you and Wanda opened your lids at the same time – an immensity of burning green, brown strands of hair strumming against the skin of your chin.

“I need you now, baby,” she sighed against the kiss of your lips, “I-I – I need you, Y/n. It hurts. I need you now.”

And you knew what she needed – that's why you gave it to her, sitting her down on the couch, Wanda's sweater pants pooling around her knees in a matter of seconds. There was never room for ceremony when what you did was just the result of a mutual repression that always led to a needy outburst.

From the hollow of your pearly lips, the tip of your velvety tongue made itself present, and that tongue, sweet and musky, soaked the entire length of her penis in a layer of shimmering saliva, the veins throbbing as the outline of the curled mouth cupped the pulsating tip, without the resistance of teeth in your way.

“Fuck, baby,” was a muffled moan against the palm she pressed to her own lips, urging you to do what you intended to do, “Just like that… Y/n, shit…”

You sucked Wanda's precum once, wringing a musical wail from both of your throats—the shivering moment, the bittersweet sap and the cinnamon heat, all etched into the center of your tongue, an already familiar taste in your stomach. Maybe that was why she chose you – the way you were the first person outside her family circle who accepted her for who she was, for what she felt she should be.

You were fifteen when you met the Maximoff twins, a boy and a girl, children of immigrants, in junior year of high school. And you were sixteen when you found out why Wanda didn’t used the locker room after PE with the other girls in your class.

“My parents thought I was a boy when I was a kid,” she once told you, under the bleachers after a literature class, “But then we found out that I was born different from Pietro, from most other people even... the doctors said the name is intersex. It's not very common, but it can happen sometimes.”

A girl with long dark hair that flowed in waves down her shoulders and wearing a second-hand fabric jacket, also dark as her hair. She was dark and stunning.

“Got it,” you hissed because you were sixteen and didn't know what to say, and Wanda was your best friend, “Your brother asked me out.”

“Oh,” it was like the sound of a piece of glass breaking, “Got it,” you always saw the way she looked at you, but it was Pietro who had the initiative. And he was always a good boy, and your parents taught you that there's no denying a good boy.

It didn't take long for Wanda's body sensitivity to acclimatize to your mouth, after just a handful of minutes in which you passed between her legs, ennobling the length of her member with just the tip of your tongue (back-and-forth movements, little kisses, and, at the latest, daring nibbles). You, upon noticing your beloved's familiarity with your tongue movements, took it from the inside of your mouth, almost the entire length between the flesh of your cheeks, reaching the summit of your throat, moist and plump.

“Y/n,” Wanda groaned, her brow furrowed, “Fuck, baby–!” and you felt a touch on the top of your head, near the roots of your hair.

Your mouth went up and down once, twice, five times. Wanda's right fingers, intertwined with your bundle of hair, made sure that the movements progressed eventually to something continuous and hard – her hips moved vigorously, fucking her way with her heavy member to the back of your throat. A cavernous yelp escaped Wanda's throat as her brows twitched and her eyes squeezed into two lines on her panting face, a pleasurable simulation of pain, a ball of yarn being woven down her navel.

You, the one who knew her as well as she herself did, tried to accompany Wanda's orgasm formulation with the movements of your mouth, thick saliva mixed with precum dripping from the corner of your lips in thick threads that wet the band the skin of your chin; you compressed your lips around her cock as you slid down its length, only to return to the head and then intensify the avid sucking until you brought your lover to the culmination of her own pleasure, of everything you wanted her to feel.

“Shit, shit, shit— ah! Y/n, I'm going to cum in your mouth, baby! Fuck!”

Wanda leaned forward so that both of her hands were resting on your temples, keeping your head in place as it spilled over your tongue, hot cum rushing its way to your stomach like you always did – always glad to swallow all the bittersweet load deposited inside you by Wanda.

At her apex, Wanda collapsed back to the length of the back of the couch, a warm, sweat-soaked dark lock plastered to her forehead. Her chest rose heavy and slumped back into her ribcage beneath her crimson wool sweater. The fire crackled in the hearth and in you too, however, because you wanted more, more of her, all of her – time was scarce and limited, and as such, incapable of being wasted. So you rose up towards her face, crying out to her.

“Wanda,” you called, your chin touching hers, your knees pierced by hers, “Wanda, I need you inside me now. Please, I need... I need you. I need you.”

You spoke as if you weren't in your living room at home – as if your children weren't sleeping right above your head. And she held you like she wasn't your husband's sister.

“It's okay, my dear. I am here. I'm here for you now, Y/n, I'll give you what you need.”

And then you were on top of her again, your shorts discarded like a rag before the fireplace, your hand reaching for Wanda's to close it by the back of your own hand, her thumb sinking soon into the warm flesh of your hip, her fingertips opening the moist lips of your pussy. On both of your ring fingers rose bands of golden wedding rings, yours different from hers, which turned copper in front of the fireplace – rings placed there by other people.

With the touch came a mutual moan that was engulfed by the embers, crackled from deep within your throats. And you began to reach down, feeling her inside, thick and firm. You came down the full length of her, and Wanda's back instinctively arched.

“Fuck-! Fuck, you're always so tight, baby, fuck–! You're practically grabbing me..."

“You're big,” your hands found her shoulders, the wool soft and red, “So big, Wanda… I want you for myself. I want you all to myself tonight, please.”

“You already have me, baby,” she lisped under her breath, “You always had me.”

With her member all tucked inside your cunt, inch by inch swallowed inside your throbbing walls, Wanda's mouth burned lustfully. The roar that bloomed through a crack in her lips had been a husky murmur.

Without circumlocution, Wanda was quick to thrust herself against your throbbing cunt, hollow slapping sounds filling the living room as she thrusted her hip against your wet entrance – so needy, a growing urgency in her bones and in your flesh, yearning for the heat of the ethereal figure that unfolded to you with such care and mastery, the inhuman touch burning over your skin. Wanda's movements were fast and uneven, solemnly guided by her desire to have you, to be inside you.

Her fingertips brushed your fine wet, low pubic hair, and you took a deep breath, your chest rising heavy and falling lightly, snorting a breath of warm air in a ravenous moan against the shell of her ear – the warm skin of your face cinched against Wanda's neck, who found herself able to feel both of your swollen nipples pressed against hers through the material of your sweaters so muffled. Her arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you against her, the two of you as close together as you could be.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/n!”

“Wanda,” the words strangled in your throat in a strangled moan, “Wanda, I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” she whimpered against your chest, “I love you too, I've always loved you…”

The steady movement of her hips brushed in eager friction against your swollen, nervous clit against the base of Wanda's cock, soaking her in your natural, smoldering lubricant juices. Your ecstasy compelled you to choke on a moan that coiled in your throat, and you rolled your hips forward, begging for more, so debilitating when against something as simple as the feel of her close to you, a single ethereal touch.

“I love you, Wanda. I love you I love you..."

The notion of the fact that that woman beneath you, reeking of tea and sex, as supernal of the encompassing reaches of human cognition as she could possibly be, could come to leave you at any moment saddened you to your ecstatic core. You didn't want to leave her. You didn't want to lose her, a battle already lost. With a soft growl (which came dangerously close to a needy moan) you pressed your entire body against Wanda's to make her feel how in control like she was over your mundane will. And your sister-in-law didn't even try to stop you.

“I love you Wanda, I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I love you.”

“I love you too, Y/n, I love you too, fuck, I will always love you, always, always... please, I’ll always love you–”

You rode her like that, being impaled, squeezing her tighter and tighter, until the two of you came together, her orgasm painting your walls in needy vastness, in an encapsulated moment where you were hers and she was yours, where your choices led you in the right direction, her inside you where she should always be, your arms around her like you always wanted her to – her inner thighs were strong and wet against your hips.

“I'm sorry,” you cried against her neck, Wanda's hands stroking the length of your back beneath the wool layer of your sweat-damp sweater, her flaccid cock still nestled within your walls as if it weren't already too late.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wish I had chosen right. I'm sorry. I wanna do it again. I wanna choose you. Please. I wanna choose you.”

“It's okay, Y/n,” Wanda lisped against your hair, a tear pooling under her lashes, “It's okay, honey. You already have me. You’ll always have me.”

The end of the year festivities came and went like the blur of the blizzard outside that Christmas Eve by the milky granite fireplace, and in the first half of January you and Pietro entertained your families for longer than you'd like – his parents and yours, and Wanda and Natasha, her wife, inevitably came and went too. The world presented itself in a furious way to you at the beginning of the year, incongruous: people everywhere, Wanda, Natasha, Wanda, Natasha, cold January winds. Natasha wanted kids with Wanda because she was a great aunt to Billy and Tommy.

“Children, huh?” Pietro asked his sister one night when the two of them were sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, the fire crackling softly.

“I thought you and Nat were the type who didn't want kids… but hey, this is awesome news, Wands! You'll be a great mom, you're like the boys' favorite aunt, everyone sees that! You take great care of them, Wands, so I imagine you'll be even better with your own children!”

“Yeah,” she smiled wanly, a little bitterly, looking into the fire, “With… my own children.”

“And I bet it will be the same with the next one too,” the twin looked at her, his blue eyes flickering towards her. Wanda looked away from the fire to look at Pietro.

“The next one…?”

“Yeah,” he smiled with the grace and pride that only someone in that situation could carry with him, “Y/n is pregnant again, Wanda! Can you believe?! Another Maximoff in the world!”

And then, Wanda looked at her brother. And she wanted to cry – cry for him, for herself, for Y/n and Natasha and Billy and Tommy, and that new child to come into that fucked up world made of lies and more lies. For all the mistakes she and Y/n made that could very well tear that family apart. She almost cried in front of the fireplace. If Pietro knew the true reason for those tears, he would never forgive her.

“Yeah,” Wanda smiled, a tear trapped in her green gaze, the fire burning in the fireplace, “Another Maximoff in the world.”

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songbirdseung · 1 year ago

Text

younger / choi beomgyu

song recommendation: younger by ruel

non-idol!beomgyu ~ childhood friends to lovers? ~ angst / wc: 4k

(dont be a silent reader, comment and let me know what you think about the story~~)

You and Beomgyu would roam the nighttime streets together, hidden from the watchful eyes of unaware parents. The glow of the television, coupled with the stubborn persistence of bedroom lights, painted a canvas of secrets. Yet, it's been ages since you last crossed paths, the innocence that once bound you together seemingly lost in the labyrinth of time. Beomgyu's absence left you in a void, the shadows deepening as he disappeared into the darkness of a park, a departure marking the irreversible shift in the dynamics of your relationship. The echoes of those nights linger, but the connection you once shared now stands as a mere silhouette of what it used to be—forever altered, and, regrettably, never to be the same again.

At the tender age of eleven, he departed without a trace, leaving you without farewells or explanations. In the quiet of the night, both sets of parents chose not to awaken you, and when dawn broke, your innocent request for a playdate with Beomgyu was met with the somber gazes of your own parents. They delivered the heart-wrenching news that he had relocated to another city, and in that moment, at the age of eleven, you found yourself mourning the abrupt loss of a best friend of nine years.

In the soft morning light that filtered through your bedroom curtains, you excitedly approached your parents with the anticipation of a playdate with Beomgyu. The sparkle in your eyes dimmed, however, as you were met with the unusual solemnity that hung heavy in the air.

"Mom, Dad, can Beomgyu come over today? We were going to play our favorite game," you asked, innocence radiating from your hopeful gaze.

Your parents exchanged a glance, their expressions reflecting a shared sorrow. Taking a deep breath, your mother knelt down to your eye level, her eyes carrying a weight that spoke of difficult news.

"Sweetheart," she began, her voice gentle yet laced with sadness, "Beomgyu has moved away to another city."

Your eyes widened, confusion clouding your face. "Moved away? But… why? He didn't even say goodbye."

Your father joined the conversation, crouching down beside you. "It happened late last night, and we didn't want to wake you. Your friend had to leave without saying goodbye, and we're so sorry, sweetheart."

A mixture of disbelief and aching sorrow settled over you. "But he's my best friend. Why didn't he tell me? Will he come back?"

Your mother wrapped you in a comforting embrace, her words soft as she explained, "Sometimes, people have to move for different reasons, and it's not always easy for them to say goodbye. We know how much Beomgyu means to you, and we're here for you, okay?"

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. The room that once echoed with laughter from shared adventures now felt empty, the absence of your dearest friend creating a void that seemed impossible to fill. As your parents held you close, the pain of losing Beomgyu settled into your young heart, and the innocence of childhood faced its first encounter with the bittersweet sting of change.

-- beomgyu's pov --

Beomgyu stirred from a restless sleep, the hum of the car engine and the rhythmic pattern of streetlights flickering through the window casting an eerie glow. Disoriented and sleepy-eyed, he sat up, rubbing his eyes as he glanced around the dim interior of the car.

"Where are we going?" he asked innocently, the excitement of a family trip bubbling in his voice.

His parents exchanged a glance, and his mother turned to him with a warm smile that held a hint of sadness. "Oh, it's just a small trip, sweetheart. A surprise for you and the family."

Beomgyu's eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his face. "Really? That's awesome! Can't wait to see where we're going. Is Y/N coming too? I want to show them all the cool places!"

His parents shared a glance laden with a poignant understanding, their smiles masking a deeper sadness. "Ah, Y/N couldn't make it this time, but we'll take lots of pictures to share with them when we get back."

Undeterred, Beomgyu leaned back in the seat, his mind already racing with plans for the adventure ahead. "Sure, sure! I'll tell Y/N all about it when we're back. They'll be so jealous they missed out!"

His parents exchanged another look, a silent acknowledgment of the weight behind the words. As the car continued its journey through the night, Beomgyu's innocent excitement filled the space, unaware that the small trip he anticipated was a journey that would reshape the landscape of his life, leaving Y/N and the familiar streets behind in a bittersweet memory.

-- later, beomgyu's pov --

The car's engine sputtered to a stop as the first rays of dawn painted the sky. Beomgyu squinted at the unfamiliar surroundings, confusion etching his features as he realized they hadn't arrived at a hotel as expected, but at a house. His parents exchanged glances, an unspoken acknowledgment of the truth that had yet to be revealed.

As the car doors opened, Beomgyu caught sight of the numerous suitcases and boxes piled in the trunk — more luggage than any ordinary trip would require. A knot of realization tightened in his stomach, the pieces clicking into place like a puzzle he hadn't been prepared to solve.

"Mom, Dad, why did you lie to me?" Beomgyu's voice trembled as he confronted the truth, tears welling in his eyes.

His parents exchanged somber looks, the weight of their decision evident in their expressions. His mother crouched down to his eye level, her voice gentle but tinged with sorrow.

"Sweetheart, we didn't want to upset you. It's just that… we're not going back home this time. This is our new house," she explained, her words hanging heavy in the air.

Beomgyu's eyes widened, the weight of the revelation sinking in. "What do you mean, not going back home? What about my friends? What about Y/N?" His voice quivered, the fear of losing the world he knew becoming too real.

His father placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort him. "We know it's a lot to take in, Beomgyu. This is a new beginning for us. You'll make new friends, and Y/N will always be a part of your life, even if you're far away."

But the reassurances fell on ears deafened by the ache of change. Beomgyu felt the tears spill over, his heart heavy with the weight of leaving behind the familiar, the friends, and the home he loved. As the reality of the situation settled in, his small shoulders shook with the grief of a chapter ending, and the uncertainty of a new one beginning.

-- months later --

Months passed in the new city, and Beomgyu found himself navigating a different life. The bustling streets, unfamiliar faces, and new routines became the backdrop to his days. His heart yearned for the familiar comfort of the old neighborhood, especially the laughter and shared adventures with you.

Late at night, under the soft glow of a borrowed phone, he'd send short messages, tapping out words of longing. "Miss you. Wish you were here," he'd type, his heart pouring into each letter. The response, when it came, was a fleeting connection to the world he left behind. The distance stretched in both miles and melancholy, and he'd find himself staring at the moon, wondering if you were doing the same.

In the town left behind, you adjusted to a life that seemed to echo with the absence of Beomgyu. The familiar haunts became bittersweet reminders, each corner holding memories of laughter and shared secrets. The longing for your friend filled your days, coloring the mundane with a tinge of melancholy.

The borrowed phone became a lifeline, a precious connection to the friend who now felt galaxies away. "Hey, how's it going there?" you'd text, fingers tapping out words that carried the weight of missing someone. The brief exchanges were a lifeline, moments of solace in the midst of change.

The conversations were small, sporadic, and filled with the silent understanding that this was the best they could manage. "Remember the treehouse? I found a cool park here too," Beomgyu typed, trying to bridge the gap.

"I went to the movies last week. Missed having you there," you replied, the longing evident in the simple words.

Through these fragments of connection, a shared sentiment emerged — the ache of separation and the hope that someday, the miles that kept them apart would lessen, and they'd find themselves under the same moon again. The small texts became the threads that kept their friendship stitched together across the expanse that now lay between them.

The soft glow of the moon seeped through Beomgyu's bedroom window, casting a melancholy ambiance on the walls. Sulking in the quiet confines of his room, he couldn't shake the weight of homesickness that clung to him like a shadow. The dinner table downstairs, once a place of familial warmth, seemed like a world away.

His mother, attuned to the echoes of her son's melancholy, gently tapped on the door. "Beomgyu, sweetheart, dinner's ready. Won't you come down and join us?"

A muffled response, barely audible through the closed door, betrayed his disheartened state.

His mother sighed softly before stepping into the room. The soft glow of the bedside lamp revealed Beomgyu, curled up on the bed, a world of longing etched into his eyes.

She sat beside him, offering a tender smile. "What's on your mind, my love?"

His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon outside the window as he whispered, "I miss home, Mom. I miss Y/N, and I miss everything."

Her heart ached for him. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, she said, "Change is hard, Beomgyu. I know it feels like everything's different now, but you're strong, and we'll get through this together. Dinner is waiting, but if you need some time, I understand."

His mother's understanding touch was a balm to his soul. Beomgyu turned to her, the vulnerability in his eyes reflecting the depth of his homesickness. "I just wish things could go back to how they were."

She pulled him into a warm embrace, whispering words of comfort. "I know, sweetheart. I know. Let's take it one day at a time, and who knows, maybe one day it will feel like home here too."

With a gentle squeeze, she left the room, allowing Beomgyu a moment to collect himself. The dinner table downstairs awaited, but in that fleeting moment, the warmth of his mother's embrace offered a comforting reassurance in the face of the unfamiliar world that now surrounded him.

-- years later, y/n's pov --

The years rolled by, carrying Beomgyu and Y/N into the realm of adolescence. In the beginning, the smartphones they now possessed became the conduits of their connection, trading messages filled with nostalgia, sharing snippets of their evolving lives. The threads of shared memories were woven into the digital conversations, creating a semblance of the camaraderie they once knew.

However, the inevitable currents of change started to pull them in different directions. New friendships blossomed, and the demands of their individual lives grew, leaving less room for the virtual bridge that once connected them. The exchanges became sporadic, a casual update here and there, their lives gradually filling with new faces and experiences.

Busy schedules and the excitement of forging fresh connections took precedence, and the once vibrant bond between Beomgyu and Y/N began to fray. The messages, once filled with the intimacy of shared memories, became sporadic echoes in a digital landscape that stretched between them.

As the years unfurled, the digital bridge that once connected them morphed into a mere echo of the past. The cadence of their lives, now pulsating with the rhythms of adulthood, left less space for the nostalgic conversations that once fueled their friendship. The bond, though not forgotten, transformed into a distant echo, fading in the background of the bustling lives they now led.

Y/N found herself standing on the precipice of an emotional crossroads. The once inseparable bond she shared with Beomgyu had become a delicate thread, and she desperately tried to hold on to the fragments of what they used to be. The shared laughter, the whispered secrets, and the warmth of their friendship seemed like distant echoes, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

"You and me were so, so close," she whispered to the quiet confines of her room, the weight of the words echoing in the silence. The ache of the growing distance between them pierced through her heart, a poignant reminder of what once was.

She had tried, oh, how she had tried. Late-night texts and calls filled with the essence of nostalgia were her attempts to salvage the connection that meant so much. But the responses were intermittent, the vibrancy of their conversations replaced by the echoes of unspoken distance.

And maybe that's what hurt the most—the realization that despite her efforts, the bond was slipping away. The fear she had harbored for years was materializing, and the once vivid landscape of their friendship was now a fading canvas.

"It's out of my hands," she admitted with a heavy sigh, as if confessing the truth to herself. The currents of life had taken them in different directions, and there was only so much she could do to alter the course.

"I've done what I can," she whispered, the weight of acceptance settling on her shoulders. The battle against the growing distance felt like an uphill struggle, leaving her with a sense of helplessness.

"So I just save my breath," she concluded, the resolve to hold on giving way to a bittersweet acknowledgment. The breaths she once saved for laughter, secrets, and shared dreams were now exhaled into the void of the changing winds. Yet, amidst the melancholy, a glimmer of gratitude remained—a gratitude for the moments they once shared and the indelible mark Beomgyu had left on her heart.

-- beomgyu's pov --

Beomgyu's phone buzzed once again, signaling another message from Y/N. He retrieved it from his pocket, eyes briefly flickering over the notification. The number of unread messages had reached a daunting 20, each one representing a fragment of a connection he once cherished.

Sighing, he pocketed the phone, the weight of the unread messages settling into the fabric of his jeans. The conversations with his new friends resumed, laughter and banter flowing effortlessly. Soobin, Yeonjun, Huening Kai, and Taehyun became the focal points of his attention, their camaraderie echoing the dynamics he had found within this new circle.

Yet, beneath the surface, there lingered a subtle pang of guilt. He couldn't shake the awareness that Y/N's messages remained unanswered, a stark testament to the growing gap between them. The bond that once defined his world had become a distant memory, replaced by the vibrant energy of his current friendships.

As Beomgyu laughed and shared stories with his newfound companions, the buzzing phone in his pocket seemed to carry the echoes of a connection slipping away. The unread messages represented unspoken sentiments, a conversation that had faded into the background of the bustling life he now led. And with each passing moment, the distance grew, leaving Y/N's messages unanswered in the wake of the evolving chapters of Beomgyu's life.

The laughter of Beomgyu and his friends echoed through the room as they gathered for a casual hangout. Soobin, Yeonjun, Huening Kai, and Taehyun were all there, their camaraderie filling the space with warmth. However, beneath the surface of the banter, Beomgyu carried the weight of unspoken concerns that had been haunting him.

"So, guys," Beomgyu began hesitantly, a hint of vulnerability in his tone. "There's been something on my mind lately."

The room fell into a comfortable silence as his friends turned their attention to him, their expressions shifting from playful to attentive.

"What's up, Beomgyu?" Soobin asked, concern evident in his eyes.

Beomgyu took a moment before continuing, "It's just… I've been feeling kind of guilty about not keeping in touch with someone important to me. We used to be really close, but life happened, and now it's like we're drifting apart."

Yeonjun chimed in, "Is it someone from back home? Your childhood friend?"

Beomgyu nodded, grateful for the understanding in his friends' eyes. "Yeah, Y/N. We were inseparable, but now it feels like we're worlds apart. I've been avoiding their messages, and it's been bothering me."

Huening Kai leaned forward, offering a comforting smile. "It happens, Beomgyu. People change, and life takes us in different directions. It's natural to feel conflicted about it."

Taehyun added, "Maybe you should talk to them about it. It might help clear the air, and who knows, you might find a way to reconnect."

Soobin nodded in agreement. "Communication is key. If they mean a lot to you, they'll understand. And if not, at least you'll have closure."

Beomgyu sighed, a mix of gratitude and apprehension in his expression. "You guys are right. I've just been struggling with how to approach it. I don't want to hurt them or make things awkward."

Yeonjun placed a reassuring hand on Beomgyu's shoulder. "Take your time, but don't let it eat at you. True friends understand, and if they're meant to be in your life, they'll find their way back."

The room fell into a thoughtful silence as Beomgyu absorbed the advice of his friends. The weight on his shoulders felt a bit lighter, knowing he had a support system to lean on. As they continued their hangout, the unspoken understanding between the friends became a source of comfort in navigating the complexities of evolving relationships.

In the quiet hours of the night, Beomgyu found himself alone with his thoughts. The conversation with his friends lingered in his mind, urging him to confront the unease that had been haunting him. With a mix of determination and trepidation, he decided to reach out to Y/N.

He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over the touchscreen. After a moment's hesitation, he dialed Y/N's number, memories of their countless conversations flooding back. As the dial tone resonated, his heart raced with anticipation.

However, instead of the familiar voice he hoped to hear, an automated system responded. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

A wave of disappointment and realization washed over Beomgyu. The connection, once a lifeline between them, had dissolved into the void of disconnected lines. The reality of the situation hit him harder than he expected, and he felt a lump forming in his throat.

He stared at the screen, grappling with the finality of the automated message. The untold words he had been holding back seemed to echo in the silence of the room. Beomgyu was left with the weight of unspoken conversations and the stark reality that the bridge connecting them had crumbled.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, the phone still in his hand. The ache of missed opportunities and lingering questions lingered in the air. In that solitary moment, Beomgyu found himself grappling with the bittersweet truth — that some connections, no matter how meaningful, were destined to fade into the echoes of what once was.

-- y/n's pov --

Deep in my heart, I felt the subtle ache of something irretrievable. The bond that once defined Beomgyu and me seemed to have reached its twilight, leaving behind an unspoken void. His number, once etched into the fabric of my contacts, now felt like a distant memory, and with a heavy heart, I decided to let go.

I knew that it's over, the unspoken chapters of our friendship sealed within the folds of time. The laughter, the shared secrets, and the camaraderie we once held dear now echoed in the corridors of nostalgia.

Deleted your number – a choice made with the reluctant acceptance that some connections were destined to dissolve. The mere absence of those digits felt like erasing a chapter of my history, a chapter that held the echoes of a friendship now lost in the folds of growing up.

So I can't call you, I thought, acknowledging the deliberate choice to distance myself. The yearning for the conversations that once filled the nights lingered, but the awareness that those calls had become echoes of a bygone era weighed heavily on my heart.

As the chapters turned, I couldn't help but wonder how we arrived at this point. The unspoken words hung in the air, carrying the weight of a friendship that had silently evolved into something unrecognizable. And as I navigated the complexities of growing up, the bittersweet realization settled in – some connections, no matter how cherished, were destined to evolve into wistful memories.

-- years later --

At the age of 22, Beomgyu and Y/N found themselves engulfed in the currents of life, their paths diverging with each passing day. The once inseparable bond that defined their younger years had become a distant memory, fading into the background of their individual journeys.

Life's demands, new friendships, and evolving priorities led them in directions that seemed worlds apart. The sporadic messages that once bridged the growing distance had become echoes in the expanse that now lay between them. The phone numbers, once etched into each other's contacts with familiarity, were now just digits in a sea of connections.

Beomgyu navigated the bustling waves of adulthood, his focus on the present and future. The laughter and camaraderie of his new friends became the soundtrack of his days, the memories of childhood adventures and shared secrets relegated to the recesses of nostalgia.

Y/N, too, carved their own path, facing the challenges and triumphs that adulthood presented. The places, faces, and experiences that defined their current lives seemed far removed from the shared landscapes of their past.

Y/N found themselves wandering through familiar streets, the city lights casting a glow on the pavement. The purpose of their visit was business, but amidst the meetings and obligations, a sudden wave of nostalgia led them to stroll through the old neighborhood where Beomgyu and they once shared countless memories.

On one of those down-time nights after work, Y/N decided to explore a local spot known for its charm. As they entered the venue, the familiar ambiance felt like a subtle echo from the past. And then, amidst the crowd, Y/N's eyes caught a glimpse of a figure that seemed vaguely familiar.

Squinting through the dim lights, trying to place the face. The realization struck, and a subtle gasp escaped their lips. There, in the midst of the crowd, was Beomgyu – someone they once knew so intimately but now felt like a stranger.

"I didn't even recognize you," Y/N admitted quietly, the passage of time etched on Beomgyu's features. The realization brought a strange mix of emotions – surprise, nostalgia, and an unspoken acknowledgment of the changes life had wrought upon them.

The atmosphere felt charged with the weight of unexpected encounters. Y/N couldn't help but find it kind of strange – the twist of fate that brought them to the same place at the same time, after years of drifting apart.

"Guess that people change," Y/N murmured, watching Beomgyu from a distance. The recognition was met with a pang of melancholy, a subtle mourning for the innocence of the past.

"But I didn't expect you to," they concluded, a quiet lament for the evolution of a connection that once felt unbreakable. In that moment, amidst the city lights and the gentle hum of the crowd, Y/N grappled with the unspoken complexity of seeing someone from their past in a new light.

Peeling her eyes away from Beomgyu, Y/N decided to immerse herself in the present moment, determined to enjoy her time in the city. As she glanced around, she noticed a friendly face beside her, and without hesitation, struck up a conversation with the person seated next to her – Taehyun.

Unbeknownst to both Y/N and Taehyun, the threads of their conversation began to weave together seamlessly. They laughed, shared stories, and delved into topics that transcended the boundaries of the past. It was a delightful encounter, the kind that happens serendipitously in the dance of city life.

Meanwhile, Beomgyu, scanning the room in search of Taehyun, couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. When his eyes finally landed on them, shock flickered across his face. He saw Y/N engaged in a lively conversation with Taehyun, a person he least expected her to be with.

For a moment, Beomgyu stood frozen, the realization sinking in. The person Y/N was conversing with wasn't just a stranger in this city; it was Taehyun, his friend. The friend who, unbeknownst to both of them, had become a part of this unexpected reunion.

The air crackled with unspoken emotions as Beomgyu navigated the currents of surprise and curiosity. His mind raced, contemplating whether he should approach and reveal the unspoken connections that lingered in the shadows of their past.

-- the next day --

The following day brought another unexpected encounter as Y/N found themselves in the same professional sphere as Beomgyu. Their respective companies were connecting, intertwining their professional worlds in a way that seemed almost fated. As the meetings progressed, the air buzzed with a tension that transcended the confines of business discussions.

Amidst the corporate chatter, Y/N and Beomgyu found themselves in the same room once again. The air was thick with unspoken history, the echoes of their past converging with the realities of the present. As the formalities of business unfolded, they eventually found a moment to step aside and talk, the weight of unspoken conversations hanging in the air.

"Tryna get in touch with you," Y/N began, their tone carrying a mix of frustration and longing. "I don't know where you've been."

Beomgyu met their gaze, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, as if acknowledging the echoes of missed connections.

"Have a conversation, but you'll never let me in," Y/N continued, a raw honesty punctuating their words. The years of distance and unspoken sentiments were etched into the lines of their expression.

"I've tried with you a thousand times," Y/N confessed, the weight of the past hanging between them like a heavy curtain. The frustration of unanswered messages and unspoken sentiments colored their words.

"Maybe I don't have to play the bad guy in the end," Y/N reflected, a plea for understanding. "Because I've been trying hard enough to be a better friend."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the unspoken tension hanging between them like a fragile thread. Y/N's words lingered, a poignant acknowledgment of the attempts to bridge the gap that had grown over the years. The business connections may have brought them together, but the weight of unresolved emotions hovered in the air, leaving them standing at the crossroads of what once was and what could never be again.

Beomgyu listened to Y/N's words, a knot forming in his stomach as the weight of their shared history became palpable. When Y/N finally paused, he took a moment before responding, his voice carrying a mix of regret and sincerity.

"I know," Beomgyu admitted, the weight of unspoken apologies echoing in his words. "I've been avoiding things, and I'm sorry for that. Life got complicated, and I let it push us apart."

Y/N met his gaze, a flicker of understanding mingling with the frustration. "I've tried reaching out, but it felt like you'd built walls. I didn't know where to find you anymore."

Beomgyu sighed, a heavy exhale of acknowledgment. "I messed up, and I should've been more open. It's just… things changed, and I didn't handle it well."

The air between them held a tense quiet, the unspoken words lingering in the space. Beomgyu gathered the courage to speak again. "Maybe we can't undo the past, but I want to try to make things right now. I want to be a better friend, Y/N."

As the weight of their shared history hung in the air, the conversation unfolded, carrying with it the potential for understanding, forgiveness, and the possibility of rebuilding a connection that had once been an integral part of their lives.

Beomgyu, sensing Y/N's reluctance, took a breath before speaking, determined to convey the sincerity behind his words.

"You don't know me like you used to," he acknowledged, recognizing the layers of time that had altered the familiarity they once shared. "You can leave, but I refuse to."

He saw the skepticism in Y/N's eyes, a lingering doubt that hung between them. Beomgyu continued, his voice steady, "You can tell me that I'm crazy, but I won't stop."

He could sense the hesitancy, the wariness in Y/N's posture. "And this won't make me," he added, the unspoken commitment to rekindle the connection they once had. "I know things have changed, and I can't erase the past, but I'm willing to try. We can navigate this together, Y/N, and maybe find a way back to what we once had."

The sincerity in Beomgyu's words hung in the air, a plea for a second chance, a chance to rebuild and redefine the connection that had slipped away over the years. The ball was in Y/N's court, and Beomgyu awaited their response with a mix of hope and determination.

#txt #tomorrow x together #txt beomgyu #beomgyu #choi beomgyu #beomgyu imagines #choi beomgyu fanfic #choi beomgyu x you #choi beomgyu fluff #choi beomgyu x reader #beomgyu txt #beomgyu x reader

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evelynpr · 7 months ago

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Arlecchino Demo Music Analysis

DISCLAIMER: I am no musical expert in any way, just a massive fan of the Genshin soundtrack and learned music theory as a hobby.

One of my favorite things about Genshin is its music. It is not just that it sounds amazing, but each element, style, and motif has meaning and purpose- while being orchestrated and mixed to create a truly magnificent and unique musical experience. It is no exaggeration that this soundtrack is one of a kind.

Arlecchino's Character Demo has just been released, so I want to make a musical breakdown of it because I think it is a stellar example of how Genshin uses music to signify its themes and present its story. Before we get into that, there are ideas that I must detail for you to get the full picture, so I hope you enjoy!

Genshin uses musical elements to signify certain ideas (places, characters, elements, etc.). For example, Chinese and Japanese instrumentation signify Liyue and Fontaine respectively, but it goes beyond this.

"Travelers' Reverie" — Behind the Scenes of the Music of Sumeru | Genshin Impact

You may have noticed that a majority of Genshin's environmental music consists of real world instruments. There are even videos showcasing the orchestras and instruments of each nation (Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma, Sumeru, Fontaine), and using orchestral/live instruments even applies to other regions such as Enkanomiya, The Chasm, Golden Apple Archipelago, and etc. This gives each region a distinct musical identity, but all together it establishes them as places that are grounded and real.

During the final act of Fontaine's archon quest, we have been introduced to a new musical identity. This is Genshin's dubstep, and it has been used to signify otherworldly power. This genre not made by a real orchestra or real instruments, but through sampling (using existing sounds/music) and technology.

This is the identity in its most blatant form: (Shadow phase of the All Devouring Narwal boss fight)

This entire track symbolizes this. No other track within Genshin's world sounds remotely like it, symbolizing its otherworldly nature. It does not belong here- not with the live orchestras and melodic symphonies of Genshin's world.

Simply put, hardcore dubstep = otherworldly

Note: I am aware that many character demos and other tracks also use dubstep/EDM, but for the purposes of this post I think it should be left separate. Only if someone openly disputes this conclusion then I would happily oblige in presenting more evidence to this thru a reply or rb. Essentially, dubstep IS used in other tracks, but only in Silhouette of Catastrophe and Arlecchino's demo is the dubstep used as a"main idea", while also accompanied by heavy bass and "smaller intricate" sounds. This specific form of dubstep is what signifies being otherworldly.

Another musical element is children's singing!

In terms of the in-game ost, children's singing is used most prominently in Dragonspine's soundtrack in Genshin's world- and I will admit that I am not sure why that is. Perhaps Dragonspine has themes relating to innocence? Childhood? Tranquility? Whatever it is, I am not sure of. (If you have an idea, I would love to know!)

Instead, we can look at a certain character demo:

Nahida's! The beatdrop of her demo begins with children's singing. I believe this represents her innocent nature, status as a young archon, and the children of the forest that surround her- the Aranara.

Not only that, but the only other people in her demo are all children. Suffice to say, Genshin pays very close attention to using their music to reflect the themes and attributes of their characters in their demos (I could make more posts about this- breaking down more demo music...I think that'd be fun)

It's fairly straightforward, but essentially children's singing = children, innocence, and childhood

Now let's (finally) look at Arlecchino's demo

Let's first review each of the main musical elements and what they represent:

Dubstep and distortion: Otherworldly power. For Arlecchino: her curse, power, and dominance. "A spark cannot shatter all shadows until it sets all ablaze"

Children's voices and music box: Children. For Arlecchino: a lullaby; possibly protectiveness/care or tainted innocence (depending on how you interpret how she sees her children)

The music begins with a solo piano- lonely, melancholic, and mysterious. This is how she is after the death of Clervie and the rest of the children of the HotH.

Afterwards, the piano gets distorted- then replaced with harsh artificial beats and musical turmoil. This may be reflected on how she defeated her "mother" using her otherworldly power- her curse.

Following this is the anticipated beatdrop. Fascinatingly, it is not actually lead by dubstep, but by a distorted music box with a creeping melody. Not only that, but it is accompanied by a children's choir and a drum beat together.

The dubstep then ramps up- completely overtaking the track. But one it has reached its height, it is interrupted by the music box and singing children.

One can interpret this as her children holding her back from unleashing her true power. When she is most ruthless and violent, she is reminded of their playfulness and innocence.

The choir ends abruptly- but afterwards, the children's voices and music box lead the melody, while the dubstep and distortions accompany it harmoniously to create one whole piece.

This is who Arlecchino is. A Father and Harbringer defined by "caring" for her children and her otherworldly power. A love that nurtures and neglects- a power that frees and destroys. A wolf in sheep's clothing, or a sheep in wolf's clothing?

However the demo doesn't end there- the solo piano returns once again.

"Its flame is no longer needed, for you have the strength to defend yourselves"

This is going into speculative territory, but perhaps after she passes on her title as "king", she is once again lonely, left without a family. After all, she may no longer be needed or wanted at all- not after all that she has done, not after all that she has failed to do.

Conclusion

I love Genshin's music from the bottom of my heart. One reason why is the attention, detail, and beauty put into each track. Each piece is not only an experience, but also a story, an idea, a character, a place, whatever the artists wish to portray.

Arlecchino's Character Demo is one but many pieces that showcase this. In this track, we are able to discern Arlecchino's two core ideas, her relationship with her children and otherworldly power, through an incredible combination of singing, a music box, and dubstep. One can even theorize the course of her story through its visuals and music, in the end creating a beautiful and encompassing display of "Arlecchino".

#this does not even talk about the VISUAL details. just the music ALONE is so much #holy shit this i really did all this in one day #dear god arlecchino is truly amazing #i hope u guys like a music analysis im gonna hope this does not flop alkdjfalsdjls #its also really damn long whahhaha #also I am ofc open to criticism im not exactly an expert here #i love love genshins music so much #its amt of motifs and recurring themes could rival undertale #i am not joking #evelynpr genshin #genshin #genshin impact #arlecchino #the knave #music analysis #nahida #peruere #house of the hearth

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