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gghostwriter · 5 months ago

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Death of a Love Affair

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: The three times you understood and the final time you couldn’t.

Warning: angst with no happy ending

A/n: this felt oddly personal to me this is my first time writing in the Y/N perspective and in a one shot format so please be kind. I kinda left a possibly for p2, not sure about that yet, but let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in!

Main masterlist || Part 2A (happy end) || Part 2B (sad end)

The first time it happened, you completely understood.

You had an inkling as to what you were getting into when you started dating a 187 genius who graduated at a young age and who was scouted straight from college by the FBI. It wasn’t hard to comprehend these external circumstances mixed with his internal need to prove himself worthy of belonging with the big boys would result in missed personal events. It was a given, you expected it.

You just didn’t count on him missing your graduation. After all, he gave his word that he’ll be there to see you walk the stage and receive your diploma. He promised you and yet, as you scanned the crowd of loved ones hugging the attendees, there was no sign of his tie wearing, button up lithe form weaving through the crowd, no sign of his slicked hair, meticulously tucked behind his ears and no sign his doe eyed hazel eyes shining with pride as you joined the ranks of adulthood and unemployment.

You reach for your phone, now finally free from the nerves and adrenaline of going up the stage, with a single unread message from the one you wished to be here with you.

I’m sorry, angel. There’s a case and Gideon needs me.

You sighed with a mild smile sprouting on your glossed lips as you sent back a reply.

No worries! We can celebrate when you get back. Be safe, I love you.

“Oh honey, I’m so proud of you!” Your mom exclaimed, reaching for a hug. “You graduated and with so many achievements—I mean look at all these cords hanging around your neck!”

You laughed as you stepped out from her warm embrace and watched joyful tears gather under her eyes. “Thanks, Mom! Hopefully all these cords help me get a job soon, huh, or else I’ll be moving back home with you.”

“Oh honey, stop joking! As if I wouldn’t welcome you back with open arms,” she quipped back.

A hand holding a bouquet of flowers shot up to your face. It was a bundle of your favorite, carnations, in ranges of different colors.

“Congratulations, lil sis,” your older brother, Trevor, breathed out. “Do I get a hug too or is that just for Mom?”

You giggled as you stepped into his arms, happy to be sharing this moment with your ever loving protector of a brother, no matter how busy he might be as a head chef for his own highly rated restaurant.

“Hey big brother, thanks for being here,” you mumbled in his tight grasp. “Did you pass along my invite to Dad?”

You felt him subtly shake his head causing your smile to slightly falter. You knew better than to expect the man who gifted you half of his genes to show up—a workaholic, absentee of a father whose love language was to deposit checks to your bank account from his fattened pockets as a lawyer for the rich. It was the cause of your parents’ separation when you were five years old. The matriarch tired from taking up the mantle as both the paternal and maternal figure for both you and your brother. Your mother exhausted from repeatedly believing broken promises uttered to herself and to her babies.

Having seen first hand how each lie wrapped as an oath chipped a piece of the loving and bright woman who gave birth to you and your brother, you vowed to never let that happen to you. It was a cautionary tale engrained in your mind. A fable—a curse really and in hindsight, you should have seen the markings of history repeating itself.

“Now, where is your nerdy pipe cleaner of a boyfriend?” He asked as he scanned around the vicinity for a sight of Spencer.

You shrugged, genuinely alright with your FBI agent of a boyfriend missing this milestone in your life. “Duty called. But that’s okay, we’ll celebrate when he gets back.”

A pair of eyes, similar to yours, inquisitively studied you as if making sure there was no hidden hurt behind those words uttered. “If you say so,” he stated, turning to your mother who was smiling at the both of you—her greatest treasures. “Mom, let’s get out of here. I had John prep the kitchen for a feast.”

You and your mom chattered excitedly at the passenger back seat as Trevor backed the four-door navy sedan out of the parking and drove off to his restaurant for the promised lunch graduation.

———

It was well into the night as you were settling in bed when the tell-tale signs of the main door being unlocked echoed through the dark green walls of his apartment.

“Spence?” You called out, letting him know that you were there instead of in your own apartment, 30 minutes away.

More shuffling was heard before the object of your love and affection rounded the bedroom door with a set of his own flowers on hand. He breathed out your name in reverence as he went for a kiss, pleased that he had still caught you awake.

“Congratulations, my love,” he smiled as he pulled away from your soft lips. “These are for you and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

You smiled back, gladly accepting his apologies and flowers. “It’s all good, Spence. I know how demanding your job is. I missed you.”

“I missed you too. I told Gideon and Hotch that’ll I’ll be unavailable this weekend. It’s just you and me,” he said as he went in for another kiss, unable to resist any longer. Not long after, his outside clothes and your sleepwear were strewn all around the bedroom floor as both your bodies merged into one and reached a mutual crescendo with your gasps and his groans as the choir.

***

The second time, you moderately understood.

You noted that the BAU was back in full swing with Gideon being brought back to the saddle after what happened in Boston. As his birthday treat, you both agreed to fly in for the weekend to Vegas to visit his mother at the facility. He never would have gone alone should it not have been for your enthusiasm to come with. You loved talking to Diana about Spencer’s childhood during her good days and you also loved being in her presence still even when she was lost in her teaching past—acting out as a student as you got to hear her lectures about literature.

The bustling at the airport had you tip toeing up to catch a sight of Spencer, your flight departing in about an hour. It was a late Friday afternoon, travelers were piling in for a weekend trip, and he promised to head straight from the Bureau to the airport to meet you by the entrance. Your head swiveled from left to right, biting your lip as the minutes ticked by with no sign of your boyfriend running towards you.

The phone in your jean pocket rang and your heart slightly dropped at the sight of the caller ID.

“Hey pretty boy,” you greeted, naively wishing that this phone call wasn’t a bearer of bad news. “Are you almost at the airport?”

There were muffled voices heard in the background. “Uhm—actually—”

You sighed, understanding what he wanted to say. “There’s a case,” you stated as a matter of fact. “It’s alright, Spence. I’ll tell your mom something popped up. No worries.”

“You—you don’t have to go alone. We can always reschedule,” he suggested, the timber of his voice going up an octave as if he was in a panic at the idea of disappointing you.

“You and I both know Diana’s excited about this trip,” you chuckled as you recalled how her doctor had described his mother’s face lighting up every time she was reminded of the visit. “I’ll go and spend some time with her. Maybe even get her to tell me more embarrassing childhood stories about her perfect boy.”

He lightly laughed at your joke to ease the tension and remorse he was feeling. “I could have told you all of it if you just asked.”

“Well, does it include pictures of you too?” You teased as you were checking in at the counter.

There was a stern voice calling for his name in the background, it was Hotch, you silently guessed.

“Listen, I have to go. The team is about to give the profile,” he rushed out to inform you. “I’ll see you when we both get back. I love you.”

The call ended without so much of a chance for you to say it back.

As the plane got ready to take off, your mood continued to further dampen. He promised to go—to you and to his own mother via the phone. An ivy seed of doubt was planted in your mind. Did he try to excuse himself from the case to his boss as some sort of birthday gift? It really didn’t work that way, you knew, with how of a high demand his job is but still, you wondered if his team was informed about the plans for this weekend or were they purposely kept out of the loop. That notion wouldn’t surprise you at the slightest, thinking back. The profilers weren’t even aware of his mother’s state and condition. Hell, they didn’t even know that you existed, a girlfriend of two years, until well into his first year at the BAU.

Deep down you grasped why he keeps Diana a secret. You were aware of the shame and embarrassment he felt for himself, having had to have her institutionalized by the time he reached the age of eighteen. You got that, didn’t mean you understood it but nonetheless, you respected his decision and was even proud of him for reaching out for professional help no matter how much he viewed that action of his cowardly. But what you weren’t really privy to was really why your relationship was kept in the dark. It could have saved him from Morgan’s incessant ribbing of his inability to pick up women.

During one night where your insecurities got the best of you, you asked in a small voice if he was ashamed of the relationship. He vehemently denied it, repeatedly saying that he just wanted to have a secret solace—a happy home to return to that was untouched by the worst human terrors that he encounters on the daily. That was what you were, he explained, a sunlit luscious reprieve filled with flowers and laughter where he could rest his weary bones from the ravaging, dark waves. His own piece of heaven here on earth. He then kissed your fears away that night, hugged you tight into his chest—the vibrations from his humming lulling you to slumber.

———

“I always knew it would take a special girl to understand my special boy,” Diana mused out loud as you plated a slice of cake for her.

You blushed, sitting down beside her with your own. “He’s perfect. I wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.”

She affectionately combed through your hair, similar to how her son would. “Thank you. For visiting and being understanding of his erratic schedule.”

“It’s no problem at all, Diana. I love him, I knew what I was getting into when we started dating.” You stated as the ivy seed of doubt sprouted in your mind—did you really? Did you really understand what you were getting into?

***

The third time, you still tried to understand.

There you were surrounded by the purest celebration of love and matrimony, sans your long-haired, sweater vest wearing plus one. Your brother was getting married to the love of his life, vowing himself to be with her for better, for worse and your other half was in another state catching criminals. Fiddling with the diamond engagement ring adorning your finger, you recalled how you ended up alone, dateless, in this joyous occasion.

You RSVP’ed with a date when the invitation arrived four months ago. Your brother even calling in to make sure that he, your well-celebrated FBI fiancée, will be able to attend a month before the wedding. You internally scoffed at his repeated checking but in retrospect, maybe he saw the end well before you did. You promised to him, as Spencer did to you, that he’ll be available to watch the union and to save all the slow dances with him. But the day before the wedding, the phone rang for a case in Dallas and you knew what it meant. Without so much of a fight, you kissed him goodbye by the door of his now shared apartment and let the dreary silence enveloped you as you think of how to inform your brother of the new change without hearing the pity and patronization in his voice.

Nursing a glass of red wine, you watched your brother dance with his newly wedded wife and in your peripheral, you spotted your mother approaching you at the table.

“Now why are you being such a sourpuss during this festive event?” She chimed out as she pulled a chair beside you. “You should be out there, dancing and getting to know our new extended family.”

You shrugged, unsure on what to say. She was right, of course. All the guests were enjoying themselves and basking in the warm, infectious glow of the happy couple but you didn’t have the courage in you to mask the despondent emotions inside of you.

Your mother sighed and took your left hand in hers. “You know, when your dad and I were going through the proceedings of the divorce, I had moments when I wanted to back out from it. I loved your father, still holds a piece of my heart till this day, and I thought the small moments of happiness when he was around would be enough to tied me through the days when he wasn’t. I thought those times and our love for you kids were sufficient to keep our love from wilting. If I poured out affection and devotion to the home we once built, it wouldn’t crumble surely. But you know what I forgot—”

You turned to face her somber eyes, looking into yours as if searching for something that seemed to no longer be there.

“—I forgot to take care of myself. I gave a pieces of me away so willing and so many times that when I reached the end of the marriage, I no longer knew who I was. Where the piece of me started and where it ended. You’re withering, my flower. The vibrant life that I once longed to protect in your eyes is slowly dying. I don’t want you to reach the finish line and not know how you got up there. How you ended up giving all yourself away with not a flower bud left to blossom just for you.”

You felt your hackles rise to defend the relationship. In hindsight, this was you denying the truth that was staring you right in the face. “It’s not like that with Spencer, Mom. It’s just—the job is hectic and it’s been his forever dream. He had finally started to gain his footing when Gideon and Elle left and then the kidnapping happened and that pushed his progress back a bit. But he’s getting there now. We’re stabilizing and we had a discussion—there’s less broken promises. It’s just that this recent case in Dallas was urgent and they needed the team to solve crime. I don’t want to take him away from the country and the people who needs his help and from his dream of solving crimes. I love him, Mom, in all of his entirety and he deserves all the respect and understanding from me as his partner.”

She squeezed the hand in hers—the left hand adorning the ring, the material manifestation of his vow to you that you had happily accepted. “I‘ve grown fond of Spencer. I see him as another son of mine but darling, sometimes the love you feel for each other is not enough. A relationship takes continuous work—a task that both individuals must pull in the effort and prioritize. Just think about it,” she stated as she stood up. “Now, no more of this depressing talk and this serious energy from you. Go around, dance with your brother, and enjoy.”

You mustered up a smile as you proceeded to do just what you were told until your feet were sore from all the dancing. But no matter the joyous occasion, it didn’t stop the realization in the form of ivy from taking roots and slowly covering all corners of your mind.

***

And the final time, you could no longer understand.

The grandfather clock stationed at the corner of the dimly lit apartment struck at two. Your figure was still dressed in your purple fitted dress as you waited for your soon-to-be other half to walk through the door. It was another night of getting your hopes up and broken promises and you were no longer sure how much you could take before the love you held in your heart festers and turns into resentment.

You promised yourself you’d never be in a situation that you had seen your mother once be in. You became the careful daughter of a careless man who gave little to no effort to cherish the love a woman had freely given to him. You thought with all your cautiousness and logical thinking, the mistakes of the mother would never be repeated. That was naive thinking—you realized now. By actively being aware of the past, you’d forgotten to look ahead and fell deep into the pitfalls of doing the same as your mother did.

Spencer once mentioned that there was a high divorce rate in his line of duty. How he worried and vowed that you both will never join that rate. And that was a promise he’ll be able to keep, you scoffed to yourself, as you spun the ring on the table.

Another shared piece of information floated to the forefront of your mind. How Haley had recently served Hotch, his unit chief divorce papers. You’ve grown close with her over the years, being the only two constant partners to someone working in the BAU. You’ve seen first hand all the missed milestones in Haley’s and Jack’s life as her husband flew around the country with the cavalry, saving the innocent one case at a time. Never taking the time to realize that the once solid foundation of their marriage was crumbling down with every flight he took. Similar to what was happening in the doctor’s own home.

A set of keys unlatched the mahogany door and a fresh batch of florals were the first that entered through, followed by Spencer looking sheepish as he noted your presence by the sofa. “Angel, I’m so sorry I missed your promotion dinner.”

Silence greeted him as he stumbled to get to where you were. “Carnations for you.”

Tears started to form under your eyes. You didn’t want to break but the reality of your decision was setting in. You wanted to falter, to change your mind, to give him another chance but you knew you couldn’t. You’ve given too much of your understanding away and you doubted you have any more to give to this beautiful man who once promised to make you his top priority.

“I can’t accept them, Spencer.”

His eyebrows furrowed and his body tensing as if sensing the finality behind your words. “Why not? They’re your favorite.”

“They are but—” you took a deep breath, steeling your resolve. “—I think we should stop.”

“W-what? No. No, please,” he stammered out as his own set of tears started flooding his eyes, blurring you from his vision. “I’m sorry I missed the dinner. I’ll make it up to you—I promise just—”

The dam of your emotions broke causing you to freely sob out all the sadness and anger that had collected in your heart. “I’m tired, Spencer. You can’t promise anything to me anymore. You’ve broken so many promises that you’ll only end up breaking them again.”

He took your hands into his, letting the bouquet fall crushed on the hardwood floor, recognizing the ring missing in your finger. “This time, this time it’ll be different. Please, don’t leave me.”

“The country needs you, the BAU needs you. But I need you too, Spencer. I love you, I really do but I can’t be your third priority anymore. I don’t deserve that—don’t I deserve to come first before the country and the job?”

He tightened his hold on your hands as if afraid that you were slipping through his fingers, denying the reality that you already had. “I love you so much. I don’t want to live without you by my side. Tell me how to fix this. Do you want me to leave the BAU? I’ll—I’ll do it, just stay with me, please.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want you to leave the FBI. Your ambition and integrity is one of the facets that I loved about you and you might end up resenting me down the line if you leave now. It’s not yet your time to leave the BAU, you and I both know that,” you pulled your hands away and slid the ring in front of him. “This belongs to you, I’m giving it back.”

His shoulder caved in on itself, the weight of it all too much for him to carry. “I don’t want this to be our end. I just don’t.”

“I don’t want this too, but I need to,” you whispered as your hand reached out to push shoulder length hair out of the way. “Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe in the future we’d meet again and continue the pages of our love story but for now, I have to do this Spencer. I can’t keep giving a piece of me every time your top priority needs you, I’ll end up hating you if I stay.”

You leaned in for one final kiss. A salty, tear filled kiss of death to a future you had once envisioned with the beautiful boy before you. A white picket fence with children laughing at the backyard—the American dream fading into nothing as you start to pull away.

“Goodbye for now, Spencer.”

He stared at all the curves and dips in your face one last time as if etching every detail into his already perfect memory.

“Goodbye for now, Y/N.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer Reid oneshot

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ahqkas · 6 months ago

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# SWEET LITTLE LIES ; mattheo riddle

❛ tell me sweet little lies ❜

PAIRING! mattheo riddle x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! mattheo riddle expects to be met with familiar scents of parchment and rain. instead, he's stunned to recognize the fragrance of (name)

WORD COUNT! 2.2k

WARNINGS! none, maybe ooc mattheo since it’s my first time writing for him

NOTES! best read in the true blue mode

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

THE DIMLY LIT CLASSROOM OF POTIONS BUZZED WITH THE SUBDUED MURMURS OF STUDENTS AS THEY TOOK THEIR SEATS, THE SOUND ECHOING OFF THE COLD, STONE WALLS. The weather outside stormed wildly, the winter snow freezing the windows of the castle and covering the land with a white blanket. It was a clear sign that Christmas was coming soon. Maybe even sooner than expected. Flickering torches cast dancing shadows, adding to the room's eerie ambiance. The long, wooden tables were neatly arranged in rows, each one equipped with cauldrons and an assortment of ingredients that glistened in the low light.

The scent of musty parchment and various potions' ingredients lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of damp stone. Professor Slughorn, with his rotund figure and genial demeanor, bustled about the room, his jovial laughter cutting through the tension as he waited for the students to take their seats. His eyes twinkled behind his spectacles as he greeted each student personally with a huge amount of enthusiasm.

As you settled into your seat, you could feel the cool air from the dungeon's depths and outside's snow, a stark contrast to the warm, humid air that rose from the simmering cauldrons. The anticipation was palpable, each student eager yet apprehensive about the complex potion they were about to brew. No potion was easy, after all, and the one before Christmas break was the actual opposite of easy.

Mattheo Riddle slipped into a seat near the back, his expression as inscrutable as ever. You caught his eye for a fleeting moment before looking away, a shiver running down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The atmosphere was thick with concentration and a hint of tension, as everyone prepared to prove their skills in the demanding environment of the Potions dungeon.

Professor Slughorn clasped his hands together, a gleam of excitement in his eyes, as he addressed the class once everyone was ready to begin with the lesson. "Good afternoon, my dear students! Today, we have a particularly enchanting potion in our hands. We'll be brewing Amortentia! Anybody knows what Amortentia is?"

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room as students exchanged curious glances. Hermione Granger's hand shot up eagerly, and Professor Slughorn nodded in her direction. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

The girl straightened in her seat, her voice confident as she replied, "Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in existence, sir. It causes a powerful infatuation or obsession in the drinker. However, it's not truly love, but rather an intense and temporary obsession."

Professor Slughorn beamed at her response, pleased with her as always. "Excellent, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor for your impeccable knowledge. Indeed, Amortentia is a potion that has been the subject of many cautionary tales throughout history. But fear not, today we shall handle it with the utmost care and respect for its potency."

As Professor Slughorn's cheerful voice echoed through the dungeon, assigning partners for the upcoming project, you listened with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Names were called, pairs formed, until finally, he reached the one that made your heart skip a beat.

"And for Miss [Last name]," Professor Slughorn announced, scanning the room with a thoughtful expression, "I think it's only fitting to pair you with Mr. Riddle."

A hush fell over the room as all eyes turned towards you and Mattheo. You could feel the weight of their gazes, the unspoken questions hanging in the air. Of course they'd stare, he was the Dark Lord's son. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as you exchanged a brief, uncertain glance with Mattheo, his expression unreadable as always.

Professor Slughorn clapped his hands together, breaking the tension with his trademark joviality. "There we have it, ladies and gentlemen! Partners assigned, let the festivities begin!"

When the class dissolved into activity, you couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness that clouded your mind. Being partnered with Mattheo Riddle for a project meant spending more time in his presence, meaning being surrounded by the rumors that circled around him like bees circled flowers. Once people talked, no one could stop it.

And Mattheo Riddle had a reputation of his own to own.

Said Riddle approached your desk with a measured stride, his expression guarded yet polite, never actually showing what was on his mind. He took the seat beside you, and a light scent of cinnamon greeted your senses as you acknowledged each other with a nod.

Clearing his throat, the Slytherin turned towards you, his voice carefully neutral. "[Last name]," he began, his eyes never once breaking the eye contact he held from the start, "do you happen to know what ingredients we need for the Amortentia potion?"

You glanced up from the parchment which contained the names of the ingredients you'd need for the potion, meeting his gaze with a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah," you replied softly, your tone gentle yet confident. "We'll need powdered moonstone, a sprig of peppermint, Ashwinder egg, rose thorns and petals, and some of the pearl dust."

Mattheo's eyebrows lifted, clearly being impressed when you named the ingredients without even having to look at the parchment. "Let's gather the ingredients and get started then, shall we?"

And with that, you began to brew the potion, your movements synchronized as you both worked side by side, each lost in your own thoughts yet connected by the shared task of the potion brewing before you two.

The ambient noise of the dungeon—a blend of bubbling cauldrons and hushed conversations—created a cocoon of privacy around your shared workspace.

You reached for the powdered moonstone, your fingers brushing Mattheo's briefly as he handed you the jar. A quick glance passed between you, and you'd been surprised at how this even happened. You know Mattheo is careful enough to not touch anyone, unless absolutely necessary (doesn't apply to his friends and people he's got a problem with). Carefully, you measured the moonstone and added it to the cauldron, watching as the shimmering powder dissolved into the bubbling liquid.

Next came the peppermint. Mattheo's hands were steady as he delicately placed the sprig into the cauldron, the potion emitting a soft, iridescent glow. His focus was intense, his usual guarded expression softened by the concentration and when his brows furrowed, creating frown lines between them, you couldn't help but admit to yourself he's rather breathtaking when he's not throwing daggers with his glare.

"Just a bit of rose petals left," you said in concentration, eyes following the Slytherin's movements. Mattheo nodded, holding the small vial with care. As he added the final ingredient, the potion swirled, releasing a heady aroma that made your heart race. You expected to smell the familiar scents of home - fresh pine, baked goods, and the flowery smell of fields. Yet, you inhaled a completely different mix of scents, confusing you to the roots. Cigarettes, jasmine, and the strong cologne Mattheo was wearing, along with cinnamon.

You turned to him with a frown etched on your face while your eyes searched his. "Did you try to drown yourself in your cologne today?"

The boy next to you blinked in confusion, caught off guard by the sudden accusation. "What? No," he replied while leaning closer to you. "I barely used any."

"They why do you reek of it?"

Mattheo's brown irises flickered to the potion, then back to you. "I could ask you the same thing. Your perfume can be smelled in the whole classroom."

The cogs in his head started to whirl as the thought about it and for better reassurance, Mattheo leaned above the bubbling cauldron and inhaled deeply, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized a scent that clearly resonated with what he just said. He glanced at you, a mixture of surprise and something deeper flickering in his eyes. For a brief moment, the walls he had carefully built around himself seemed to crumble, revealing a vulnerability that caught you off guard to see.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence he created without any intention. "Looks like we brewed it right," he exclaimed, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of something unspoken. You nodded, feeling a similar mix of emotions as you looked into the softly glowing pink potion.

Professor Slughorn, who had been making his rounds through the classroom, examining potions and asking students to describe the scents they perceived, finally approached your table. His joyful demeanor brightened further as he peered into your cauldron, a look of pleased surprise spreading across his face as he clapped his hands at the sight.

"Ah, splendid work, you two! This is the best brew I've seen yet," he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with approval. "Such a perfect example of Amortentia! Now, tell me, Mr. Riddle, what scents do you detect?"

Mattheo hesitated, his eyes flicking to you briefly before he focused on the potion again. He took a deep breath, the familiar and intoxicating aroma washing over him. "I smell parchment," he began, his voice steady, "and fresh rain... and—" He paused, his gaze meeting yours, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "And a hint of wildflowers, like the ones near the edge of the Forbidden Forest."

Slughorn's eyebrows lifted in delight. "Marvelous! Wildflowers, you say? Such an evocative scent, isn't it?" He turned his attention to you, clearly curious. "And you, my dear? What do you smell?"

You swallowed hard, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks under the intensity of both Slughorn's and Mattheo's gazes. "I... I smell the smoke of cigarettes," you said, concentrating on the whirl of scents, "and something soft, like... jasmine, and a hint of something spicy. Cinnamon, perhaps.”

Slughorn clapped his hands together, beaming. "Excellent, both of you! You've captured the essence of Amortentia beautifully. Your potion reflects a deep, personal connection to the scents you hold." He nodded approvingly and moved on to the next table, leaving you and Mattheo in a charged silence.

As the professor's attention shifted elsewhere, you found yourself staring into the cauldron, the shimmering potion a reminder of the truths it had revealed rather than a simple love potion. Mattheo's description lingered in your mind - wildflowers, fresh rain -scents unmistakably tied to you.

Mattheo cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "So, wildflowers, huh?" he said, attempting a half-smirk but unable to mask the underlying tension.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice barely a whisper. "Jasmine and spices... it's not exactly subtle, is it?"

He shook his head, the faint smirk fading as he looked at you, his expression earnest. "No, it's not."

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. The potion had done more than just showcase your brewing skills; it had unveiled the undeniable bond between you neither of you were aware of.

As the class drew to a close, the potion's shimmering surface still held your gaze. Professor Slughorn's praise echoed in your mind, but it was Mattheo's words that truly resonated. The students began to pack up their things, the room filled with the sounds of clattering glassware and murmured conversations.

Finally, as the last of the students filed out, leaving the dungeon quieter and more intimate, Mattheo turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "[Last name]," he began, a smirk playing on his lips, "It's all confusing to me but you can't deny it. The Amortentia—it's not just a potion, you know what it does and what it did."

You raised an eyebrow, trying to mask the flutter of emotions with a playful smile. "Is that so, Riddle? Took a love potion for you to figure out what you feel for me? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one."

Mattheo chuckled, leaning in slightly. "Well, Granger can't be the only one showing off in class. Besides, it's hard to be clever when someone's making it difficult to think straight."

You rolled your eyes, though your heart skipped a beat. "So, what do we do now? Have a dramatic confession in front of everyone or keep exchanging sarcastic remarks and piss everyone off?"

"I vote for sarcastic remarks," Mattheo replied with a grin. "They're more fun. Plus, I wouldn't want you to think I'm going soft."

"Perish the thought," you said with a mock gasp. "Imagine the scandal."

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine for the first time you've heard him laugh. It was a new, yet heartwarming sound. "But seriously, [Last name], let's take it one step at a time. No need to rush."

You nodded, content with the idea. "Agreed. Just promise me one thing, Riddle."

"Anything," he said, his tone suddenly sincere.

"Don't drown yourself in cologne again. It's really distracting."

The smirk he spotted before returned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Only if you promise not to spend all your time in the Forbidden Forest looking for wildflowers. It'd be a shame if you got lost."

"Deal," you said, unable to suppress a laugh.

Together, you left the dungeon, the lingering scent of Amortentia left behind you. As you walked side by side, trading jabs and teasing comments, Mattheo's fingers brushed against yours in a silent invitation before he enveloped your palm with his.

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rebeccathenaturalist · 2 months ago

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For those who don't know, the death cap (Amanita phalloides) is one of five mushrooms, along with four Amanita species known colloquially as destroying angels, that I refer to collectively as the "deadly Amanitas". They all contain amatoxins that cause massive cell death in your liver within a few hours of consuming them, and half a cap can kill a healthy adult. There's no reliable cure, and all that can be offered is supportive care in the hopes you don't end up needing a liver transplant or simply dying.

This is why I bang the drum of identification so hard in my foraging classes. It is NOT enough to just look at a bunch of photos of mushrooms; you HAVE to be able to carry out a detailed observation of the physical characteristics of a mystery mushroom and then be able to use your observations in conjunction with LOTS of tools (not just one app or one field guide) to arrive at a positive I.D. You don't need to be a scientist to do this; you just need patience, critical thinking skills, and lots of practice.

I also want to emphasize, once again, that you should never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever use an ID app as your only tool, even if it's a really solid one like iNaturalist. Apps can be wrong more than occasionally, and I treat iNat as a way to get some suggested species to look into that might match my mystery mushroom, not the end point of identification.

There's no minimum number of field guides you should use, either; I've heard the assertion that if three field guides agree it must be right, but what if there's been new information that's come out since they were published? Apps, field guides, websites, blogs, journal articles, online foraging groups, other foragers in-person, classes--these are all the many resources available to you, and if you are relying on only one, you're much more likely to end up with a dangerous misidentification.

I see my job as a foraging instructor as doing my very best to make sure you don't end up as yet another cautionary tale, not just show you a bunch of pretty pictures. We have multiple examples of people who, for example, misidentified a poisonous mushroom with an app and ended up seriously regretting it. We don't know the whole story here, but it wouldn't surprise me if that's what occurred in this instance.

Be careful, be thorough, and when in doubt, throw it out. You can also contact me any time if you want my opinion on the ID of a particular mushroom--but DO NOT take my word as your only source!

#foraging #mushroom #mushrooms #fungus #fungi #mushroom poisoning #death #death mention #mushroom foraging #mushroom hunting #death caps #nature #nature identification

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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When most Americans think of fascism, they picture a Hitlerian hellscape of dramatic action: police raids, violent coups, mass executions. Indeed, such was the savagery of Nazi Germany, Stalinist Russia, and Vichy France. But what many people don’t appreciate about tyranny is its “banality,” Timothy Snyder tells me. “We don’t imagine how a regime change is going to be at the dinner table. The regime change is going to be on the sidewalk. It’s going to be in your whole life.”

Snyder, a Yale history professor and leading scholar of Soviet Russia, was patching into Zoom from a hotel room in Kyiv, where the specter of authoritarianism looms large as Ukraine remains steeped in a yearslong military siege by Vladimir Putin. It was late at night and he was still winding down from, and gearing up for, a packed schedule—from launching an institution dedicated to the documentation of the war, to fundraising for robotic-demining development, to organizing a conference for a new Ukrainian history project. “I’ve had kind of a long day and a long week, and if this were going to be my sartorial first appearance in Vanity Fair, I would really want it to go otherwise,” he joked.

But the rest of our conversation was no laughing matter. It largely centered, to little surprise, on Donald Trump and how the former president has put America on a glide path to fascism. Too many commentators were late to realize this. Snyder, however, has been sounding the alarm since the dawn of Trumpism itself, invoking the cautionary tales of fascist history in his 2017 book, On Tyranny, and in The Road to Unfreedom the year after. It’s been six years since the latter, and Snyder is now out with a new book, On Freedom, a personal and philosophical attempt to flip the valence of America’s most lauded—and loaded—word. “We Americans tend to think that freedom is a matter of things being cleared away, and that capitalism does that work for us. It is a trap to believe in this,” he writes. “Freedom is not an absence but a presence, a life in which we choose multiple commitments and realize combinations of them in the world.”

In an interview with Vanity Fair, which has been edited for length and clarity, Snyder unpacks America’s “strongman fantasy,” encourages Democrats to reclaim the concept of freedom, and critiques journalists for pushing a “war fatigue” narrative about the Russian invasion of Ukraine. “There’s just something so odd about Americans being tired of this war. We can get bored of it or whatever, but how can we be tired?” he asks. “We’re not doing a damn thing.”

Vanity Fair: The things we associate with freedom—free speech, religious liberty—have been co-opted by the Republican Party. Do you think you could walk me through how that happened historically and how Democrats could take that word back?

Timothy Snyder: Yeah. I think the way it happened historically is actually quite dark there. There’s an innocent way of talking about this, which is to say, “Oh, some people believe in negative freedom and some people believe in positive freedom—and negative freedom just means less government and positive freedom means more government.” And when you say it like that, it just sounds like a question of taste. And who knows who’s right?

Whereas historically speaking, to answer your question, the reason why people believe in negative freedom is that they’re enslaving other people, or they are oppressing women, or both. The reason why you say freedom is just keeping the government off my back is that the central government is the only force that’s ever going to enfranchise those slaves. It’s the only force which is ever going to give votes to those women. And so that’s where negative freedom comes from. I’m not saying that everybody who believes in negative freedom now owns slaves or oppresses women, but that’s the tradition. That’s the reason why you would think freedom is negative, which on its face is a totally implausible idea. I mean, the notion that you can just be free because there’s no government makes no sense, unless you’re a heavily drugged anarchist.

And so, as the Republican Party has also become the party of race in our country, it’s become the party of small government. Unfortunately, this idea of freedom then goes along for the ride, because freedom becomes freedom from government. And then the next step is freedom becomes freedom for the market. That seems like a small step, but it’s a huge step because if we believe in free markets, that means that we actually have duties to the market. And Americans have by and large accepted that, even pretty far into the center or into the left. If you say that term, “free market,” Americans pretty generally won’t stop you and say, “Oh, there’s something problematic about that.” But there really is: If the market is free, that means that you have a duty to the market, and the duty is to make sure the government doesn’t intervene in it. And once you make that step, you suddenly find yourself willing to accept that, well, everybody of course has a right to advertise, and I don’t have a right to be free of it. Or freedom of speech isn’t really for me; freedom of speech is for the internet.

And that’s, to a large measure, the world we live in.

You have a quote in the book about this that distills it well: “The countries where people tend to think of freedom as freedom to are doing better by our own measures, which tend to focus on freedom from.”

Yeah, thanks for pulling that out. Even I was a little bit struck by that one. Because if you’re American and you talk about freedom all the time and you also spend all your time judging other countries on freedom, and you decide what the measures are, then you should be close to the top of the list—but you’re not. And then you ask, “Why is that?” When you look at countries like Sweden, Norway, Denmark, France, Germany, or Ireland—that are way ahead of us—they’re having a different conversation about freedom. They don’t seem to talk about freedom as much as we do, but then when they do, they talk about it in terms of enabling people to do things.

And then you realize that an enabled population, a population that has health care and retirement and reliable schools, may be better at defending things like the right to vote and the right to freedom of religion and the right to freedom of speech—the things that we think are essential to freedom. And then you realize, Oh, wait, there can be a positive loop between freedom to and freedom from. And this is the big thing that Americans get a hundred percent wrong. We think there’s a tragic choice between freedom from and freedom to—that you’ve got to choose between negative freedom and positive freedom. And that’s entirely wrong.

What do you make of Kamala Harris’s attempt to redeem the word?

It makes me happy if it’s at the center of a political discussion. And by the way, going back to your first question, it’s interesting how the American right has actually retreated from freedom. It has been central for them for half a century, but they are now actually retreating from it, and they’ve left the ground open for the Democrats. So, politically, I’m glad they’re seizing it—not just because I want them to win, but also because I think on the center left or wherever she is, there’s more of a chance for the word to take on a fuller meaning. Because so long as the Republicans can control the word, it’s always going to mean negative freedom.

I can’t judge the politics that well, but I think it’s philosophically correct and I think we end up being truer to ourselves. Because my big underlying concern as an American is that we have this word which we’ve boxed into a corner and then beaten the pulp out of, and it really doesn’t mean anything anymore. And yet it’s the only imaginable central concept I can think of for American political theory or American political life.

Yeah, it’s conducive to the joy-and-optimism approach that the Democrats are taking to the campaign. Freedom to is about enfranchisement; it’s about empowerment; it’s about mobility.

Totally. Can I jump in there with another thought?

Of course.

I think JD Vance is the logical extension of where freedom as freedom from gets you. Because one of the things you say when freedom is negative—when it’s just freedom from—is that the government is bad, right? You say the government is bad because it’s suppressive. But then you also say government is bad because it can’t do anything. It’s incompetent and it’s dysfunctional. And it’s a small step from there to a JD Vance–type figure who is a doomer, right? He’s a doomer about everything. His politics is a politics of impotence. His whole idea is that government will fail at everything—that there’s no point using government, and in fact, life is just sort of terrible in general. And the only way to lead in life is to kind of be snarky about other people. That’s the whole JD Vance political philosophy. It’s like, “I’m impotent. You’re impotent. We’re all impotent. And therefore let’s be angry.”

Did you watch the debate?

No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I’m in the wrong time zone.

There was a moment that struck me, and I think it would strike you too: Donald Trump openly praised Viktor Orbán, as he has done repeatedly in the past. But he said, explicitly, Orbán is a good guy because he’s a “strongman,” which is a word that he clearly takes to be a compliment, not derogatory. You’ve written about the strongman fantasy in your Substack, so I’m curious: What do you think Trump is appealing to here?

Well, I’m going to answer it in a slightly different way, and then I’ll go back to the way you mean it. I think he’s tapping into one of his own inner fantasies. I think he looks around the world and he sees that there’s a person like Orbán, who’s taken a constitutional system and climbed out of it and has managed to go from being a normal prime minister to essentially being an extraconstitutional figure. And I think that’s what Trump wants for himself. And then, of course, the next step is a Putin-type figure, where he’s now an unquestioned dictator.

For the rest of us, I think he’s tapping—in a minor key—into inexperience, and that was my strongman piece that you kindly mentioned. Americans don’t really think through what it would mean to have a government without the rule of law and the possibility of throwing the bums out. I think we just haven’t thought that through in all of its banality: the neighbors denouncing you, your kids not having social mobility because you maybe did something wrong, having to be afraid all the damn time. African Americans and some immigrants have a sense of this, but in general, Americans don’t get that. They don’t get what that would be like.

So that’s a minor key. The major key, though, is the 20% or so of Americans who really, I think, authentically do want an authoritarian regime, because they would prefer to identify personally with a leader figure and feel good about it rather than enjoy freedom.

You mentioned the word banality, which makes me think of Hannah Arendt’s theory of the “banality of evil.” What would the banality of authoritarianism look like in America?

So let me first talk about the nonbanality of evil, because our version of evil is something like, and I don’t want to be too mean, but it’s something like this: A giant monster rises out of the ocean and then we get it with our F-16s or F-35s or whatever. That’s our version of evil. It’s corporeal, it’s obviously bad, and it can be defeated by dramatic acts of violence.

And we apply that to figures like Hitler or Stalin, and we think, Okay, what happened with Hitler was that he was suddenly defeated by a war. Of course he was defeated by a war, but he did some dramatic and violent things to come to power, but his coming to power also involved a million banalities. It involved a million assimilations, a million changes of what we think of as normal. And it’s our ability to make things normal and abnormal which is so terrifying. It’s like an animal instinct on our part: We can tell what the power wants us to do, and if we don’t think about it, we then do it. In authoritarian conditions, this means that we realize, Oh, the law doesn’t really apply anymore. That means my neighbor could have denounced me for anything, and so I better denounce my neighbor first. And before you know it, you’re in a completely different society, and the banality here is that instead of just walking down the street thinking about your own stuff, you’re thinking, Wait a minute, which of my neighbors is going to denounce me?

Americans think all the time about getting their kids into the right school. What happens in an authoritarian country is that all of that access to social mobility becomes determined by obedience. And as a parent, suddenly you realize you have to be publicly loyal all the time, because one little black mark against you ruins your child’s future. And that’s the banality right there. In Russia, everybody lives like that, because any little thing you do wrong, and your kid has no chance. They get thrown out of school; they can’t go to university.

We don’t imagine how a regime change is going to be at the dinner table. The regime change is going to be on the sidewalk. It’s going to be in your whole life. It’s not going to be some external thing. It’s not like this strongman is just going to be some bad person in the White House, and then eventually the good guys will come and knock him out. When the regime changes, you change and you adapt, and you look around as everyone else is adapting and you realize, Well, everyone else adapting is a new reality for me, and I’m probably going to have to adapt too. Trump wants to be a strongman. He’s already tried a coup d’état. He makes it clear that he wants to be a different regime. And so if you vote him in, you’re basically saying, “Okay, strongman, tell me how to adapt.”

Yeah, we could talk about Project 2025 all day. This new effort to bureaucratize tyranny—which was not in place in 2020—could really make the banal aspect a reality because it’s enforced by the administrative state, which is going to be felt by Americans at a quotidian level.

I agree with what you say. If I were in business, I would be terrified of Project 2025 because what it’s going to lead to is favoritism. You’re never going to get approvals for your stuff unless you’re politically close to administration. It’s going to push us toward a more Hungary-like situation, where the president’s pals’ or Jared Kushner’s pals’ companies are going to do fine. But everybody else is going to have to pay bribes. Everyone else is going to have to make friends.

It’s anticompetitive.

Yeah, it’s going to generate a very, very uneven playing field where certain people are going to be favored and become oligarchs. And most of the rest of us are going to have a hard time. Also, the 40,000 [loyalists Trump wants to replace the administrative state with] are going to be completely incompetent. When people stop getting their Social Security checks, they’re going to realize that the federal government—which they’ve been told is so dysfunctional—actually did do some things. It’s going to be chaos. The only way to get anything done is to have a phone number where you can call somebody at someplace in the government and say, “Make my thing a priority.” The chaos of the administration state feeds into the strongman thing. And since that’s true, the strongman view starts to become natural for you because it’s the only way to get anything done.

You’ve studied Russian information warfare pretty extensively. A few weeks ago the Justice Department indicted two employees of the Russian state media outlet RT for their role in surreptitiously funding a right-wing US media outfit as part of a foreign-influence-peddling scheme, which saw them pull the wool over a bunch of right-wing media personalities. Do you think this type of thing is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Russian information warfare?

Of course. It’s the tip of the iceberg, and I want to refer back to 2016. It was much bigger in 2016 than we recognized at the time. The things that the Obama administration was concerned with—like the actual penetration of state voting systems and stuff—that was really just nothing compared to all of the internet stuff they had going. And we basically caught zilcho of that before the election itself. And I think the federal government is more aware of it this time, but also the Russians are doing different things this time, no doubt.

I’m afraid what I think is that there are probably an awful lot of people who are doing this—including people who are much more important in the media than those guys—and that there’s just no way we’re going to catch very many of them before November. That’s my gut feeling.

While we’re on Russia, I do want to talk about Ukraine, especially since you’re there right now. I think one of the most unfortunate aspects of [the media’s coverage of] foreign wars—the Ukraine war and also the Israel-Hamas war—is just the way they inevitably fade into the background of the American news cycle, especially if no American boots are on the ground. I’m curious if this dynamic frustrates you as a historian.

Oh, a couple points there. One is, I’m going to point out slightly mean-spiritedly that the stories about war fatigue in Ukraine began in March 2022. As a historian, I am a little bit upset at journalists. I don’t mean the good ones. I don’t mean the guys I just saw who just came back from the front. [I mean] the people who are sitting in DC or New York or wherever, who immediately ginned up this notion of war fatigue and kept asking everybody from the beginning, “When are you going to get tired of this war?” We turned war fatigue into a topos almost instantaneously. And I found that really irresponsible because you’re affecting the discourse. But also, I feel like there was a kind of inbuilt laziness into it. If war fatigue sets in right away, then you have an excuse never to go to the country, and you have an excuse never to figure out what’s going on, and you have an excuse never to figure out why it’s important.

So I was really upset by that, and also because there’s just something so odd about Americans being tired of this war. We can get bored of it or whatever, but how can we be tired? We’re not doing a damn thing. We’re doing nothing. I mean, there’s some great individual Americans who are volunteering and giving supplies and stuff, but as a country, we’re not doing a damn thing. I mean, a tiny percentage of our defense budget—which would be going to other stuff anyway—insead goes to Ukraine.

And by the way, Ukrainians understand that Americans have other things to think about. I was not very far from the front three days ago talking to soldiers, and their basic attitude about the election and us was, like, “Yeah, you got your own things to think about. We understand. It’s not your war.” But as a historian, the thing which troubles me is pace, because with time, all kinds of resources wear down. And the most painful is the Ukrainian human resource. That’s probably a terribly euphemistic word, but people die and people get wounded and people get traumatized. Your own side runs out of stuff.

We were played by the Russians, psychologically, about the way wars are fought. And that stretched out the war. That’s the thing which bothers me most. You win wars with pace and you win wars with surprise. You don’t win wars by allowing the other side to dictate what the rules are and stretching everything out, which is basically what’s happened. And with that has come a certain amount of American distraction and changing the subject and impatience. I think journalists have made a mistake by making it into a kind of consumer thing where they’re sort of instructing the public that it’s okay to be bored or fatigued. And then I think the Biden administration made a mistake by not doing things at pace and allowing every decision to take weeks and months and so on.

What do you think another Trump presidency would mean for the war and for America’s commitment to Ukraine?

I think Trump switches sides and puts American power on the Russian side, effectively. I think Trump cuts off. He’s a bad dealmaker—that’s the problem. I mean, he’s a good entertainer. He’s very talented; he’s very charismatic. In his way, he’s very intelligent, but he’s not a good dealmaker. And a) ending wars is not a deal the way that buying a building is a deal, and b) even if it were, he’s consistently made bad deals his whole career and lost out and gone bankrupt.

So you can’t really trust him with something like this, even if his intentions were good—and I don’t think his intentions are good. Going back to the strongman thing, I think he believes that it’s right and good that the strong defeat and dominate the weak. And I think in his instinctual view of the world, Putin is pretty much the paradigmatic strongman—the one that he admires the most. And because he thinks Putin is strong, Putin will win. The sad irony of all this is that we are so much stronger than Russia. And in my view, the only way Russia can really win is if we flip or if we do nothing. So, because Trump himself is so psychologically weak and wants to look up to another strongman, I think he’s going to flip. But even if I’m wrong about that, I think he’s incompetent to deal with a situation like this. Because he wants the quick affirmation of a deal. And if the other side knows you’re in a hurry, then you’ve already lost from the beginning.

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curtins · 13 days ago

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GOO GOO MUCK #2 — jujutsu kaisen x reader choose a storybook to open. aka my mythos take on jujutsu kaisen.

you've turned the page to: CHAPTER II. GETŌ SUGURU go back to the table of contents.

why are they all trying to make me a saint? oh god! oh god! i want to do things. stop turning me into a saint! andrei tarkovsky, journal 1970-1986

prologue. → a mortal man wears the skin of a serpent and wields dark sorcery with a lover's ease. suguru geto promises you a throne, a seat by his side and a kingdom on its knees. you understand why cautionary tales are written about foolish gods who gave their power away for silken chains, for those who would tear them asunder.

pairing. serpent king!suguru geto x goddess!reader (sfw!)

song inspiration. goo goo muck — the cramps / little dark age — mgmt

warnings. geto is manipulative as fawk, kind of dubious, suggestive behaviour from mr. suguru geto, angst, very much the premise of a dark romance, ambiguous and tragic ending, kissing word count. 2.6k

a/n. daphne write a happy ending challenge failed again but i can't help it teeheehee

ask/comment/dm to be added to a taglist 🩵

mp3. when the sun goes down, and the moon comes up, i turn into a teenage goo goo muck!

how can man claim a god?

the ancient texts say he can chain them, bind them to his own wills and desires.

the world around you sharpens slowly, revealing an altar carved from stone as old as time, with dark mineral veins that run through it, gleaming faintly in the dim light. the chains that have bound you are wrought of a metal that you do not recognise — neither iron nor silver, but something darker. and it feels almost alive. an ancient and all-consuming magic. each link is inscribed with cursed energy, winding around your wrists and ankles, cold to the touch and yet searing with power, holding you fast with a grip that sinks through flesh and bone. it has tethered your form.

the air is thick with dampness, the heavy scent of earth and rot mixes with the subtle perfume of nearby flowers, sickening sweet. you blink as you focus on ghostly white blossoms hanging on twisted and skeletal branches, each petal aglow with an otherworldly pallor. to your left, a pool of water shimmers in the stone hollow, black as midnight, with a surface that barely ripples — waiting and watching.

then, a sound — soft at first, but unmistakable in the silence. the faint swish of fabric moves in steady, deliberate strides. the one who has dared to summon and call you onto this mortal plane? but the air grows colder as the figure draws near, and he steps into view.

it is no lowly feat to summon a deity in a shrine, and an even greater feat to bind them, with such chains of power. you have never paid attention to the tales of mortals, little and less truly, but the serpent king is known. suguru geto is known for interfering with the divine plans for humankind, determined to wipe them out for his own misguided gain. your captor's violet robes catch the faint light, shimmering dark as they brush against the damp ground.

he steps closer, and for a moment, your wrath stills — because of him. the ghostly glow highlights his face, the sharp angles and fine lines as though he were chiselled from marble. it is the kind of beauty that mortals sing of in legends, a face that the gods themselves must have blessed, sculpted by divine hands. you wonder, fleetingly, if one of your brethren sired him, some forgotten affair between a deity and a mortal.

he draws near with a slow, sinuous grace, his movements almost serpentine, fluid and deliberate, his violet robes brushing against the floor in rhythmic waves. even his eyes—narrow, predatory slits of deep amethyst — glimmer with a strange, hypnotic gleam, unblinking as they take you in. mortal he may be, but here's something undeniably reptilian about him, something ancient and unsettling that lingers in the way he tilts his head, his gaze unwavering and utterly still, like a beast considering its prey.

a fierce snarl tears from you, and the stone walls echo your wrath. "do you know the price of chaining a deity, serpent?" you hiss, your words laced with venom. "do you understand what fate awaits one who dares to keep me captive?"

the air shivers with your warning, cold seeping into the air, yet he only observes you with that same unnerving stillness, a flicker of amusement gleaming in his narrow eyes. suguru geto tilts his head, a subtle, slithering motion, and reaches out with long, graceful fingers to test the chains binding you, his touch deliberate and controlled.

without warning, he leans in close, his breath brushing against the curve of your ear, soft and almost hissing. "you misunderstand me, goddess," he murmurs, his voice silken, carrying a subtle, hissing undertone. "i do not fear the gods. i have spent lifetimes defying them, one whisper at a time, one spell, one ambition." he pauses, his lips curling into a dark smile as his fingers trace the chains that bind you, "i will never be a god. but with a goddess at my side," suguru geto smiles, almost sincere, "a queen, i will be as close as one could ever be."

the gall of him, the sheer recklessness in his claim, strikes you like a spark to tinder, a hot rage flaring in your chest.

the audacity of him, the nerve — a mortal man, no a creature of shadows and serpentine, thinking himself worthy of even whispering such a treasonous thing.

"how dare you," you snarl, and each syllable drips with scorn, "how dare a mortal, a mere man, even think to claim one of the great pantheon as his own! you think yourself a king, but you are nothing. i am beyond you — beyond the hand of any man," and you writhe in the cursed chains, "i almost pity thy foolishness, arrogance of the highest order."

but suguru geto's laugh is dark and rich, and he does not even flinch. no, he does not even blink. his robes have a strange and mesmerising ripple. the folds undulate like liquid, shifting and folding in ways that no mortal-woven cloth should. nay, it is no fabric at all. it is skin, serpent skin — sleek and glimmering, slithering in tune with the man who has draped himself in it.

despite yourself, you shiver and in that moment, suguru geto leans down, lowering his face to yours. and his breath is warm, and soft against your skin. this is the closest that a mortal has ever gotten to you in eons.

"do you know how long i have waited for you?" he murmurs, and his words are hushed, almost a whisper — dripping with desire and laced with honeyed sweetness, "how long i have searched for someone who could stand beside me, for power and beauty? you call me mortal, so you will not fault me for my weaknesses, then. is it not my nature to chase after perfection?"

his eyes have locked with yours, mauve and endless, "i am not a god, but i have still seen lifetimes pass, but nothing compares to the burn i feel when i kneel at your altar, for your worship."

suguru geto's hand grazes the chains around your wrist, a feather-light touch that is almost gentle in its caress, as if testing your resolve that you do not sear through his flesh, "do you not see that i offer you a kingdom?"

the air between you is thick, and it is a traitorous heart within your chest that continues to beat at a quicker tempo. you have not missed the hunger in his eyes, and it makes you furious. by what right does he find the courage to speak to you like this? you have heard of others like yourself, others of your kind. gods and goddesses who threw away their divinity to be in the arms of mortals, those who offered something that the cosmic simply could not.

you fight it, your pride flaring, but something in his gaze makes you hesitate. there is a flicker, just a flicker, of doubt. of wonder.

what is it like to be loved like this? to be seen as something worth so much, even by one so dangerous, so impossible?

geto moves closer still, his lips brushing against your ear, his words now a soft promise, a murmur of desire. "you will come to me, my queen," he whispers, "for no man has ever loved you as i will. you are destined for me, and you will know no equal but me. no one else will ever touch you the way i will, feel you the way i will. only i can give you the eternity you deserve."

a flicker of doubt dances behind your gaze, a single, fleeting question pulling at the edge of your mind.

what is it you truly seek, serpent king? you are no fool; the gods know of your sorcery, of your schemes, of the wars you have stirred, the chaos you've unleashed, and the suffering you've caused. what greater ambition drives you, to bind me to you with sweet promises and the touch of your smooth, serpentine hands? is it truly a throne beside you, or something far darker that you covet, something more dangerous than a queen at your side?

"you are a goddess,” he murmurs, his voice a soft purr, "but do you see what the gods have done to you? you, who should have had a throne at the heart of the heavens, have nothing. you were left to drift, to be forgotten by those who claimed to love you. they never gave you a seat, never gave you the respect you deserve. but i… i see you, goddess. i feel you. and I will give you a place, a throne, beside me, where you will be honoured."

the heat in his voice stirs something deep inside you. how dare he? how dare he imply that the other gods have wronged you? what does he know of the beginning of the world, of the start of creation where the gods ran free on the green earth? your anger flares again, and you draw in a sharp breath, ready to fire back, to unleash the words that will tear him apart.

but before you can speak, his hands move, slow and calculated, slipping along your sides, the burn of his touch sending a jolt of something electric through you. his fingers, like liquid fire, trace the curves of your waist, the pressure so gentle yet undeniably possessive. the sensation makes you tense, makes you forget, even if for a moment, the chains that bind you. you shift, instinctively trying to pull away, but he only tightens his grip, coaxing you back toward him with a soft but unyielding pressure.

you would never — never — be swayed by this mortal’s charms.

and yet, the heat between you, the pressure of his hands against your skin, makes your words falter. you don’t understand it, the way your heart quickens, the way your breath catches in your throat. his touch, slow and deliberate, feels like fire and ice, and your body betrays you, trembling under the heat of the sorcerer's presence.

his lips brush your ear, soft and tantalising. "you are mine. always were meant to be."

you want to pull away, to demand he release you, but his fingers now run down your sides, the delicate pressure almost tender, as if coaxing you into submission, his touch a slow, sinful caress. each brush of his fingers sends a wave of warmth surging through you, and your breath catches, unwilling to admit how much you crave this sensation.

but what you do not realize — what you are too distracted by —is the spell he is weaving. his hands are not just teasing, not just caressing. they are binding, weaving an ancient magic around you, a net that tightens with each passing moment, each whisper of his voice. his dark powers wrap around your divinity, subtly pulling at the very core of your being, drawing it from you, sealing it into a cage of twisted magic.

you are caught, and you do not know it.

his lips are now mere inches from yours, his breath warm and inviting, the heat of his body an undeniable force. he leans in slowly, deliberately, as if savouring the moment before he seals your fate. "no one will ever love you as i will,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, but it trembles through you like a spell. "no one will ever see you as i do. and when you are mine, completely mine, you will know what it is to be cherished."

and then, his lips brush against yours.

the moment his lips graze yours, it is not a kiss of gentleness but one of purpose, calculated and slow, as though he is savouring each second before claiming you fully. his breath is warm against your skin, rich with a subtle sweetness, like honey mixed with something darker, more intoxicating. it is an invitation and a command, both at once.

as he leans closer, his body shifting with a fluidity that hints at something serpentine, something unnatural, you feel the very air grow thick with tension, as if the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation. his long hair, now fully free, cascades like midnight silk over his shoulders, and as his breath fans across your cheek, you can almost hear the faint hiss of it — like the whisper of a serpent’s tongue.

it is a kiss that coils around you, not just in the physical sense but in a way that makes your very being feel entangled in him, in his essence. his mouth is soft yet firm, warm yet cold, and the subtle pressure of his kiss sends shivers down your spine, like the touch of a thousand slithering scales against bare skin. it is not a kiss born from affection, but from domination — an assertion that he will have you, body and soul.

his hands, those impossibly smooth, long fingers, still move over your sides, but now, they feel like they’re not just caressing — they are pulling, shaping you. as his touch travels over your skin, there is a sensation of something prickling just beneath your flesh, as though his hands are drawing magic through your veins, weaving it into you, entwining it with your very essence.

the kiss deepens, slow and unyielding, as his tongue gently traces your lips, teasing the edges of your resistance.tThere is a strange coldness to it, a chilling presence that seeps through the warmth of his lips, as though he is not merely a man, but something far older, far more dangerous.

and then, with a sudden press of his body against yours, you feel the full weight of his power settle over you, the coils of his magic slipping into your mind, into your heart. his kiss becomes possessive, desperate in its insistence, and just as you feel the last remnants of your will begin to bend, a sharp, silken flick of his tongue inside your mouth sends a jolt through you — a pulse of energy that feels like a serpent's strike.

it is then that you realise it. for the mortals will write tales about this, use you as a cautionary lesson on the want and greed of the gods. and how easily they fall.

geto's kiss is not just a kiss — it is the seal of your fate. his power, snake-like and subtle, unfurls within you, sliding beneath your skin, taking root. you feel your divinity, your strength, slip away from you like water through your fingers, each drop being absorbed into him, into the snake who has become your captor.

the spell is complete, as his magic entwines with yours, twisting it, stealing it, leaving you powerless against him. his kiss pulls away just as you feel the last trace of resistance drain from you, leaving you breathless, weak, and utterly bound to him.

as suguru geto draws back, his lips curve into that wicked, knowing smile, and you see it now — his pupils, once narrow slits, have widened, glowing with the faintest light, like the predatory gaze of a serpent preparing to strike. his skin, pale as moonlight, seems to shimmer in the dim light of his realm, like the scales of a great serpent, and for the first time, you realise that this man — this king — is the serpent he claims to be. how could the gods have been so naive? so foolish?

and you, now bound to him in a way far deeper than any chains could ever hold, are his prey. your divinity, your essence, your power — it all bends to him, to this mortal man who now stands as your captor, your lover, your king. the serpent has claimed his queen. and you, despite yourself, feel the chains tighten, forever.

#suguru geto #geto suguru #getou suguru #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #suguru geto x reader #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru x reader #works

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iamgonnagetyouback · 7 days ago

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ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴏɴ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ.ᐟ ᵖʳᵒˡᵒᵍᵘᵉ/ᵗᵉᵃˢᵉʳ

"Everything happens for a reason," they say. Which sounds all wise and comforting—until you realize the reason is that you’re stupid and make bad choices.

The bad choice in question? Falling for your best friend and PR manager Lily’s honeyed words and agreeing to let The Marauders, the biggest boyband on the planet, open for you on your world tour.

You had questioned the logic. Repeatedly. Why would you, an established artist with a loyal fanbase, need them? But Lily had dismissed your concerns with a grin so radiant you’d have thought she was discussing her wedding plans, not your career.

“It’s all about PR!” she’d said, practically bouncing. “You’re unstoppable alone, but with them? The buzz will be next level!”

Buzz. Right. The only buzzing now was the ringing in your ears as you sat stiffly in a glossy conference room, waiting to meet the so-called biggest boyband ever. The air was thick with tension—and regret.

The first impressions hadn’t been awful. Their drummer, Peter, seemed endearingly awkward. Their songwriter and bassist, Remus, was quiet but polite. And their frontman, James Potter? Sure, he was a little much with his golden-retriever energy, but at least he was charming in a harmless sort of way.

Then there was him.

Sirius Black, the band’s lead guitarist, resident heartbreaker, tabloid darling, and a walking cautionary tale wrapped in leather and bad decisions.

You’d heard about him long before today, of course. Everyone had. He was the one with the womanizing reputation, the rebellious attitude, and the kind of tragic backstory that made the press salivate.

What worried you most, though, was that your tour manager—Regulus—was his brother. Regulus had already muttered enough unflattering anecdotes about Sirius to make your skin crawl. And if Regulus, who was calm and composed to the point of saintliness, couldn’t stand him? What chance did you have?

You’d never heard Regulus rant about anyone before, but when Sirius came up? Oh, he let loose. Words like self-centered, arrogant, and man-child had been thrown around liberally.

The door slammed open, breaking your spiraling thoughts, and there he was: Sirius Black, 30 minutes late, looking like he’d rolled straight out of someone else’s bed.

To your immense irritation, his face was as devastatingly attractive as the rumors said. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes like molten steel that practically dared you to look away. His dark hair was messy in that perfectly careless way that took effort.

But then he smirked. And all that potential evaporated.

You glared at Lily, silently screaming, PR?! Really?! She avoided your eyes, suddenly fascinated by her notebook.

“Well, well,” Sirius drawled as he strolled in like he owned the room. “Looks like I’m fashionably late.”

“Just late,” you corrected, your voice cold enough to freeze fire.

He turned to you, smirk deepening. His gaze raked over you—not subtle, not respectful, and definitely not apologetic. “And you must be the boss.”

The way he said it, like it was both a compliment and a challenge, made your teeth clench.

You extended a hand. “Nice to meet you,” you said flatly, forcing yourself to stay professional.

For a moment, it seemed like he might take it. Instead, he leaned back, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You’re not my type,” he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

The audacity.

It took every ounce of self-control not to let your jaw drop. Instead, you plastered on a bright, brittle smile. “Oh no. How ever will I survive now that Sirius Black doesn’t consider me his type?”

His smirk widened, clearly enjoying your irritation. “Guess we’ll find out.”

You were this close to throwing professionalism out the window and throttling him when Lily nudged you sharply.

“Play nice,” she hissed under her breath.

With an exaggerated sigh, you stepped aside, letting Sirius pass. He sauntered to the table, but instead of sitting, he stopped behind Lily’s chair.

“You’re in my seat,” he said smoothly.

Lily blinked up at him, startled. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“No, Lily,” you cut in, already exhausted. “Stay where you are. If Black has an issue, he can go complain to the teacher.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his stormy eyes. “Cute. But that’s my seat.”

“This isn’t kindergarten, Black,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Sit somewhere else.”

Lily started to stand anyway, but you put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Seriously, stay. If he’s that attached to this chair, maybe he can write it a love song later.”

Remus snorted from across the table, clearly trying to hold back laughter. “Sirius, mate, just sit next to Pete.”

But Sirius didn’t move. He was staring at you now, his smirk gone, replaced by something sharper, something that made your skin prickle.

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to back down. “Still standing there? Don’t tell me you’re waiting for me to roll out a red carpet.”

His lips twitched like he was fighting a grin. “No need, sweetheart.”

You gritted your teeth. “Not your sweetheart.”

“Not yet,” he shot back smoothly.

The audacity.

Lily elbowed you under the table, her look screaming be nice.

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the table as Sirius finally—finally—took a seat. But the smirk on his face told you one thing loud and clear:

This tour was going to be hell.

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ.ᐟ

Fueled by caffeine, sleep deprivation, and the questionable life choice of writing instead of resting, this story is here to (hopefully) make you laugh, swoon, and maybe yell a bit. Sirius is impossible, the MC takes no nonsense, and I’ve probably had too much coffee to be trusted with this much drama.

Enjoy, and thanks for reading—you’re the real MVP for putting up with me. ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

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wood-white-writer · 3 months ago

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"We Shall Be Monsters" [One-Shot]

— Enver Gortash x F!Durge!Reader (Baldur's Gate 3)

Pairing: Enver Gortash x F!Durge!Reader

Summary: Long before you became the Savior of Baldur's Gate, you were the Chosen of Bhaal; his unholy offspring. More than that, you were the Chosen of Bane's. There are memories beyond you grasp, forever lost in the oblivion of your mind, but he never forgot, as much as he yearned to.

Wordcount: 7k

A/N: Guess who spent the last three weeks playing Resist!Durge, only to fall for this raccoon of a man? Apologies for grammatical errors, will correct them later. English is not my first language.

Enver Gortash had a revelation, presenting itself as a dream.

He was surrounded by darkness, wholly alone, when a deep and otherworldly voice spoke from the shadows. Whether it was instinct that compelled him or something else, he knew almost instantaneously that it was his God that spoke.

The Lord of Tyranny granted the mortal soul the title as his Chosen One; an honor beyond the kind the mortal world could ever hope to provide with. At the moment, it was far too grand for the mortal to properly acknowledge – a pinnacle of shame he would come to live with for years to come.

Just before the dream faded and the newly appointed Chosen of Bane returned to the material plane, he recalled his God’s parting words:

“Seek out the One whose path is paved with Corpses. The one who’s Who will build her castle with bones.

Seek out the Chosen of my Sworn Foe; his unholy offspring. Make an ally of her.

Do what is necessary to make the world bow before you, and when the time comes, do what must be done to ensure that my rule remains unchallenged.”

---

As it turned out, he had no need to spend any coin trying to scourge you out.

You sought him out instead.

The first time he laid eyes upon you, he found you almost disappointingly unremarkable.

Not in the sense that you were hideous to look upon. No, quite the opposite.

You looked normal.

Normal in a way that, had he crossed paths with you elsewhere – be it at a gala or across the streets of Baldur’s Gate – he wouldn’t have paid you much notice. Maybe offered you a drink and some pretty words, but little more.

Unsurprisingly, he had his reservations about whether you were truly the one he expected.

A Bhaalspawn– No, The Bhaalspawn.

The God of Murder’s very own Chosen Child – his flesh and unholy blood comprised into one singular being.

He had heard tales of you long before he met you.

He had anticipated to come face to face with a monster sprouting tentacles and rows of razor-sharp teeth, blood leaking from every orifice, and a wicked smile stretched across her lips.

Every bit the beast the stories and cautionary tales circling Baldur’s Gate portrayed your kind as.

Not this – someone who looked like they had simply wandered into the completely wrong place.

You were no monster - not at first glance, but he didn't quite know what to make of you. Even in the darkness, it was hour to make out your shape, and you didn't provide him anything to go by.

You were as silent as the evening itself.

Enver considered himself a perceptive man, taking every advantage he could reap whenever an opportunity presented itself. Whenever he happened to come across a potential ally or a new associate, his first instinct was always to read them; figure out the kind of person they were.

He could tell a lot from a person based on their initial demeanor. Were they the worrisome kind? The arrogant type? Self-assured in their position, or meek and subservient to those they considered their superiors?

Lickspittles or servants; equals or subordinates.

He believed he had come to know them all.

You, however, were a blank canvas.

There wasn’t a trace of blood on your clothes, not that he could tell. Not a wayward piece of flesh stuck between the white of your teeth, peeking out past your lips.

He couldn't even see something as menial as a smile.

Hardly the stuff of nightmares.

He couldn’t tell if it disappointed him or not.

However, the Archduke-to-be would come to realize his mistake the moment your eyes met, and all he saw gazing back at him was darkness.

Complete and utter blackness. Absence of light; of life.

Not even the depths of the Hells could compare, nor the shadows which made up Shar's domain. A black whole circling the universe.

You possessed the eyes of a killer, angled in a way that reminded him of knives searching for skin to sever, and they were aimed straight at him.

A shiver ran up and down his skin.

Oh, you were the real deal, all right.

He found that the smile that stretched across his lips was a genuine one for once, unlike the kind he typically displayed when first meeting a potential associate.

He clapped his hands together, suddenly eager to proceed with the introductions. “The Chosen of Bhaal, it seems we finally have the pleasure to speak.”

He took a few steps closer, mindful that you could probably mince him without any effort if he got too close. It was only then that he noticed the blade you kept strapped to your hips. Crimson as the blood it had undoubtedly spilled.

Your eyes maintained direct contact with his for a moment longer before they shifted to the window, not a smidgen of interest or … much of anything, really.

He tried to scrutinize you for any thoughts or feelings, desperate for some reprieve in the enigma that was your character. The moon would not permit him any clues, even as a blade of her light diagonally cut your face.

You were a blank slate, cold even from a distance; wholly indecipherable.

Finally, you spoke: “Chosen of Bane, Enver Gortash.”

He could not hope to conceal his intrigue. “Ah, it seems you already know who I am, then?”

You nodded, only once, like the conversation had already lost all appeal.

“And may I have your name in turn?”

“You have my title. It will suffice."

For now.

Ah, quick and precise. A lady after his own heart.

Just as he was about to offer you a glass of wine - for curtesy’s sake, of course – he looked back only to find your piercing gaze suddenly less than inches away from him, the Lash of Bhaal tilted dangerously close to his jugular vein.

It didn’t cut through him, though he could already tell it was a tempting thought on your part. Still, that didn’t keep you from allowing the blade to dance across his skin, cold and hot at the same time.

Sharp indeed.

A dance of death, with only a moment keeping him from Death’s cold embrace.

Enver fleetingly wondered what it would feel like to have his life claimed by Bhaal’s offspring. Would it hurt? Most likely, but it didn’t frighten him even half as much as it should have.

He had heard the reports of what remained of those who were unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of Bhaal's knives.

He had seen the detailed drawings and read in-depth descriptions Baldur's Mouth publicized, and while he was a skeptic towards the media's reliability, he had no doubt that they had spared no details when it came to your crimes. Children, women, men, it mattered not. Anyone with blood pumping through their veins could become a target, and he was no exception.

What would the headlines be?

"Aspiring Military Advisor found dead in his own chambers - The Cult of Bhaal strikes again!"

He imagined his blood would run warm down his skin, soak the imported fabric of his clothing, forever staining the expensive carpets beneath his feet.

Oh, what a sight it would be, should he be fortunate enough to remain conscious for only a few seconds long to see his execution through.

He instinctively held his breath, but all sense of fear and self-preservation evaded him, as it had done numerous times already. He could feel your breath upon his skin, scorching and acidic, yet he could find no trace of repulsion within himself. Instead, all he could focus on were your eyes.

So deep and hollow, like the expanses of Shar, but tenfold as captivating.

Oh, how the goddess would’ve wept upon being usurped.

Patiently, the Follower of Bane awaited your verdict. Truthfully, he had no interest in dying before this alliance came to fruition, however brief. Perhaps he could make an exception this once, if only to die gazing into those eyes of yours.

They contained a beauty meant only to be beheld by the dead or the dying, he discovered.

You tilted your head to each side as you studied him, like a cat inspecting the prey caught between their claws. The blade followed your as though it possessed sentience of its own, scraping against his neck in a manner he almost mistook for fondness.

Then, a sharp sting reverberated across his skin.

He suppressed the urge to wince.

A drop of his warm blood escaped through the cut you had inflicted on his chin. Not fatal by any means, but it would undoubtedly scar.

A scar worthy of a story.

Your eyes trailed down to the crimson liquid gathering on the collar of his shirt, and he could’ve sworn your pupils expanded to the edges of your irises. You took a deep breath through your nose, and upon releasing it, he found your face changing into something … thoughtful.

“You’re not afraid.”

There was no disappointment laced between your words. A hint of surprise, perhaps, but not disappointment.

Enver tilted his head to get a better view of you, the edge of his lip tugging slightly. “Does that offend you?”

You didn’t answer and withdrew the blade.

He might have said something else, but never got the chance to speak up.

In the blink of an eye, you were gone, like a wraith having returned back to their grave.

All that remained of your presence was the opened window that allowed the evening breeze to ruffle his curtains and the lingering scent of death he had grown intimately acquainted with.

As he drew his fingers over the fresh cut down his chin, feeling the warmth of his own life coat the digits, he could not keep a smile at bay.

---

It wasn’t until weeks later that he saw you again, in your natural habitat – for a lack of better description.

You were kneeling on the ground, covered in blood, viscera, and gore, like a devoted monk in the temple of their deity – begging for recognition.

Barely an inch of your skin was visibly underneath the many layers of blood that coated your flesh.

In a way, it felt like he was intruding.

When your eyes snapped to address him, it was like an animal seeing a potential threat. He couldn’t help but feel something stir in the depth of his chest, lodged between his ribcages like a raven yearning to break free of its chains.

Once more, it was in the confines of his chambers. He had retired for the evening, more or less hoping to catch a glimpse of his enigmatic new associate, when Lord Bane apparently saw fit to grant his loyal Follower the visage of his sworn foe’s daughter – completely naked at that.

You were beautiful.

Covered in blood from head to toe, the individual strands of your previously maintained hair separated by layers upon layers of bodily fluids, your clothing cast aside as if to merge yourself completely with the remnants of your prey.

It was like he was witnessing something he had no right to, but still being granted permission. This might have been sacred on your part, meant to be a private affair.

If you wanted to, you could kill him for this slight – if you considered it as such. You could strip him of his teeth, separate the layers of his skin, pull apart his bones, and place his corpse alongside the one you currently had positioned in front of you.

One of his servants, he realized shortly after. A young lady named Serah Lancastor, daughter of a nouveau riche lord who had entered his services not long ago.

Whatever blood remained of her corpse had been spent drawing the Symbol of Bhaal. A tribute, perfected in the chambers of the Child of Bhaal’s adversary. It would have been the perfect sacrifice – an insult to Bane and a gift to your Father.

The Banite in him certainly would’ve considered this an insult of the gravest sort, deserving nothing short of a lifetime in Wyrm’s Rock, but Enver himself was more eager to finally get more than a few sentences out of you if he could.

“And here I was under the impression that our respective Lords were at a truce, or have I been misinformed?” He asked as he assessed her, arms crossing over his chest in a way that would’ve come across as self-assured.

You did not reply at first. As you got up to your feet, he could not help but notice that your movements were unsteady, like a foal fresh out of the mare’s womb.

“You were not mistaken,” you answered, your voice hoarse, and the Lash of Bhaal clutched tightly in your grip as you marveled at your masterpiece.

“Oh? Then, pray tell, what reason could you have for killing one of my servants – in my chambers, no less?”

You regarded him stoically. “The woman poisoned your wine.”

An assassination attempt? How ambitious. “So, you killed her for my sake? Considerate for a Bhaalist, wouldn’t you say?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Your usefulness would expire upon your premature death, Banite. The servant maintained hers after.”

His gaze flickers between you and the corpse for a few moments, thoughts washing over his head. It would seem that – despite your inherent nature – your urges were not without cause. Not wholly, at least.

This meant, for the time being, you would have no reason to kill him unless you saw any benefit from it. He would live for as long as the alliance between your Gods did.

Did it vex you, knowing you could not satiate your hunger for blood just yet?

Did it intrigue you? Did you sleep at night, dreaming of the day you could finally add his name to the long list of your victims?

So many questions and only one knew the answers. Only one could answer them.

But he was in no hurry to receive them.

“There’s a bath in the back, should you feel the need to use it.”

“Does the blood disturb you?” you asked, almost hopeful.

“No," he admits truthfully. "but I imagine it would be difficult leaving this place like that. The servants would be frightened – as they should be – and the guards would be on your trail in an instant. Why not spare yourself trouble when you can afford it?”

You continued to stare at him like he was a puzzle to be solved, and he granted you all the time you required before you finally reached your verdict. With the flick of your blade, and drops of blood splattering across his floor, you turned around and made your way to the bathroom.

Enver was not a salacious man by nature, despite what the Baldur’s Mouth would imply, but even he had to admit – it was a lovely view.

Alas, there was the matter of explaining the unfortunate fate of poor Serah to the cleaning staff …

---

He didn’t see you again for quite sometime after that, and although he’d never admit it to anyone in person, he’d grown accustomed to the way each of your previous visits had left his adrenaline surging through his veins.

To be without it was proving … tedious.

There were reports of various murders committed in the Lower City, some more grotesque and messy than the rest, but he could already discern yours from anyone else’s.

Your kills were methodical; and pragmatic. You didn’t waste time decorating your victims with their innards or putting them up to become a spectacle for the rest of the poor denizens in Baldur’s Gate to find the following morning.

Whoever was responsible for those murders was… wasteful.

It couldn’t have been you.

While Enver was parading about to the many lickspittles and politicians, his mind always shifted back to whether he would open his chamber doors and be greeted by you standing there in the dark. He could care less if you were covered in blood or not, as long as you were there.

What would you do?

Finally make an attempt on his life?

Kill another one of his servants?

He'd give you ten of them.

He had enough at his disposal, he’d be more than willing to pay the cost if it meant getting another chance to peer into those acute eyes of yours one more time.

But when he retired once more to his chambers that night, he was disappointed to find it vacant. Not even a corpse was there to greet him.

---

He sent a letter.

Not a long one, but one he was sure would reach you, and sure to pique your interest if his mere presence failed at that.

It regarded the House of Wonders – more specifically, what the House itself contained.

He had waltzed through the halls there on several occasions – attended galas and gatherings hosted by the city’s elite, and he’d seen what rested behind their meager display cases.

Remnants of your history: Bones of fellow Bhaalspawn, ancestral instruments that deserved more than to be poised up for show. The people of this city exploited these instruments as a sign of peace. To know that – if one Bhaalspawn could be felled, they all could.

But you were not the kind to fall so easily as your brethren did.

At first, he was doubtful his message would reach you, but when he found you standing in the corner of his room not even two nights later with the messenger’s severed head positioned on top of his work desk and his letter tucked between what remained of the boy’s teeth, he grinned.

You, however, were evidently not in the mood for idle chatter.

The moment he shut the door, your eyes were once more on him. “Speak.”

And so, Enver did.

He had already planned the groundwork: how to get in and out without alerting the guards, and successfully make away with the torture racks using a Scroll of Dimension Door. It was child’s play, really. The House’s security had dwindled in the last couple of years, and for once, it served him well.

As he laid out his plan for you, taking out the House’s blueprints to further emphasize the brilliance of his mind, he maintained your attention long enough for him to deduce that you were interested.

When he was finished, he turned back to you, patiently awaiting your verdict.

Your eyes flickered between him and the blueprints before they finally settled on him with the same sharpness he had grown to appreciate.

“Tomorrow, at 11 o’clock,” you answered, shortly. “Do not keep me waiting.”

At that moment, Enver could’ve wept with joy.

---

The Heist was a success.

Truly, only the damned Devil’s death could’ve surpassed the satisfaction Enver felt the moment they escaped.

Not only had you two been successful in infiltrating the House of Wonders and making away with the instruments unscathed, but he got to watch you doing what you did best from the front rows.

There were guards there, more than a few, but not even five seconds after they made their debut, screams were reverberating through the halls of the House to the point where the Banite could feel the tremors through his very bones.

There were possibly ten or fifteen guards in total, and you killed them all.

Killed them?

No, that’s too undignified of a word to apply to your craft.

You remade them entirely.

There was so much blood, screaming, and bones being pulled apart from the stems, that he didn’t have the capacity to focus on it all at once.

Blood rained wherever you went.

The One whose path is paved with Corpses.

They were dead long before you ever touched them, he knew as much. One after the other, they all fell until all that remained was a pool of blood gathering under the soles of his shoes.

It was like you were dancing.

You were a monster.

Oh, but what a beautiful monster you were.

In the end, there were no more screams. You stood there in the middle of the circle of death you had just made, blade in hand, clothes soaked thoroughly and clutching to your skin. It seemed like you were on another plane of existence entirely, your mind not your own for a moment, no word brushing past your lips.

All he could hear was your shallow breathing in the aftermath of the chaos you had created.

And when you finally glanced over your shoulder to look at him, your face smeared with the liquid life of those around you, eyes lifeless and cold, Enver could deny it no longer.

Not to himself, not to you, not even to Bane.

“You’re beautiful.”

The way in which he said it was unbefitting of an Archduke-to-be, much less a Banite, but damn it if his pride was not worth this moment of admiration.

For just a moment, he detected a glimpse of something different in your eyes when he spoke that confession. Something he had never seen before. For once, it was not hidden underneath layers of indifference or antipathy, not even perverse satisfaction. It was bare and vulnerable like a snake having shed their most recent skin.

You looked… Surprised. Shocked.

Flustered?

You opened your mouth to say something, but then for some reason, you shut it just as quickly. He had never seen this manner of indecisiveness with you before, and it felt like he wasn’t supposed to.

Still, he couldn’t will himself to look away, to be denied the view of you being anything other than Bhaal’s Chosen.

Then, you finally spoke, and it was so hushed that he almost strained to hear it.

“Enver Gortash … You’re something else.”

He caught the glimpse of something tugging on the edge of your lips. Not quite wide enough to qualify as a smile, but the closest thing he had seen thus far on your countenance. He expected it to be of the perverse kind – the smile of a killer, satisfied with their recent excursion in the name of their Father and Lord.

But it wasn’t.

At least, it didn’t seem so.

Whether it truly was the amount of deaths surrounding you or what he’d said, he didn’t have time to deduce before the bells began to ring in the distance, and their heist came to an end.

Even so, he could not shake off the mental picture he took of that moment.

It was scorched into his brain forevermore. He could try to scrub it as much as he wanted, it would never leave.

Nor did he want it to.

The Heist was indeed a success – but not for the reasons he initially believed in.

It signified the night he finally got to see you, if only a brief glimpse of it.

---

It was as if the Heist with the House of Wonders further cemented your respective alliances, for better or for worse.

On one hand, you began to seek him out more, as he oftentimes found you already waiting for him in the dark of his chambers as per usual. The two of you spent the majority of your time discussing how to advance your plot, while simultaneously attempting to avoid the missteps of your predecessors.

After all, you aimed towards a fruitful alliance, and to sully its potential too early would be a waste on both accounts.

Fortunately, it seemed like you had decided to keep the number of deaths in his quarters at a minimum, for the most part. Whether it was for your inconvenience or his own (his servants had begun to grow disturbed by the piling numbers of deceased in his room), he could not tell.

On the other hand, there was the matter of both Ketheric Thorm – the Chosen of Myrkul – and your second-in-command – Orin the Red.

The geriatric and the child, as he mentally preferred to refer to them as.

Ketheric was at least useful to some extent. His obsession with reviving deceased family members was a thorn in Enver’s side, but not without its advantages.

Orin, on the other hand, was a migraine from the moment he was introduced to her. Admittedly, she looked more the part of the Bhaalspawn he had expected to encounter before being introduced to you. Stained in blood, colorless eyes akin to a corpse, giggling and shouting at the turn of a coin while waving around a blade much like a child would their precious toy.

In the name of Bane, he was fortunate it was you he had had the pleasure of meeting instead of her that night. Having Orin as the Leader of the Cult of Bhaal would’ve made eventually cutting this alliance much easier.

You knew how to dance hand-to-hand with your blade.

Orin merely toyed with hers.

---

With how often you frequented his office nowadays, Enver began to suspect that you were neglecting your Cult in your absence. Not that he ever brought it to your attention, he simply pointed it out to himself.

For the most part, you would stay and discuss his plans with him, still never speaking more words than you deemed necessary. If there was something you didn’t agree with, silence would remain your answer until he figured out the source of the problem. You were incredibly smart, he’d be a fool to deny that.

But with more time, he discovered that your brilliance was not the only reason he wanted you to stay.

With every session you partook in together, he swore he could see your face softening ever so slightly. Every gesture became more relaxed, and you ceased to pull away from his proximity. There were times when he could put a hand on your shoulder, even brush a wayward piece of hair away from your face without you threatening to spill his innards.

He took his victories in small measures.

Then one evening, he found you inside his chambers, only that you weren’t making standing now as you usually were when awaiting him.

Instead, you were perched in the alcove of his window. While your blade was clutched tightly in your grip, your eyes were closed, and the manner in which you sat seemed almost … peaceful.

Were you resting?

The second he closed the door, your eyes shot open, and he quickly found your blade pressed against his neck. It likely would’ve killed him had your eyes not fallen onto him in time.

He blinked. “… Good evening?”

You blinked again, recognition falling over your features, and sheathed your weapon.

Unperturbed by the most recent attempt at his life, Enver proceeded over to his desk. “Apologies for disturbing your rest,” he said, and what surprised him was that he meant every word of it.

It sounded like you were struggling to come up with a proper response. “I wasn’t resting.”

“Oh?” He glanced over to where you were previously not-resting, intending to make a subliminal point, when he noticed something.

Your previous seat – the layers in his window alcove – were drenched with blood. He initially suspected you had a corpse stowed away somewhere for him to find, but with a quick glance across his rooms, he found none. You never hid your kills, not from him, and upon turning back to you, that’s when he discovered that it was the back of your clothing that was drenched.

It wasn’t anyone else’s blood.

Just yours.

And no shortage in amount, either. It was dripping from the edge of your coat, staining the expensive carpets he as of five seconds ago couldn’t care less about.

His first instinct compelled him to investigate, all while maintaining the façade of complete composure. You were no mere person. You were a Child of Bhaal, you had no equal on the battlefield as far as he knew. Even the mightiest foes fell victim to your blade, regardless of their race, height, or armor.

The only one who could prove strong enough to even get close and inflict this amount of damage on you would be …

You.

A warmth encompassed him, foreign to his inherent nature. Warmer than the fires of hell, twice as scorching; twisting and clawing under his skin like desperate souls in search of freedom, but not even all the gold in Raphael's vault could tempt him to be rid of it.

“You’re injured,” he concluded.

“I heal fast. My Father’s blood ensures it.”

“An admirable and useful trait, but judging by how much you’ve already lost, I would say you’re still at risk until you’re healed.”

“Of dying?”

“Nothing as dramatic, I doubt. My furniture, however, is at risk of being stained beyond repair at this rate. Do your friend a favor and let me assess the damage, then.”

Your body stiffened.

“Is that what we are? Friends?” you asked, one eye looking over your shoulder to pinpoint his exact location.

He looked at you in turn. “Do you wish to be?”

You said nothing in return, but there was no sharpness to your gaze. No perceived slight at the casual words he permitted to come out of him. It felt like you didn’t know what to make of this, and he was in no hurry to make his meaning plainer.

Rather than waiting for a verbal response, he gestured to the stool by his bedside and headed to his bathroom to retrieve what little he possessed of healing balms, a washing bin full of water, and bandages. He usually had people for this kind of matter, but he doubted you would feel inclined to accept help from strangers when you scarcely permitted it of him.

He returned to find you seated, your upper clothing already discarded on his bed, with your bare back presented to him.

Enver Gortash had seen his fair share of the grotesque, whether it was from the Hells or in the city. He believed himself numb and desensitized to such; he never had a problem dishing it out himself.

Yet somehow, the sight of your back – borderline skinless with how marred your flesh was, blood already starting to coagulate across the edges of each cavern, made him pause for a moment. Anyone else would’ve died had they suffered the same injuries, but you were not anyone else.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Hells, he wouldn’t have allowed them the liberty to sit here, partially naked like a disgraced courtesan, and offered them his assistance. He had seen you naked already, but not like this.

But with you … He’d be willing to make an exception.

He discovered that he would be willing to make a lot of exceptions.

Folding up the hems of his sleeves, he began the process of wiping off the excess blood. He imagined that the salve in the water would sting, possibly hurt, but he warranted no reaction from you. Not a wince, not a moan, not a single sound. Your skin was cold, like the corpses you created, but soft in spite of the state you were in.

The basin soon turned red with the remnants of your life’s essence, and he imagined that – were it true that Bhaal was in your blood – the God of Murder would’ve surely found it affronting to have drops of him wasted in a washing basin.

As he began to dry the jagged edges of your self-inflicted wounds, he couldn’t keep the question that was nagging him at bay.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

“Repentance.”

His eyes furrowed. Why would Bhaal’s favorite child – the one he had personally witnessed commit massacres in the name of her Lord – be required to repent? What could someone as devoted as yourself have to repent for? “For what?”

He received no answer in turn. All he gained was a look over your shoulder, one that quietly requested that he didn’t delve deeper into the matter.

You could’ve demanded his submission with pain.

You could’ve turned around and forced his head into the blood-mixed water, held him down until he was all but begging for the sweet relief of death.

But you didn’t.

So, he didn’t delve deeper.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend,” you murmured.

Enver smiled as he applied the balm to your skin. “Then I would be honored to be your first.”

---

He began to make note of the things you liked.

---

You liked blackberry, he discovered that when he left a bowl of them unattended on his desk - a gift from an associate overseas.

He returned to find the bowl near-empty, and the window open.

After that, he made a public announcement that blackberries were his favorite flavor, and although he received plenty of gifts from admirers and lickspittles alike, he never indulged himself.

The gifts were always gone from his chambers come morning.

———

You preferred the sound of the violin to the piano.

Whenever he hosted gatherings, he would insist on having the violinists perform the longest, if only to catch a glimpse of you hiding somewhere no one could spot you.

———

You never slept - you claimed to have no need for it

But every so often, while he was working on his desk, he would catch you closing your eyes and rest with your back against the wall.

———

“So, what do you think?” He swirled the wine in his glass before taking an appreciative sip. Imported recently from Neverwinter, a batch from 1359. Perfectly aged, and perfect for an evening such as this.

You looked skeptical at the drink in your hand from the opposite side of the table, internally weighing the pros and cons before finally taking a tentative sip. To his delight, you did not look disgusted, which meant that you were pleased.

He knew you would like it.

“Your verdict?”

“It’s sweet.”

“It’s composed of Blackberry syrup, quite popular in the region and a personal favorite of mine. Unfortunately, not many of my associates seem to share my taste for the beverage, so I’m fortunate that you do.”

“Do you wish me to kill them?” you asked, completely serious.

He grinned and rested his cheek atop the knuckles of his free hand. “While I can appreciate the gesture, I’m afraid that I need these particular associates alive for now. When their usefulness eventually expires, I’ll be sure to send word for you.”

You nodded in acquiescence and took another sip of your glass.

The both of you drank for a while longer, and while your conversations felt rather one-sided on his part, you listened and supplemented when you saw fit to it.

At first, the subject varied from different aspects of your plan regarding the Absolute, who to kill, and so forth. Then, when the liquor seemed to loosen both of your tongues, the subjects delved deeper. Deeper than they ought to have, but none of you felt the need to correct this error.

“What is your name?” he finally asked. He had wanted to ask that question for a while now – since the moment you first met – but you had never indulged him.

Maybe now, you finally would?

You tilted your head slightly to the side as you assessed him. “Does my title not suffice?”

“A title is one thing, but a name is another,” he explained, releasing his glass on top of the table to focus completely on you. “There have been other Bhaalspawn before, though never one such as yourself. I believe that requires a designation on your own.”

The way you peered at him, sent a warmth to his cheeks that he could not credit the alcohol for. Those eyes, the very ones who looked so hollow and lifeless, now had a certain glow about them that captivated him like a moth to the moon.

You glanced out the window for a moment, and he could faintly hear you whisper something he doubted was meant for his ears.

(“Forgive me, Father…”)

Then, you gave him your name; ushered it like a secret that was meant for him, and only him.

At that moment, Enver Gortash realized that he was willing to forsake it all.

Forsake Bane.

Forsake his work.

He would gladly toss it all away, if only he could keep your eyes on him at all times, to speak your names as many times as he desired.

At that moment, there was nothing more he desired.

Well, almost nothing more.

There was one thing.

As if all effects of the liquor had abandoned him, he got up to his feet and walked over to your side. The blade you had previously put aside found its way back to your hand with his guidance, and he helped up get up to your feet.

With little care, he buttoned his shirt down, exposing his chest to you; his skin, his flesh, all bare for you to indulge in as you pleased.

There were question marks aligned in your eyes at the gesture.

“Cut me.” His words were soft enough to be perceived as a request, but there was no room for negotiations, not this time. You had displayed painful self-control in his presence, never harming him since you first met.

Now, he was permitting you to do what you had undoubtedly denied yourself all this time.

You could kill him – sever his link to the mortal plane, dig out his heart, and eat it if you wished to. You had his permission, if only you could make him last long enough to see you smile once again.

You had only smiled once in the time he’d known you, and it was because of him.

Maybe his death would bring you a greater joy?

He’d hope you would smile for him one last time.

He felt the blade pierce his skin, but not deep enough for it to leave lethal consequences. A prolonged line from the right side of his abdomen up to his left shoulder. That’s all it left, hardly enough to be considered a tribute to your father’s name, but your pupils grew wide all the same.

With his hand circling your waist and pulling you closer, Enver forced your face into his blood-stained chest. “You have my scent,” he whispered into your ear. “Now have my taste.”

He did not have long to wait before he felt your nails piercing holes through the fabric of his coat, leaving crescent-shaped indents on the skin of his back as you pushed yourself tighter into him. It was near-suffocating, but Hells, if it wasn’t euphoric.

Your teeth on his chest came next, sharp and merciless – predator tearing into the carcass, like you wanted to devour all of him. Your tongue slid across the length of his scar, drinking in every drop of blood he could offer at the moment. It hurt, it stung, and it ached, but whatever blood his body could afford to spare went south on record speed.

It all dawned on him, then, in a moment of euphoric ecstasy

Why you were always covered in fresh wounds of your own making whenever you went to see him.

Why you were always murmuring prayers when you thought he couldn’t hear.

Begging for forgiveness from your Father – For your God.

It was all because of him.

For all the troubles he had unintentionally caused you, it was only fitting that he compensate for it, right?

When you finally pulled back, lips drenched with his blood, you looked absolutely beautiful.

“Tell me,” He clasped his hand to the side of your face, his voice hoarse with pure, unadulterated want. “How do I taste?”

In your dazed state, so content and so nourished by the essence of him, only one word pushed past your lips:

“Sweet.”

He claimed your lips in an instant, tasting himself on your tongue – Harsh and unyielding, and you matched him with equal vigor. To anyone else, the two of you would’ve resembled two animals in the midst of a fight, or a rut.

What others would say if they knew, he cared little for. His God could cast him aside for this wicked sin, and he’d accept it with a self-satisfied smile as he walked backward to the Hells. He wanted to taste every part of you, savor every piece you would grant him, and let you taste him in turn.

You bit and you clawed, shedding his blood, tearing at it skin.

A lesser man would have found it repulsing.

A lesser man would have pushed you away, redressed himself, and left.

But Enver Gortash was not a lesser man, and all you did to him, it only added to his eventual undoing.

Your skin was surprisingly soft against his, for all your scars from years of service to your God. The sounds you made as you came undone, be it by his fingers or his tongue, he could never hope to tire of it. For someone who never spoke much, you sure compensated for that with the unholy moans and snarls he earned.

Just before he entered you, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, he could detect the faintest flicker of … fear? Hesitation? He did not have an estimated answer to the cause of this, but he did have his suspicions.

Before establishing the foundation of your friendship, he had noticed how you would go out of your way to avoid physical touch unless it was you who initiated it.

Of course, that boundary was cast aside when it came to reaping lives, but it seemed that in this particular instance, it was different.

Had you never known such pleasure?

Never allowed yourself to feed? To indulge?

Did your God only permit you to touch something - someone - as long as it resulted in death?

A gnawing began to tug at his bones.

He did not think you would care much for gentleness, nor did he ask you to clarify, but he was still measured with his intrusion and quickly discovered that you were tight. You left him breathless, and he in turn provided the same.

His suspicions were correct.

What a slight Bhaal would consider this; to know his precious offspring was defiled by no other than the Chosen of his Sworn Foe.

Enver was not a petty character - he was more dignified than that, but just this once, he was willing to spite the God of Murder.

Not that it’s was a point of focus to him.

With some adjustment, he searched your face for hints and signs that he could proceed. Where your voice fell short, your eyes provided. If you had objections, you did not voice them, but he made sure to commit to every act necessary for you to call out to him - not Bhaal, but Enver Gortash.

He learned what place made you sing to him. Made you scream his name.

And you did – several times.

He made sure of it.

And he called out yours.

---

By the time you were done, the bed was a mess, and you both looked like you had just narrowly escaped a chance encounter with death.

In a way, he had.

“Enver,” you called into his chest, your arm wrapped in a bruising hold around his stomach.

“Hmmm?”

“A friendship with you … has its uses.”

He almost laughed and wrapped his arms around you in return. “Care to elaborate?”

“You do not taste foul.”

He could live with that.

In fact, he wanted to live with that.

With you.

You would leave for Moonrise Towers soon, and your plan would come to fruition. Ketheric would fall – Orin could too for all he cared. The world would be at your feet, and you would both reign as Gods over the rest. There was no other he would rather share it with, save for the only one he considered his Equal.

Nor would there ever be anyone else.

This he swore to all the gods that would listen, - to Bhaal, to Bane, to Myrkul.

Enver swore it.

If the world considered you monsters, then you could be monsters together.

---

The next time he sees you, it’s months later, and you’ve changed.

You’re not alone this time, as much as he preferred it so.

A vampire stands beside you, looking awfully grateful and smug about being in your proximity – a hand on your hip for emphasis, unintentional with the spite aimed towards the Archduke. Gortash finds that he wants to squeeze out whatever blood is left in him just for breathing the same air as you.

There’s Duke Ravengaard’s wayward son, looking a little devilish as of late with the addition of two horns glued to his head.

Then there’s Karlach. He makes it a point to ignore her glare.

He has no interest in your companions.

What he does have is an interest in you, even if he can tell the feeling is not mutual. Not anymore. There’s that sharpness in your eyes, the one you always harbored before towards him, then ceased to.

Now it has returned, only it feels tenfold as cold compared to before.

“Shall we be allies?” he asks after making his proposition.

Shall we be friends again?

Silence, once more, remains his only answer.

It seems you were the only one who received the benefit of forgetting.

He never did.

Not once.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #Enver Gortash #gortash x durge #durgetash #bg3 gortash #dark urge x gortash #bg3 fanfiction #Enver Gortash x reader #the dark urge

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goodboyaudios · 4 months ago

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Update!!!

I want to take a moment to express my gratitude to everyone for their kind words and support. You all make me realize I have the best fanbase.

Thank you sincerely. It's helped me a lot in this freak crisis. A good friend and mod of mine, Mini Crow, was smart enough to create a copy of the document a little while back!

THE MASTER FILE IS SAVED!!!!

Again, you've all been so wonderful and comforting and I thank you all so much for your kind words during this stressful period. I am happy to say that once again, everything is fine!

(I have now got my own copy and made back ups OUTSIDE OF GOOGLE DOCS! et my stoy be a cautionary tale...google docs is a great program! DO NOT TRUST it WITH YOUR LIFE'S WORK!)

#good boy audios #goodboyaudios #youtube #asmr roleplay #asmr boyfriend

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harryssyndrome · 18 hours ago

Text

Darkness and You | h.s

summery: a late night drive takes an unexpected turn when an handsome stranger takes his place in your passenger seat.

wc: 5.3k || 🌕🌖🌗🌘 Masterlist 🌒🌓🌔🌕

WARNING ⚠️ sexual references, mention of unprotected sex. MINORS DNI! you’re responsible for your own consumption, don’t blame me later. It’s your own choice.

Posted on: November 25th, 2024

Tag-List: @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 || TAGLIST IS OPEN!

Surprise lovelies! The first part from serial-killer!Harry series is here and I really hope you enjoy it. 😌 let me know how was it and if you have any ideas for other parts, I just might post some more this week itself. this is my first ever try at writing 18+ stuff tho it’s not really much so I hope it didn’t suck🤭😳 REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You don’t do this. Any of this. You don’t pick up hitchhikers in the middle of the night. Especially men.

You’ve seen a lot of horror movies and you’ve heard a ton of news stories.

You’re not five. You know what you should and what you shouldn’t do. But you’ve made an array of bad choices tonight so why not continue it?

You don’t know what it was but something compelled you to pull over.

The boy with the curls and those deep green eyes, gets into the passenger seat, a grateful smile on his face. He looks sweet, to be honest.

“Oh, thank you so so much. I’ve been out here for so long. My car just gave out on me and there’s no signal in this shithole.” He says, his English accent very evident as he adjusts his seatbelt. “May I know my saviour’s name?” He asks with a smiles that shows a pair of dimples.

The air is thick with the quiet hum of the engine, and your fingers clench the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. You’re not sure if it’s the cold seeping into the car or the nervous energy building in your chest. Something about this feels surreal, like stepping into a scene you’d only watch from the safety of your couch. Yet, here you are, with a stranger in the passenger seat and an unspoken weight hanging between you.

“Uh, YN,” you reply, your voice more hesitant than you’d like. His accent catches you off guard again, so polished and charming it almost makes you forget the unease simmering below the surface. Almost.

“YN,” he repeats, letting your name roll off his tongue like he’s testing its sound. “That’s a lovely name. I’m Harry.”

Harry. It suits him somehow. Still, you can’t help but glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His curls are messy, probably from standing in the cold too long, and his coat looks worn, but there’s a warmth to him. Those green eyes, so striking, carry a sense of ease—like he’s the last person in the world you should be afraid of.

Still, you’re not stupid. Sweet smiles and dimples don’t guarantee safety.

“So… where are you headed?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral while silently calculating how far you are from the nearest gas station or town. Somewhere with people. Witnesses.

He exhales, the sound almost a laugh. “Honestly? Just anywhere away from here.” He runs a hand through his curls, shaking his head. “My car decided to betray me in the middle of nowhere. Tried to call for help, but of course, there’s no signal. Classic, right?”

You manage a small laugh, though it feels forced. Your instincts are at war—one side whispering that this guy is harmless, the other screaming at you for stopping in the first place.

“Well,” you say, trying to sound composed, “you got lucky I came by. Not a lot of cars out tonight.”

“Not a lot of kind people either,” Harry adds, his voice softer now. “I was starting to think I’d be out there all night.”

His words linger in the air, and for a moment, you feel a pang of guilt. Maybe he’s just another unlucky soul, stranded and hoping for a break. Maybe you’re overthinking this. Or maybe this is exactly how every cautionary tale starts.

“So, YN,” Harry says, breaking the silence again. His tone is light, conversational, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “What’s a girl like you doing out here at this hour? Don’t tell me you’re running away from something, too.”

The question catches you off guard, and your grip on the wheel tightens. “No,” you reply quickly, a little too defensively. “Just… a long drive. Needed to clear my head.”

He hums in acknowledgment, not pushing further, and you feel a flicker of relief. He leans back in his seat, letting his head rest against the window. For a moment, you think he’s going to drift off, but then he glances at you again, his eyes almost piercing in their intensity.

“You’ve got this look,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

You don’t respond right away, unsure how to take that. “You’ve known me for all of five minutes,” you finally say, trying to deflect with a weak smile. “Bit of a bold assumption, don’t you think?”

He chuckles softly. “Maybe. But I’m pretty good at reading people.”

The car falls into a strange silence again, and you can feel his gaze shift back to the window. There’s something about him—something you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s not just the way he talks or the way he looks at you. It’s the way he feels out of place, like he belongs in a story that hasn’t been written yet.

And for reasons you can’t explain, you let yourself keep driving.

There was some reason he can’t take his eyes off of you, almost as if you’re a rare piece of art he couldn’t help but admire.

“You always pick up handsome strangers in the middle of the night?” He teases with a cheeky smirk on his features.

You glance over at him, briefly, before focusing back on the road. The way his smirk lingers, paired with those dimples, feels both disarming and maddeningly charming. “Not usually,” you reply, your tone even, though you’re acutely aware of his gaze on you. “Just the ones who look like they’ve had a rough night.”

He laughs at that, the sound soft and warm, filling the small space of the car. “Lucky me, then,” he says, his accent turning the words into something smoother, like they carry more weight than they should. “Although, I think the luck might be yours. How often do you get to share a car with a proper English gentleman?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “English gentleman, huh? You sound like a guy who gives himself that title. Let me guess, you also drink tea at every opportunity and say ‘cheerio’ unironically?”

His hand flies to his chest in mock offense, and he lets out a dramatic gasp. “Cheerio? Absolutely not. What do you take me for, a walking British stereotype?”

“Maybe,” you shoot back, your tone playful now. “I mean, you did say your car ‘gave out,’ and who even says that anymore?”

He chuckles again, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “Fair enough. But for the record, I’m more of a coffee guy. And I don’t say ‘cheerio.’” His smirk returns, softer this time, as he adds, “I think you might be the first person to question my gentleman status, though. Most people just take one look at me and assume I’m… irresistible.”

You snort, trying to stifle your laugh. “Irresistible? You really do think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Can you blame me?” he quips, his voice teasing but not cocky. His gaze lingers again, softer now, almost contemplative. “But I’m serious. You’ve got this… way about you. Like you’re completely unimpressed by people like me, and I can’t decide if it’s refreshing or terrifying.”

That catches you off guard, and you shift in your seat, the smile slipping from your face just a little. “People like you?”

He shrugs, the smirk still lingering but now tinged with something deeper. “You know, the ones who talk too much, crack jokes, try to charm their way through life. The ones who should be lucky just to share the same space as someone like you.”

Your stomach flips at his words, a mix of unease and flattery you’re not quite sure how to handle. You keep your eyes on the road, focusing on the distant glow of headlights in the distance. “You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone who just met me.”

“Maybe,” he admits, leaning back in his seat and letting his gaze wander out the window. “But you can tell a lot about someone in five minutes. Like how you’ve got this look in your eyes, like you’re constantly bracing for something to go wrong.”

You freeze for just a moment, his words hitting closer to home than you’d like. “You’re imagining things,” you say quickly, brushing it off with a casualness you don’t really feel.

“Maybe I am,” he replies, his voice low and calm, like he doesn’t quite believe you but won’t push. After a moment, he adds, almost to himself, “But for some reason, I can’t stop looking at you. It’s like… you’re a puzzle, and I can’t figure out the edges.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you settle for silence, the tension in the car shifting to something strange and unspoken. Outside, the road stretches endlessly ahead, the darkness pressing in on both sides. And for the first time since picking him up, you wonder if you’re the one being read, the layers of your carefully built armor peeling away under the weight of those deep green eyes.

Harry leans back in his seat, one hand resting casually on his knee as he studies you. His gaze, though soft, feels weighted—like he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know you were wearing. After a beat of silence, he speaks, his voice low and curious.

“Can I ask you something, YN?” he says, his tone gentle, almost disarming.

You glance at him briefly before focusing back on the road. “Sure,” you reply, though the way he says your name sends a faint chill up your spine.

“Aren’t you scared?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “Picking up a male stranger in the middle of the night? Alone? I mean, you said it yourself—this isn’t exactly normal behavior.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, his words triggering the voice of reason that’s been screaming at you ever since you stopped the car. Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and you force a small laugh. “A little,” you admit, though your voice wavers slightly. “But you don’t seem like the scary type.”

Harry’s lips curl into a smile, one that’s almost too perfect—dimples and all. “Well, I promise you, I’m not some sort of serial killer,” he says lightly, his tone almost playful. “Scout’s honor.”

Something about his phrasing makes you laugh, and the tension in your chest eases—if only slightly. “Isn’t that exactly what all serial killers say in the movies?” you tease, glancing at him briefly with a raised brow.

Harry’s smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—a shadow of a thought you can’t quite catch. “Touché,” he says, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze never leaves you, as though he’s memorizing every detail of your face. “I suppose it would be the perfect cover, wouldn’t it? A smile, a little charm… make yourself seem harmless enough, and no one suspects a thing.”

The way he says it sends a ripple of unease through you, and the playful smirk he wears only deepens the strange knot in your stomach. You force yourself to stay calm, trying to brush it off. “That’s… a little creepy, don’t you think?” you reply, half-joking.

Harry chuckles softly, the sound low and almost hypnotic. “Maybe. But if I were a killer, wouldn’t I have already done something by now? You’ve got me here, alone, no witnesses. Seems like the perfect opportunity, doesn’t it?”

Your heart skips a beat, and your hands grip the wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening. His voice is still light, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent to his words that you can’t quite place. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge whether he’s just messing with you or if there’s something darker lurking beneath the surface.

“And yet,” he continues, his tone softening again, “here I am, just a guy stranded on the side of the road, grateful for the kindness of a beautiful stranger.”

Your throat feels dry as you swallow hard, forcing yourself to respond. “Well, for your sake—and mine—I hope you’re telling the truth.”

He lets out another soft laugh, leaning back against the seat again. “Of course I am,” he says smoothly. But there’s something about the way he says it—like he knows more than he’s letting on. Like he’s enjoying this moment a little too much.

The road stretches on in front of you, the darkness pressing in from all sides, and for the first time, you start to wonder if stopping for Harry was the worst decision you’ve ever made. Because while his smile is charming and his voice is calm, there’s something about him that feels off. Like the quiet before a storm.

Harry shifts in his seat, his gaze flicking to you every so often, like he’s studying the curve of your profile, the way your fingers tap the wheel, the faint crease in your brow as you concentrate on the dark road ahead. The hum of the engine and the soft patter of the tires on asphalt are the only sounds filling the car now, a strange kind of peace settling between you two.

“How far’s the city?” he asks casually, breaking the quiet, his voice smooth and easy, though there’s a strange undertone to it—like he already knows the answer but wants to hear you say it.

You glance at the dashboard clock before replying, “Probably around three hours. Give or take.”

Harry lets out a soft hum, leaning back in his seat, his head tilting toward you as though drawn by some invisible force. Three hours. Three uninterrupted hours with you. It’s enough to make his heart race.

He lets the silence return, but his thoughts are anything but quiet. His mind is a storm of emotions and desires—chaotic, consuming, and entirely focused on you. There’s something about you that’s different. It’s not just the way you look, though your beauty feels like something out of a dream. It’s the way you hold yourself, the sharpness in your wit, the vulnerability you try to mask but can’t fully hide. You’re magnetic in a way he can’t explain, and the more he sits beside you, the deeper his obsession grows.

He watches the soft glow of the dashboard lights reflect off your face, highlighting your cheekbones and the curve of your jaw. He wonders what it would feel like to trace that line with his fingers. To know the softness of your skin. To see you look at him not with the occasional suspicion that flashes in your eyes but with trust. Admiration. Love.

His thoughts spiral, wild and untamed, as his gaze lingers on you. What would it take for you to see him the way he already sees you? Would you ever understand how special you are? How perfect this moment is? You were meant to find him tonight—he’s sure of it. The universe wouldn’t have aligned so perfectly otherwise.

His fingers twitch, his desire to reach out, to touch you, almost overwhelming. But no, not yet. He has time. Three hours to savor this moment, to bask in the glow of your presence, to solidify the bond he’s convinced you’re destined to share.

You’re unaware of the storm raging in his mind, the way his chest tightens with every glance at you. You think the silence is peaceful, and in a way, it is—for you. For Harry, it’s intoxicating. Maddening.

He forces himself to take a steady breath, his fingers curling into his palms as he tries to calm the fire within him. He doesn’t want to scare you, not yet. You’re like a delicate thread, and if he pulls too hard, you might snap.

So, he keeps his voice soft, his demeanor calm, though his thoughts are anything but. He smiles to himself, a small, secret smile, as he stares out the window at the endless darkness. You have no idea, he thinks, how utterly and completely you’ve captured him.

And he plans to make sure you never get away.

As the silence stretches between you, Harry's mind spirals further into chaos. He shifts again in his seat, the seatbelt digging into his chest as his thoughts race uncontrollably. His green eyes flicker to the rearview mirror and then to the empty backseat, a dark thought taking hold of him. It's ridiculous, he knows, but the image is vivid, almost too vivid to push away-the two of you tangled together in the small space, your back arching against the leather as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place.

The idea sends a heat rushing through him, and he clenches his jaw, forcing his gaze back to the road ahead. But it's no use. His thoughts keep circling back, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself. The way your lips curve as you speak, the soft rise and fall of your chest as you breathe, the faint scent of your perfume that fills the car—it's driving him mad. You're so close, yet just out of reach, and it's enough to make him want to explode.

He imagines it so clearly: the way you'd look beneath him, your head thrown back, your lips parted in a gasp as he claims you. The sound of his name spilling from your mouth, a mix of moans and screams that would echo in his ears forever. The thought of marking you, leaving his fingerprints, his bruises, his everything on you-it consumes him. He wants you to be his, entirely his, in every possible way. To make sure no one else could ever have you, touch you, or even think of you the way he does.

His breathing becomes shallow as the lust builds inside him, threatening to take over. His hands clench into fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms as he fights to regain control. Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet. You're driving, unaware of the wildfire burning inside him, and the last thing he wants is to ruin this perfect moment.

But his eyes betray him, flicking back to the rearview mirror, imagining again how easy it would be. The backseat seems like it was made for this-for you. He could pull you back there, coax you into his arms, and let his hands explore every inch of you. He'd take his time, memorizing the feel of your skin, the way your body reacts to his touch. You'd look so beautiful, so utterly perfect, with your cheeks flushed and your voice breaking as you beg for more.

Harry exhales sharply, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He turns his head slightly, stealing another glance at you, and it only makes things worse. The way your lips press together in concentration as you drive, the way your fingers drum softly against the steering wheel-it's enough to make him want to lose control.

He shifts again, trying to adjust himself discreetly, the tension in his body almost unbearable now. His lustful thoughts are a storm, loud and demanding, drowning out every ounce of reason he has left. He's trying to distract himself, to think of anything else, but it's no use. Every thought keeps looping back to you-your voice, your scent, your body, your everything.

You glance at him briefly, catching the flicker of something dark and unspoken in his eyes, but you brush it off as nothing. To you, he's still the stranded, grateful stranger, polite and charming, sitting quietly beside you.

But Harry's chest tightens as he fights the urge to act on the consuming need inside him. His teeth graze his bottom lip, his mind racing. He's never felt like this before— this overwhelming obsession, this uncontrollable desire. And it terrifies him. But it also excites him, in a way he can't even begin to describe.

For now, he forces himself to stay still, to keep his hands in his lap and his voice calm. But his thoughts? His thoughts are far from calm. They're filled with you, with every possible way he wants to have you. And the longer he sits beside you, the harder it becomes to stop himself from making you his. Completely, utterly, and irrevocably his.

Harry’s voice cuts through the silence, a casual curiosity in his tone that makes you glance at him briefly. “You don’t have a boyfriend yet, do you?”

You raise an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected question. You keep your eyes on the road, trying to process his words. “How did you know?” you ask, voice light, though you can’t quite place the reason why it feels like an oddly personal question.

Harry shrugs slightly, a devil-may-care smile curling on his lips. “Just a guess,” he says nonchalantly. “No man in his right mind would let a gorgeous girl like you be alone at night for this long. Either that or you’ve got a terrible taste in men.”

His words hit you with an unexpected warmth. You laugh, a soft chuckle escaping your lips, trying to hide the flutter of something that rises in your chest. It feels like he’s teasing you, and yet there’s a charm in his tone, something alluring and carefree that makes it hard not to feel a little… flattered.

“Terrible taste, huh?” you reply, half-joking, your eyes flickering back to him. “Well, maybe I’ve just been too picky.”

Harry’s smirk deepens, a glint of mischief dancing in his green eyes. He leans forward slightly, his voice low, as if sharing a secret. “Maybe I can be your new boyfriend,” he suggests, his tone playful but with a teasing undertone that makes your pulse quicken. “Save you from your bad taste?”

You laugh again, this time more freely, the sound light and natural. “Oh really?” you reply, shaking your head with a mock skeptical smile. “You think you could do a better job?”

Harry’s gaze flickers to you, a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he’s sure he’s exactly what you need, even though you’re not quite sure how to respond. “I mean,” he says, his smile widening, “you wouldn’t know until you tried, would you?”

The playful banter between the two of you continues, the tension that had briefly been present starting to dissipate, replaced by a light-hearted connection that feels easy and natural. But beneath the surface of the conversation, Harry’s thoughts still swirl with that same obsessive desire. He’s enjoying the game, enjoying the way you laugh, the way your eyes twinkle when you tease him back. But deep down, he’s already picturing what it would look like if he were your boyfriend. How it would feel to have you close, to make you his—completely, entirely, and without question.

For now, though, he lets the teasing continue, enjoying the playfulness between you, and the undeniable pull he feels toward you. But he knows, deep down, that this is only the beginning. This is just the start of what’s to come. And he’s more than willing to wait for the moment when you’ll be his.

Harry’s smirk widens as you teasingly reply, “Maybe.” He can’t help it; his pulse quickens at your words. He’s always been good at reading people, but with you, everything feels like an exciting game—one he’s eager to win.

He leans in a little, his arm stretching out to rest on the console between you, positioning himself closer. His breath hitches slightly as he catches the scent of your perfume again, the warmth of your presence filling the car. He’s trying to remain casual, but he can’t help it; his thoughts are moving too fast, pulling him deeper into the haze of attraction.

“Give me some hope at least, moon flower,” he says, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “Let me know I’ve got a shot.”

His eyes never leave you as he waits for your response, and when you tease him back, saying, “Okay, you do. You have a shot at it,” Harry’s grin stretches across his face, almost too excited for his own good. It’s as if he’s won something. Something he can’t quite put into words yet, but it feels like a step toward getting closer to you.

He sits up straighter, a surge of confidence overtaking him. His gaze moves over your figure with a deliberation that makes your stomach flutter. The way his eyes drink in the details of your face, your body, makes you feel… noticed. Seen.

“That’s one hell of a boost for my ego,” Harry says, his voice dripping with a mix of playful arrogance and genuine admiration. “I’ve got a chance with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze. It’s flattering, but there’s something else in his look—something deeper, something more consuming than mere compliments. It’s as if he’s claiming you in some unspoken way. His eyes linger a little too long, and though he’s trying to be playful, there’s a certain hunger there that catches you off guard.

A part of you wants to laugh it off, but another part of you… well, another part of you can’t quite deny the effect his words have on you. The way his confidence oozes, the way he seems to have you completely captivated even when he’s just speaking casually.

You force your gaze back to the road, but the tension between you both feels different now. It’s charged, electric—filled with unspoken possibilities. Harry, however, doesn’t let up. His eyes keep studying you, as if trying to decipher every little detail about you. His lips curl into a smile that’s both triumphant and knowing.

The atmosphere in the car shifts. The lightness of the teasing still hangs in the air, but there’s a deeper layer now—one that feels almost like a promise. Harry’s made it clear: he’s not here for just a simple ride. He’s here to win your attention, your affection, to make sure you know exactly how much he wants you. And as he watches you, he knows he’s already made his mark on you in some way, whether you realize it yet or not.

The air between you thickens, charged with the energy of his words. Harry's voice lowers, almost like a secret. "This might sound crazy since I hardly know you," he says, his gaze flickering from your face to your lips, then back to your eyes. "But I really, really want to kiss you."

The intensity of his gaze, the weight of his words, sends a rush of heat to your chest.

Your heart skips a beat, then races faster than before. You know it's reckless, impulsive, but it's as if something deep inside you is responding to him, telling you to act, to do something. But before you can process the surge of emotions, your foot slams down on the brake pedal without warning.

Harry's eyes widen, his body thrown forward by the sudden stop. His hands instinctively grip the console as he stumbles against the force of the car halting.

"Jesus!" he exclaims, his voice laced with shock, his pulse spiking.

You breathe shakily, your hands still gripping the steering wheel as the car finally comes to a stop. The silence in the car is thick with anticipation. Harry's heart is racing, not just from the sudden stop, but from the way you're looking at him now-there's something different in your eyes. Something that mirrors the craving he's been feeling.

When the shock of the stop wears off, Harry turns to you, his breath coming in quick bursts. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he stares at you.

"Why the hell did you stop the car like that, love?" he asks, his voice rough, his brows furrowed in both confusion and curiosity.

Your eyes lock with his, and something shifts. The walls you'd both been playing behind-teasing, joking-begin to crumble. His question hangs in the air between you like a challenge. But then, without saying another word, you lean toward him. A glint of something darker passes over your face.

"Because I wanted to do this," you whisper, and without waiting for any further hesitation, your lips crash into his.

The kiss is immediate and intense, born out of the tension that's been building ever since he first got into the car. His lips are soft but urgent, pulling you closer. There's no room for uncertainty anymore; only the heat of the moment, the heat of his body pressing against yours, the heat of desire crackling between you both.

Harry responds eagerly, his hand reaching to cup your jaw, fingers threading into your hair as he deepens the kiss, his lips moving hungrily against yours. The taste of him is intoxicating, sending a pulse of warmth straight to your core. His kiss is fierce, as if he's been waiting for this moment just as much as you. His tongue brushes against yours, a soft, tantalizing pressure that makes you lose yourself in the sensation.

For a brief moment, nothing else matters-the world outside the car, the consequences, the lingering doubt. All of it fades away as you both succumb to the pull of each other, driven by something stronger than logic or reason. The kiss feels like a release, the pent-up tension from the entire ride coming to fruition in one passionate, desperate embrace.

When you finally break away, your breaths are ragged, both of you still close, your foreheads resting against each other. Your pulse is wild, your heart pounding in your chest, and you can't help but smile at the way he looks at you now-his eyes dark with desire, filled with a hunger that matches your own.

Harry grins, a satisfied, almost predatory look crossing his face. "Well... I guess I got what I wanted," he murmurs, his lips barely brushing against yours as he speaks.

But you know this isn't over. The tension between you both is only just beginning, and neither of you can walk away from it now.

“God, you’re so hot,” Harry mutters against your lips, the hand not on your face sneaking down to your thigh, his fingers gently squeezing the flesh through your jeans. He’s getting drunk on you, addicted to the feeling of your lips on his. He’s never before felt this way, it’s like something in him has snapped in half, the primal and possessive side of him awakening. He doesn’t want to let you go.

The kiss gets more heated, the sweet gestures replaced by desperate and hungry ones. Harry’s fingers dig into your thigh almost possessively, his head tilting to deepen the kiss even more.

His tongue runs over your lower lip, begging for entrance.

As soon as you grant him access his tongue immediately pushes inside your mouth, exploring every inch of your wet cavern hungrily. It’s as if he wants to devour you. His hand moves up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you closer, trying to get the most possible body contact.

“You’re driving me insane, princess…” Harry mumbles against your lips, one hand now gently gripping your chin, holding you in place. He’s practically addicted to the way your mouth feels on his, you’ve unleashed something primal in him, something he has trouble controlling.

“Your car is like.. a perfect spot for this, love,” Harry comments, his lips moving off of yours, down to your jawline. He begins kissing the skin there as he speaks, “Plenty of space… dark, private… you should park somewhere. I bet your backseats are really comfortable.”

There was no denying that he get want he wants and you’re now his… and this is just the beginning

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hanibalistic · 1 year ago

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#6F417E | EARTH-42 MILES MORALES.

genre | fluff, faint angst / reader is gn

synopsis | miles found you fainted in an alleyway one day, except you died two years ago.

word count | 3440

warning | brief mention of injuries / use of spanish phrases translated from the internet :( let me know if i'm wrong about anything! / everything i know about e-42 miles morales is from the movie

note | not the proudest of my writing here. also, a disclaimer that the events in this fic will deviate from canon haha

parts | one, two, three, four

"Uncle Aaron, I think we forgot to get detergent."

"You forgot to get detergent. I didn't forget nothing."

Miles's shoulders slumped in distaste. His frown mirrored the quiet complaints he spilled out of his mouth as his fingers tugged at the grocery bags dangling on them. He must have been delirious to still forget an item written on a piece of paper and to think the word 'detergent' wasn't even crossed out on the grocery list his mother gave him. It wouldn't be too big of a deal, but he imagined his mother would be mumbling about it as she set the table for dinner.

The doorknob fumbled a bit before the door swung open. The brightness in your eyes dimmed upon seeing Uncle Aaron's furrowed brows, which reminded you of the cautionary tale he kept retiring about being aware of opening doors to unknown knocks in case of danger. You still had difficulty getting used to a dangerous Brooklyn because yours was bright and sunny, and it had its very own Spiderman. Miles had laughed when you told him about your Brooklyn, asking if there was a ranking for crime fighting bug of the week; Spiderman today, something like Ant-man tomorrow?

“If I’d been a serial killer–“

“Which you are not,” you sang with vague cheerfulness as you tried to take the groceries from his hand.

“Hence the question being hypothetical–“

“Miles! You’re home!”

“Mi vida.” It was not audible. He opened his arms habitually and let you dive into his embrace. “How’s your day? Did you glitch?”

You perked up from where you buried your face in his shoulder and examined the bracelet permanently latched around your wrist. Gwen was the one who put the finishing touches on it, and she was so excited about the product that she came over in the middle of the night to hand it to you. It has been about two weeks since you began wearing it, and you have not glitched once. You told Miles it should be safe to conclude that the bracelet worked, but he always asked for good measures anyway.

“I helped around the house, as always,” you replied. Fixing the bracelet, you felt a soft magnetic pull against the tips of your fingers that touched the metal. You let go of it and rested your chin on Miles’s shoulder, sighing in contentment at the mere solidity of his body. “I didn’t glitch.”

Knowing that he was not being paid attention to, Aaron decided against scolding you for cutting him off twice. Instead, he rolled his eyes and turned to the kitchen, where Rio was shifting through a stack of sealed envelopes. He placed the groceries on the square table in the middle of the kitchen and smacked his teeth, looking pointedly at Rio as he nudged his head toward the apartment door.

Rio didn’t have to look to know you two were stuck in each other’s arms by the door. She smiled, shifting through the letters carefully with a shake of her head. “He is happy, Aaron.”

“Happy enough to cut me off my sentence,” he scoffed before adding, “twice.”

“I’m sure they will apologize if you say something,” she mused. “Especially [Name]. They’re a good kid.”

Aaron’s eye twitched in dismay. Rio was right—you were a good kid. He couldn’t hate you enough to delude himself into believing otherwise, and of course, he didn’t actually hate you. Besides the apparent naivety he suspected came from living in a safe Brooklyn, nothing about you was blatantly dislikable. You were helpful, albeit not the brightest learner. You listened well, which could be a product of being in another’s hospitality. And, most importantly, you were Miles’s safe place. For the first time in years, Aaron could see his nephew find time to be the teenager he was supposed to be. You practically breathed life into him, which worried Aaron the most.

You were a second chance that Miles was unwilling to let go of, but whether you return to your Earth was not his decision. What would happen to him when you leave? You would destroy him.

“I got the groceries, Mrs. Morales!”

Rio dropped the envelope in her hand and smiled upon your arrival. "Mi amorcito!"

You tilted your head with a thoughtful grin after you put the grocery bag next to all the things Uncle Aaron had taken out of the one he was holding. When Rio flashed you a questioning look, you shrugged. "Miles called me that before. I didn't know what it meant."

A choked-out cough sounded from behind all three of you, and standing by the kitchen sink was Miles, gripping the edge of the sink and coughing out the water that ran down the wrong pipe. Rio covered her teasing smile with a hand, but her shoulder moved to the gentle beats of her lighthearted chuckles. Aaron stared at his panicking nephew, a tinge of judgemental pity laced in his eyes.

Slamming his fist to his chest, Miles swung around to glare between the three of you before his eyes landed on your curious face. “What are you talkin’ about?”

"When did he say that to you?" Rio asked.

You rolled your eyes skyward. If you remember correctly, it was during the first few glitch attacks when you would break down from the sheer pressure of it. He had encouraged you to sleep with him on those nights, and you gladly accepted the offer. It was during one of those tearful nights, you believed. He had whispered it when he thought you were asleep, with teary hiccups still occupying your body's consciousness, and you remembered he had been stroking your hair to lull you to sleep. Everything about him was tender during those nights—his touch, voice, and presence. Unbeknownst to you, its cause was that he physically could not muster any energy when you suffered.

"He must have thought I was sleeping," you said, then you looked sheepishly at Miles, who returned it with a sneer. “I wasn’t asleep yet.”

“Clearly,” he muttered.

"I didn't take you for someone who would sneak into people's rooms when they're sleeping?" Aaron chimed in.

“I didn’t!” Miles groaned in embarrassment. “They cry like hell whenever they glitch. What was I supposed to do?”

“I did cry like hell when I glitched,” you said in agreement as you turned around from the kitchen cabinet where you were stocking the cleaning supplies. “I was the one who looked for him, actually. I couldn’t fall asleep alone. The glitching was terrible.”

Aaron’s eyes darted between you both. Miles reached out for you, his arm moved boldly, but the tip of his finger that touched your shoulder to get your attention was timid and boyish. He exhaled when you smiled at him, and the faintest smirk only you could discern to be a curve of contentment grew on his face as you walked near him. You scrunched your nose into a tight-lipped smile when he muttered something only you could hear, likely giving an unnecessary explanation for his comment on you crying like hell.

The rate you two could engage in your own world was almost admirable if Aaron wasn’t so cautious of Miles’s growing feelings for you. But watching as you two helped each other stock the kitchen cabinets, shoulders brushing and shoving playfully, he knew he couldn't do anything.

"We forgot to get detergent."

Rio gasped. She glanced at the washing machine filled with dirty clothes waiting to be cleaned, one of which included her work uniform, and she sighed. She would have to wear the one she did on her last shift. “I guess I’ll make a run to the store after my shift ends,” she mumbled with a thoughtful hum. “Or I can do it later on the way to the bank. I needed to deposit something.”

“The bank closes at six,” Aaron said questioningly.

“They have a drop-off box that opens through the night. It’s super convenient,” she clarified with a finger snap. “I’ll just stop by briefly before my shift starts. I might forget tomorrow.”

“Your shift starts at twelve, right?”

“Yeah,” Rio nodded, “overnight.”

“You gonna eat dinner with us?”

“I will,” she nudged her head toward where you and Miles were bickering about the washed dishes, “if those two would step away from the stove so I can cook something!”

The two of you froze up at Rio’s demanding tone. Quickly organizing the knickknacks on the dish rack next to the stove, not forgetting to scoff at each other about storing the utensils, Miles ushered you out of the kitchen with his hands clamped over your shoulders. Uncle Aaron watched your backs disappear into Miles’s room, and he saw your ridiculous faces trying to hold back from laughing at what he could only assume was an inside joke, as nothing was amusing about this situation. He gulped—he couldn’t do anything about Miles’s feelings for you.

The only thing more dangerous than a teenage boy in love is the person he is in love with. Taking you out of the picture would do nothing but bring Miles out of the canvas with you, leaving two vacant spots once close together. If you left, you would destroy him, but more importantly, he wouldn't hesitate to follow you everywhere. If you jumped the universe, he would jump the universe. If you got stranded in purgatory, he would strand himself in limbo. If you went to Hell, he would go to Hell because, at some point, it stopped being a biblical state of eternal torture. At some point, Hell is not a place; Hell is just where you are. And Miles would follow you there, always.

You jolted up with the television screen flashing at your face. Even in your sleep, your body subconsciously remembered there was something you need to do. Before Rio left for her shift, which was just a little after Miles and Uncle Aaron left for the occasional hangout, she gave you a sealed envelope to deposit into the bank mailbox because you insisted that you were going to head outside for a short walk of fresh air anyway, so you might as well help you with this tiny task. Except you fell asleep on the couch after getting ready and woke up at one o’clock in the morning.

Scanning the quiet apartment, it was easy to tell nobody had returned home yet. Rio wouldn’t be home until early in the morning; Miles tended to get home around two to three o’clock when he was off with Uncle Aaron doing who knows what. Leaning your head against the couch cushion, you drew a mental map of the path to the bank before closing your eyes. If you jogged, a round trip would take you roughly fifteen to twenty minutes. Not a problem!

Sliding off the couch, you reached into your crossbody bag that was big enough for a phone to feel for the envelope Rio gave you. It was still in there. You zipped the bag and patted it twice for safety, then fixed your jacket sleeves in preparation for the chilling night breeze. Turning off the television and the living room lights as the last step, you grabbed the house key lying in a bowl with some loose change and left the apartment.

Keeping up a light jog was easy under this cold weather and the dark streets. You liked walking at night, but you were never outside this late. There were no cars or people, much unlike the bustling morning you preferred much more. Uncle Aaron’s cautionary tale repeated in your head and increased your speed through the empty pedestrian road. The more you stayed outdoors, the more you thought it a bad idea to be outside at this dead time.

“What? What is–what?” you muttered as you moved your body about.

Glaring at you was the metal deposit box enclosed in the bank walls. It took you a hot minute to find it because it was behind a wall off the side of the building where the ATMs were. You thought it was a terrible design choice only because you couldn’t find it immediately; it would not have been if you managed to. The second hurdle came when you realized the handle to the mailbox wouldn’t budge.

“How do you open this?” you laughed as you gave the handle another pull. When the metal texture began hurting your skin, you let go to loosen your jacket sleeve until it reached your palm so you could use the thick fabric as a shield. This time, you put a leg up on the wall to use it as leverage. You pulled again. Nothing happened. Huffing in dissatisfaction, you pointed at the mailbox as if it could understand you. “You’re really–mhm!”

The swift kick to the wall could be heard. Miles perked up to where the soft rummaging noise came from and squinted his eyes behind the prowler mask. He scanned the area carefully, looking for any signs of people to find none. He remained tense even as he dropped the matter—gritted teeth and clenched jaw over a bank heist only a few days in planning. He has done this many times before. Maybe not robbing a bank specifically, but criminal activities were no longer a stranger to him as they were. He would even say he enjoyed it; he liked being strong, and it was a source of easy money. However, the main reason why he turned to a life of crime was to distract himself from the death of his father and you. Now that you were here to repaint a corner of his world with colors again, being a prowler was losing its appeal.

"Miles."

He snapped out of his trance at his uncle's impatient voice screeching through the earpiece, and cleared his throat. "Sorry. What's up?"

"What's up?" His uncle sounded incredulous. "Are the bombs set up?"

"Oh–uh, yeah." He peeked out from behind the bush to check out the blinking red light he set up at the foot of the gate. "They're all set up."

"And you? You got your head in the clouds just then.”

“I’m fine, Uncle Aaron,” Miles clarified with the kind of grit that would have gotten him in trouble usually. He took a deep breath. “Let’s detonate them so we can move on from here.”

The other end shuffled and scratched; its noise muffled the careless footsteps behind the ATM wall.

“Detonation in three….”

You pouted when you shoved the envelope in your bag, still mumbling about not finding an opening to the night deposit box. It was a good enough reason to give Rio tomorrow when she returned home from the hospital; that metal handle would not budge!

“Two…”

Miles perked up at the familiar figure trailing slowly by the bank entrance where he set a bomb device. His ears did not deceive him when he thought he heard footsteps somewhere, and neither was Uncle Aaron wrong about his head being in the clouds! Nobody should be out to the bank at this forsaken time, but his surprising lack of attention made him miss the slow walker—he tilted his head—a slow walker wearing a jacket he remembered he also owned.

You blew raspberries as you patted your bag twice for safety measures. When you looked up, you met eyes with a figure in a purple suit. His stance seemed agitated, and Miles was. He cursed under his breath when he recognized your face, his legs already bringing him out from hiding. What were you doing here? You should be at home!

“One.”

“Uncle Aaron, no!”

The ground shook under your feet, but what made you lose your balance was the impact of the sudden explosions that came in three—bang, bang, bang! The bank building was collapsing, or perhaps it was only in the process of being destroyed? You didn’t get a chance to see clearly. You could hear the alarm bells, though. It wasn’t the wailing kind; it was the kind that rang non-stop.

Meeting with the ground was not an extraordinary experience for you, but it felt worse than being pushed in this case. Face planting on marble tiles was mentally more endurable than outdoor brick floors. At least you thought that way for now. A groan left your lips as your brain was overloaded with sensations; you absorbed too much, from the alarm noises to the growing pains at the bottom of your body. You groggily looked to where it came from and saw glass shards sticking to your legs through the fabric of the pants. Great. Turning away from them, you noticed your bracelet scratching up tiny sparks, and you couldn’t bring yourself to wonder if you’d broken it.

“Oh no–shit! No, no, no, ¿por qué estás aquí?” Miles unmasked himself, showing his anxiously darting eyes. His hands hovered over your body indecisively, but he felt his fingers inching toward your face where blood trickled down the side of your skin. Miles needed to look through your hair for the source. Curling his arm under your neck, he lifted you to his chest. “Oh no, oh no. Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento–no quise hacerlo.“

You stirred upon his voice phasing in and out of your muffled hearing. Even with the migraine, you could recognize his voice. He was spilling words you didn’t understand, but some of the vocabulary you knew he had said to you before. Mi cariño, mi corazon…mi vida—he whispered that to you today when he came home from school. He probably didn’t think you heard, but you did. You exhaled, then an exhausted whimper pushed itself out of your mouth when the breathing hurt your throat.

He quickly regained his composure upon seeing a sign of life, immediately hooking his arms under your knees, pulling you to his chest, and leaping away from the falling debris. The sight of you bleeding and injured was all too familiar to him. But instead of letting the flashbacks stop him in his tracks, he planned to do something he couldn’t last time—saving you or at least trying to save you.

Returning to where he was hiding, away from the burning building, Miles scanned his surroundings. “Uncle Aaron! Uncle Aaron, help!”

“Miles!” Aaron emerged from the shadows. “We have to go now, we don’t have time–“ he stopped at the sight of you in Miles’s arms–“what happened?”

“They were here–I don’t know why! They’re not supposed to be out here at this time!”

You remembered how he carried you, which seemed to always be bridal style. It wasn’t as if he did it all the time, though. His hand on your back felt much weirder, too, like he was digging claws into your skin to keep you in his arms. If your senses had gathered better, you would have teased him with the hope that he hadn't gotten tired of you joking about his feelings for you. Licking your dry lips, you rolled your head to meet his chest. It heaved with each word he hollered beyond the fire, the alarm bells, and the disagreement coming from his uncle. They were arguing about where to go. Miles clutched your body closer to him every now and then. He was hell-bent on bringing you to seek medical treatment, and his uncle was not.

“Gwen is waiting!”

“She would want me to help [Name]!”

“We triggered the alarms, so law enforcement will gather here!” Aaron argued. “The police can bring them to the hospital just fine! We need to stick to our plan!”

“[Name] is dead on record. We can’t just bring them to the hospital!” Miles said. “I’m taking them directly to mom.”

A foolish boy. “You’re gonna throw away everything we built.” It was more than just doing crimes, it seemed. There was a bond, a mutual trust built in the process that was on the verge of collapsing. “For that.”

Miles widened his eyes in disbelief. He had his doubts about the way his uncle felt about your existence. Still, he held out hope that the aloofness resulted from the great unknown of the multiverse and Aaron’s personality rather than that he thought your presence was a nuisance. Supposed he was wrong. The casual dehumanization was all he needed to decide how to proceed. Miles hopped a few steps back, his brows furrowing and his grip on your firm.

“Tell Gwen I’m sorry.”

Aaron clicked his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

#this is a self indulgent romance fic first and foremost >:( no logic!#gonna take a break from this for a moment though #miles morales imagine #miles morales x y/n #miles morales x reader #miles morales x you #earth 42 miles x you #earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader

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redheadspark · 2 months ago

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Hawuu

I'm not sure if I could request again but is it alright to request 22. Different soulmates with either Druig or Benedict, you can choose cause I'm just mostly in it for the angst >:) Thank you.

A/N - HAWU! This is interesting, I loved writing it! Thanks for the request!

Break

Summary - Benedict had a destiny, you just weren't part of it

Warning - Angsta and Fluff mixed together

“This is a scandal, A SHEER SCANDAL IN THE MAKING!”

“I understand this will cause a scene—“

“A SCENE?! THIS IS AN UPROAR AND THE TOPIC OF THE ENTIRE SEASON!”

You cringed from the shriek of your mother’s tone as she was screaming at your future mother-in-law, who was trying to diffuse the situation. Thankfully you were sitting in the parlor, one room away from the argument that was overflowing in the Bridgerton household. Clutching the tea cup in your hand, you were staring at the floor trying not to cry from the drama unfolding within seconds.

All because of your fiancé, Benedict Bridgerton, not being your soulmate.

It’s never happened: matches who aren’t soulmates. Such news to break into society would be catastrophic. You’ve only heard such stories that were mostly seen as cautionary tales: it would be a sign of a bad marriage for two souls that are not “meant” to be together. The last thing any noble family needed was a scandal on their hands.

Now you were the one bringing the scandal to your own family, both yourself and Benedict.

Neither one of you thought it would be a massive deal when you both fell in love with one another, meeting through a mutual friend at a charity auction. Benedict saw you from across the hall, seeing you in your red dress and your hair up in curls with the lights dancing along your jewelry. In his words, you took his breath away from the moment he saw you caught under the candlelight and danced with a friend of yours. Seeing his bright eyes lock with your own as he bowed to you and said his name, you were entranced with him as well. It was a mutual drawn feeling to one another that night.

Yet there was one snag: Benedict already had a soulmate.

He had never meant her, yet it was known that he was soulmates with another woman from a prestigious family. Because they never crossed paths, he never thought about it. There were tales in the past of soulmates never meeting one another and yet going on their lives unphased. There would be no ahem if soulmates never got together or interacted, though that was barely spoken about in high society.

Benedict’s soulmate has yet to reach out to him since he found out he was a soulmate to another. Once the discovery was made, soulmates had to register through the government to have on profile. When Benedict registered when he was merely 16, he never knew much of his other half except for her name and the family she hailed from. Though not familiar with the name itself, he was notified that his soulmate never registered.

She never registered at all.

The door into the parlor opened, making your gaze go from your teacup to the door to see none other than your fiancé poke his head in. His eyes were filled to the brim with concern seeing you sitting rigidly in your chair, holding your teacup in such a breath grip it was about to crack from the pressure. Benedict was about to say something else when another outburst came through from your mother.

“I CAN NOT HAVE MY DAUGHTER MARRY SOMEONE WHO IS ALREADY PROMISED—“

Benedict closed the door rather quickly before you could hear anything else, you feeling a few tears about to push through. He glided over to you, taking the teacup from your hands and placing it on the coffee table to lace your hands together as you were trying so hard not to cry. This was what you both wanted when you were breaking the news of your engagement., something you both spoke about for hours on end in how you were going to tell your families. Benedict’s mother, Violet, was a bit taken aback by the news but was nonetheless supportive. Though her son already had a soulmate, there was no rule against a match happening outside of a soulmate mate. She liked you already when you were introduced, seeing the light in her son’s eyes and how he grinned when you were at his side.

Violet only wanted the best for her son, so she was thrilled you both were engaged. Not your mother though.

“This won’t work,” You mumbled, hiding your tears from Benedict as he shook his head and you inhaled sharply, “I thought my mother would be at least tolerable to the notion of us being together—“

“She doesn’t want a scandal is all,” Benedict reassured you, kissing the back of your hand as he went on, “There have been instances in the past of couples who are not soulmates being perfectly happy in their marriages!”

“But I don’t want this to ruin our marriage already, and for you to make this choice when you already have someone for you out there,” you blubbered, Benedict looking at you with wide eyes and a look of shock. Gently he placed his fingers under your chin to have you look in his direction. His bright green eyes right on yours, his hands soothing along your skin, he kept his gaze on you unphased and unmoved.

“You’re my someone, my dear,” he vowed to you as you searched his eyes. You saw truthfulness in his orbs, something you loved about him as he scooted a bit closer to you and spoke again, “I don’t anyone else in my life but you. I can’t picture my life without you, not for one moment,”

“But your soulmate..” You were about to argue, already thinking that this was a bad idea. Your mother was riled up, by the notion of the rest of the families talking behind your backs, Benedict’s soulmate finding out and causing chaos.

“I’ve yet to meet her and I can make the choice to never meet her from here on out,” he explained inappropriately shrug, “It’s been on record that I can revoke my name on the soulmate register so that I won’t be contacted by my soulmate at any time”

You are floored by what he is proposing, making you stand up from the chair and Benedict looking at you with his gaze. The notion of Benedict making himself unavailable for his soulmate to find and connect with at any time. It seemed like such a massive step for him to take, to alter his life forever. Yet he made it sound so simple, like any other choice he would make in the day.

“You’re willing to do that?” You asked sheepishly and on the brink of astonishment, “To take away your chance at your soulmate…..for me?”

He sighed, getting up from the chair to frame your face in his hands and kiss you soothingly. Your eyes slipped closed, the simple kiss alone was making your mind go blank and the worry evaporate. The Butterly sensation in your stomach was back because of him, because of the love he had for you that he would show from sun up to sun down. Falling in love with him was easy and organic, and for him to fall you just as fiercely was like a gift.

He pulled away from the kiss, nuzzling your nose with his own as he scanned your eyes, “I would do anything to have you in my life. In my mind, you are my soulmate, and I won’t let our happiness and love for one another be tainted by something frivolous.”

You felt your heart break and burst simultaneously, the warmth spreading underneath your skin throughout your body. Benedict was willing to take that step for you, to cut off someone he’d never met when he was destined to be with him. It would have been suicidal for anyone else to do, tainting the family name and never to be seen in society and out in public again.

Yet there he was, making that choice just to be with you.

“I love you and only you,” He vowed, “I will take anything that comes our way just to keep you in my life,” He reassured you calmly as he pressed a soothing kiss on your forehead, “How about you and I speak to your mother, together. Deal?”

You smiled and nodded your head, “Deal,”

Your wedding was one the most popular, spoken of far and wide. Benedict took his name off the soulmate registry, and his soulmate never contacted him.

The End.

#benedict bridgerton #fanfiction #writing #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x oc #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton netflix

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mossbone · 1 year ago

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The recent Dracula Daily updates are interesting to me. This book is infamous for being about the vampiric Horrors, as defined by their sexual immorality and hedonism; unlike our Heroes who are proper and British and christian. And yet...here we see the horrors being compounded and enabled by the rigid social structures emphasizing morality. And for all Bram Stoker's biases, I think that was intentional.

Firstly, the horror is compounded by the Need for Propriety. Lucy is sleepwalking, in nothing but her nightgown! How awful! So awful it is unthinkable as an option to Mina until she sees undeniable proof Lucy left the house. When that is proven true, "ever growing fear chilling my heart" Mina feels turns to "a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details." She then runs through the streets and finally turns to the cliffs, not fearing like Lucy's mother, to see her in danger of falling of the cliffs, but simply fearing to see her safe in their favorite seat—exposed to all the town.

She in fact sees in shadowy detail, an unidentified man leaning over Lucy. Yet..the whole update is strewn with Mina's massive and unfortunately justified fear for her friend's reputation, maybe more than her safety. Did someone take advantage of Lucy, enact some violence or violation of her while she was sleepwalking? Irrelevant, compared to the question: will anyone see them and assume they were up to some promiscuity? After all, she can't help but be "thinking how the story would become distorted—nay, infallibly would—in case it should leak out." There is the psychological horror on top of the nights events, which were traumatic enough.

An indictment of the present state of late Victorian values and their strict judgments already. But then. The consequence of our young heroines being unable to share their story is that Dracula continues to work unnoticed. He will get more victims, he will continue to grow in power and terrorize Lucy and whomever else he wants. Just like Jonathan being trapped in an increasingly abusive work contract because he feels he must stay to the strict matters of politeness [an imbalance of power that work relationships had then and continue to fucking have], here Lucy and Mina are trapped in very clear physical danger because they cannot share the predator hunting them without surely being accused of being a liar and a whore.

Of course, the loved ones of our protagonists are not of that malicious nature at all. If only they could talk to each other freely, Jonathan and Arthur and Lucy's other suitors would obviously not blame her. And Mina, or likely anyone, would help Jonathan recognize the red flags as what they were. But such close communication is impossible given the heavy expectations of the day.

Social standards were very bad and restrictive in 1897, and I think Bram Stoker consistently criticizes how they are with his novel, even while it serves as a cautionary tale against immorality. The solution to sexual abuse and immorality, in his words, is not punishing people for suffering from them or talking about them. I think he is saying this masterfully, as well, by allowing the audience to feel the visceral fear and helplessness through the perspective of the narrators so closely. Unlike many novels of the time which had people near the protagonist serve as cautionary tales and indictments of society, he forces the reader into those shoes through intimate first person narration.

Anyway. Good chapters, huh. Sadly still relevant.

#dracula daily #dracula spoilers #dracula #jonathan harker #mina murray #lucy westenra #dracula daily spoilers

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duskstargazer · 1 month ago

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[1935]

Henry had heard Edward in the yard, chatting with Percy about his incident in the tunnel. Henry had heard Edward laughing, even as he got to the part where the big green engine was walled in.

Henry thought about how often James told him he ‘didn’t work hard enough’. Probably because James always got stuck with the brunt of the work Henry wasn’t able to do.

But the worst of it all came from Gordon and Saint. Two of the biggest and most powerful engines on the railway - and they seemed to have it out for Henry.

“You’d never catch me stooping to such lows for the sake of attention.” Gordon grunted, disgustedly.

“Mr. Special Steam himself!” Saint guffawed, close behind his bigger blue ally.

Henry’s crew had been called into a meeting with The Fat Director. Henry was left in the snow covered yard, holding in his tears.

Even after everything, even after the Welsh Coal arrived, they still thought him a failure. Maybe they were right.

“I would recommend putting a little less concern into the words of others.” A soft voice murmured, not far away.

“W… who said that?” Henry cringed at the noticeable waver in his voice.

“I am only someone that aims to provide some… much needed assistance.” The voice continued. A yellow glow came from close behind the green engine.

Henry looked around. The telltale sound of chuffing indicated another engine close by.

The green engine looked to his right again, and jumped. A little yellow engine stood next to him. A small engine, like what he’d see at the Works Station. An engine that seemed to float between the rails, instead of standing on them.

“How…” Henry began, in a flummoxed tone, “are you d-”

“Now, do understand that I do not give such favors out frivolously. But, your situation is a delicate one. Not to mention, quite tragic. Just this once, as a courtesy, I will make an exception if you so desire.”

“…”

Henry blinked. Was this real?

“Are you… a genie?”

“Should that better aid your understanding of my offer, I will allow the epithet.”

“I thought genies weren’t real. Just some cautionary tale. Y’know, ‘be careful what you wish for’ ‘n’ all that.

The ‘genie’ gave an unimpressed look.

“Okay. So, am I supposed to-”

“Gaze into my lamp if you so desire, and state your wish.”

Henry took note of the engine’s ubiquitous lamp. The black metal seemed an unnatural dark tone, and the light within - well it wasn’t a standard bulb, but a literal small blue flame.

Henry bit his lip. One one hand, he hardly believed in genies - even in spite of the apparition before him. On the other hand, what really did he have to lose? It wasn’t like anyone was around to see him wishing aloud.

“I…” He swallowed a lump in his tubes, and stared into the flame. “I wish I was a proper engine. An engine that could stand with or against the others and have the physical strength to do so. I wish to be a different engine, and to not need ‘special coal’ anymore.”

As Henry spoke, the flame grew bigger, and burned brighter, as if deriving fuel from Henry’s very words as he spoke them.

“Won’t that be nice.” The engine murmured, in a barely audible tone.

“What?”

“Consider your wish granted, Henry. Good luck, and may your fears regarding signals, junctions, and frosty weather be overcome.”

“My what? I’m not afraid of- wait, how do you know my name?!”

The engine began glowing a blinding gold, then seemed to explode into light. Henry shut his eyes.

When he opened them, it was as if the golden engine had never been there at all. Henry had to pause, and ask himself if any of it had been real.

He heard people walking, crunching through the snow. His crew returned.

“Well, Henry,” said the driver, “we’ll be out early tomorrow. We’ve got to take the Flying Kipper.”

#ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine and friends #ttte henry #ttte proteus #traintober #traintober 2024

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k-nayee · 9 months ago

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Wife to the Winds Epic: The Musical | i

wc: 1.7k a/n: currently obsessed with anything Ancient Greek right now - ESPECIALLY Epic lol. it technically picks up after the song, but if ya wanna here's the animation to it!

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You felt nauseas, sick with fear as you cautiously made your way through the stone corridors.

Distant clash of swords and muffled shouts of Greek soldiers rummaging the palace heightened your urgency.

With every turn, the looming threat grows: facing an enemy and their weapon stained with the blood of those you've grown to know.

"Lord Apollo...Please...let me be there in time..."you prayed silently, the image of Astyanax's sleeping face urging you forward.

Thoughts racing almost as fast as your feet, you nearly miss a group of men around the corner.

"Imagine the glory we'll have after this!"

Too caught up in conversation, they miss the sight of you slipping into a dark alcove.

"Praise? Forget that! I'm claiming the prettiest whore out of the bunch. You seen all we captured? Deserve some softness after all this."

Hidden in the shadows you're able to take in the blood splatters and dirt on their passing frames.

"You got that right! One thing I'll admit about Troy, they have some nice women..."

You shiver at their crude remarks and wait until their laughter fades into the distance before moving once more.

After a few more dodges and turns, you find the narrow passage and squeeze through.

There, you travel the secret route you'd discovered months ago having spent years exploring every hidden nook and cranny.

The weight of the glass feeding bottle in your hand is a constant reminder of the innocence you're desperate to protect, even as the world around you crumbled. 'I'm on my way Astyanax...'

Inside the walls with only the sound of your heartbeat and the distant chaos; a haunting, pain-filled voice echoes through the air as you near the babe's chamber.

"...I'm just...a man..."

Compelled by the unexpected softness, you peek through a sliver of space at the ornately disguised door (its decorations masterfully concealing its true nature).

There, at the balcony, you're met with the view of Odysseus. And in his hands he drops—

Your heart stops.

No, it shatters.

The baby prince, your charge, your little Astyanax, is...

A heart-wrenching gasp escape your lips, the forgotten milk bottle slipping from your hands to shatter against the stone floor.

Odysseus's head snaps around.

The warrior within him awakened instantly, his eyes narrowing and scanning the shadows.

"Who's there?" he demands, voice sharp and commanding as it sliced through the quiet.

Hand already on the hilt of his dagger, he draws it with a sound that promised death and begins the search.

His feet echoes on the stone floor, each step feeling like a countdown to your end.

The air around you thickens with tension, you struggle to breath against the fear that threatens to overwhelm you.

In hopes of blending in the shadows you press your back harder against the cool wall.

'Be still...Be silent,' you chant even as your heart frantically beat against your ribcage.

Not even daring to breathe too loudly: your inhales and exhales are measured and deliberate despite the panic clawing at your throat.

Memories of Lady Andromache's warnings swirled through your mind—of men turned monsters in the heat of battle, their souls stained with the bloodlust of war.

"The taste of blood...changes a man." Dark brown eyes, somber and knowing, stare into your own. "Leaves him with a hunger for violence that's never fully sated..."

Her words, a distant and cautionary tale you never understood, now rang with terrifying clarity.

With Odysseus so close, the fear becomes so palpable it wraps around you.

Your eyes clamp shut when his footsteps nears, a feeble attempt to shield yourself from the impending horror.

Tears cascade silently down your cheeks in hot paths. There, you mourn not just for the young prince but for yourself and what may come of you.

Suddenly, the footsteps began to fade, leaving a silence so profound it feels like a scream in the void.

Minutes pass, each second an eternity spent in the clutches of fear. Then, there's a sound: the door closing—it cuts sharply through the stillness.

He left...

Relief washes over you, albeit tinged with the sorrow and shock of witnessing your charge's murder.

You wait. Counting each breath, allowing the minutes to stretch until it feels an eternity has passed.

No sound follows, no sign of his presence remains.

Emboldened by the silence and finally convinced, you allow yourself to move.

With cautious steps you emerge from your hiding spot and move toward the center of the room.

The need to escape, to distance yourself from this nightmare of death and close calls pushes you forward.

It's a relief short-lived.

Realizing the silence was a trick, it's already too late: arms encircle you.

The cold kiss of his dagger at your throat shatters any illusion of safety.

His body is pressed against your back, a wall of muscle and tension. You're acutely aware of him—the heat of his breath, the controlled movements, the slight shift as he adjusts his grip on the knife.

Your breath hitches from the terror and despair mingling in your throat, choking you.

"Not a sound," Odysseus whispers, his voice a lethal calm that contrasts the violent actions. "Now tell me: who are you?"

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your life...choices...everything you had or could have depended on the mercy of the man who had just taken a child from the world.

Fear wars with desperation in your heart. 'Please...let this not be my end. I have so much left to live for...'

"P—please..." you stammer, the words barely escaping your lips. "I won't tell anyone, I swear it. Just let me go..."

"I said," he ignores your pleads, choosing to press the dagger closer for emphasis, "who are you?"

In a flash of desperation and unexpected courage, you act.

With a swift, practiced move born from hours of watching the palace guards train, you suddenly shift your weight.

Pivoting on your heel you wrench his arm away from your throat and use the momentum to twist his wrist; forcing him to drop and send the dagger clattering to the ground.

You jump back, chest heaving with exertion and the shock of your own audacity. You lock eyes with Odysseus who stares at you in stunned silence.

For a moment, he is visibly taken aback; eyes widening not just at the loss of his weapon but at the sight of you.

"By the Gods..." he murmurs, the edge of his battle-hardened demeanor softening as he truly sees you for the first time.

The fire of the torches cast a soft glow on your brown skin, making the stone of the palace around you seem even more dull.

Your hair is nothing he had seen before. There amidst the curls that frame your face, lays a bold streak of white that runs into the mass of hair.

However, it's your eyes that truly captivate him—they glimmer with an intensity of deep grief yet unwavering determination.

For a fleeting moment, the fierceness in his eyes dims as a cascade of thoughts sweep through.

Odysseus, a man who faced gods and monsters...

...a man who has navigated the treacherous whims of fate...

...finds himself lost in the mere mortal beauty before him.

In another life, he might have allowed himself to be drawn in; to explore your being and the depths of those violet eyes.

The fantasy flickers through his mind of what could have been, momentary indulgence if you will.

Yet, as quickly as it arrived, it is quelled by his love and loyalty for Penelope. The memory of her steadfastness and unwavering faith in his return casts a shadow over any fleeting desire he might feel.

Taking advantage of his internal conflict, you find your voice and interject. "W-wait! I mean no harm nor am I an enemy! I was just trying to survive."

Curiosity piqued, Odysseus gestures for you to continue.

"I come from land that's oceans away, taken against my will. Here, I became a servant for Lady Andromache out of exotic curiosity," Your voice steadies as you speak, gaining strength from the truth of your words. "But then my purpose evolved and I became the caretaker for the prince—a child now dead, through no fault of my own."

The Greek king could only narrow his eyes at you in assessment, voice regaining some of its earlier edge. "And why should I spare you? You are, after all, of Troy."

"Not by choice!" you counter quickly, the words tumbling out, "I am no citizen of Troy, bound by loyalty nor blood. My life here was never of my choosing. My only wish is to live a life beyond wars, serving as a pawn in the games of Gods and Kings."

A smile wry of acknowledgment touches Odysseus' lips.

"You're clever," he admits as the tension in the room shifts, becoming less hostile.

"But why should I trust you?" he probes further, bending down to retrieve his dagger yet making no move to use it. "You, who managed to disarm me?"

Your gaze held a weariness it almost felt bone-deep,, "I have nothing left. The same ambush that brought me here as a servant...massacred my family. The only wish I have now is to live a life of medicine, as my mother was and hers before her. My hands are meant for healing, not for war. Let me serve in your kingdom, and I promise, my loyalty will be yours."

Silence hangs between you two, thick with possibilities.

Then, slowly, a smile begins to form on Odysseus's lips; the first genuine smile he's probably shown in years.

"A barter, then. You propose your freedom for my journey home?"

"Yes!" your voice is firmer now, pushed by his response. "I have skills, knowledge that can aid you. Take me with you, and I swear to devote myself in ensuring your safe return to Ithaca without further misfortune."

Odysseus studies you for a long moment, weighing your words and the sincerity in your eyes. "You truly believe you can ensure my safe passage home? After everything?"

You keeping eye contact with him, the intensity of your gaze unwavering. "With all my heart..."

The quiet that follows is heavy with contemplation, with the unspoken thoughts that flicker behind his eyes.

Finally, he nods, a decision made.

"Very well. But know this," he adds, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "any betrayal, and it will be the last thing you do."

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