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nyxs2 · 1 month ago

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 16/?)

In a masquerade, faces are borrowed, truths are twisted, and sins are veiled beneath silk and gold. What happens beneath the masks stays there—after all, isn't that the point of wearing one?

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 13,7K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, unprotected sex, sex against the door, mirror sex, use of the title "sir" in a sexual context, semi-public sex, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, Silco teaching about manipulation and being a little self-centered, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Useful information for better visualization during the chapter: Costumes inspired by "The Phantom of the Opera", a 2004 film. Mask used by the reader Main dance music: Phantom of the Opera By Prague Cello Quartet

Part 15

Five days later.

There was a little Powder by your side, her bright blue eyes wide with wonder as she curled into the folds of your long dress. The delicate lace at the hem fascinated her, her small fingers tracing the intricate patterns with the kind of reverence only a child could possess.

It wasn't exactly wise to let an excitable child like Powder play around with a pristine white dress—especially when she had an uncanny talent for turning anything into a mess within minutes. But you didn't care. Not when she looked so enraptured, so utterly captivated by something as simple as fabric. You watched her with quiet amusement before speaking, voice laced with gentle curiosity.

"You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

"Nope."

"Then how did you get in, little one?"

"The same way everyone else does, duh." Powder rolled her eyes, voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation. "Through the front door."

A soft chuckle slipped past your lips as you reached out to ruffle her twin braids—those stubbornly tight plaits she adored so much. She huffed at the gesture, scrunching her nose in protest, but didn't pull away. Her small fingers continued fidgeting absentmindedly with the lace of your dress, twirling the delicate fabric between them.

"And how, exactly, did Silco not see you sneaking in?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Powder's mischievous grin widened. Without missing a beat, she lifted one tiny hand to cover her left eye, dramatically mimicking Silco's scarred visage.

"Did you forget? He's practically blind!"

Her impression was ridiculous—an exaggerated scowl twisting her face, her stance suddenly rigid as if she were trying to embody some grand, intimidating presence. It was so absurdly endearing that you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing outright.

"Stop that!" You playfully nudged her hand away, shaking your head. "He's not blind, just stressed. And stress affects his ability to see things clearly."

Powder snorted, unimpressed. "Same thing."

You sighed, shaking your head, but there was no real reprimand behind it. Powder was Powder—cheeky, unpredictable, and absolutely relentless. And honestly? You wouldn't have her any other way.

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that fact."

That sent her into fit of giggles, a sweet, airy sound that filled the room like the purest melody. It bounced off the walls, wrapping around you in warmth, in something so light and innocent that it made your chest tighten. You had grown to love that laughter—especially when you were the cause of it.

You wanted to protect that little girl from the world, to shield her from the darkness you knew lurked just outside these walls. And now, you understood. Now, you truly understood why Silco was so fiercely protective of her.

A soft smile lingered on your lips as you turned back to the mirror, letting her continue playing with the layers of the dress while your fingers deftly adjusting the delicate corset. It fits your body perfectly, sculpting to your frame like a second skin. The square neckline framed your shoulders with an understated elegance, accentuating the delicate curve of your collarbone.

The fabric was impossibly light, almost ethereal, as if woven from something intangible—meant to float, to move with every shift of your body like whispered silk against your skin. The embroidered lace on the sheer, long sleeves stretched over your arms in intricate, delicate patterns, casting faint shadows against your skin beneath the flickering candlelight. Your fingertips trailed along the edges of the fabric, feeling the contrast between its fine, airy texture and the coolness that clung to the dimly lit room.

The skirt cascaded around your legs like mist, flowing with every subtle movement, the hem brushing against the floor in an effortless dance. But the most daring detail—the one that made your breath hitch ever so slightly—was the slit along the side, parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of your thigh, the white lace of your stockings peeking through like a whispered temptation.

Silco had been oddly particular about choosing this dress for you. It was a deliberate choice, one he had made with the same precision he applied to everything that held his interest. And yet, you couldn't quite understand why he had chosen white.

Red or black—you had expected something in those shades. His colors. Deep, commanding, unyielding. But white? White was... unsettling. It clung to you like a contradiction, draping over your body in soft, immaculate folds, as if whispering of innocence and virtue. But you were long past that, weren't you? Whatever purity white was meant to represent had been stripped from you long ago, leaving behind something far more jagged, something that Silco himself had helped shape.

Still, it fit you well. Annoyingly well.

You shifted, gently nudging Powder aside as you reached for your mask. Like the dress, it was a masterpiece in its own right. The black filigree metal gleamed under the dim light, each delicate swirl and intricate detail a testament to craftsmanship that bordered on artistry. The design was slightly asymmetrical—the filigree curling like lacework over one eye, while the other side was left exposed, adorned only by three fine golden chains that draped subtly across the space where the mask should have extended further.

A statement. A choice. A balance between concealment and exposure.

You crouched slightly, holding the mask out to Powder, wordlessly inviting her to help you secure it. Her face lit up instantly, her hands—small but quick—reaching for the black satin ribbon. She worked with impressive speed, fingers nimble as she fastened the knot at the back of your head. There was a faint tug as she adjusted the placement, ensuring it sat just right, her touch light but precise.

Then, as if she were handling something delicate, she fussed over your hair. Tiny, careful hands smoothed stray strands, adjusting a curl here, tucking another behind your ear there. The concentration on her face was almost comical—brows furrowed, lips pursed in deep thought, as if she were a sculptor perfecting her masterpiece.

"There." she declared at last, stepping back with a triumphant nod. "Now you look perfect."

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, tilting your head.

"How perfect?"

Powder tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to consider her answer before breaking into a mischievous grin.

"Like a really fancy villain."

You arched a brow, amused. "A villain, huh?"

"The best kind."

A smirk ghosted across your lips, and before she could dodge, you ruffled her hair again, messing up her carefully styled braids.

"Hey!" Powder whined, swatting at your hand.

"If you say so, little one." you teased, unable to help the fondness in your voice.

She crossed her arms, puffing out her cheeks in mock indignation before suddenly tilting her head, blue eyes scanning you once more. "But..." She hesitated, then grinned wide, her voice soft with something that almost felt like awe. "You also look like a princess."

Oh, heavens...

For a moment, you could do nothing but stare. Those wide, gleaming blue eyes gazed up at you with such raw admiration, such unfiltered wonder, that it nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Powder wasn't just looking at you—she was seeing you, in the way only a child could. To her, you weren't just someone in a dress. You were something magical.

Without a second thought, you reached up and carefully removed the tiara from your hair. The delicate piece had been chosen to complement your attire, a glimmering, ornamental crown meant for a ballroom and whispered admiration. But now, none of that mattered.

Without hesitation, you placed it atop Powder's head.

The weight of it made her pause, her eyes blinking up at you in confusion. Of course, the tiara sat awkwardly at first, tilted precariously to one side—the size difference between your head and hers was undeniable—but with a few gentle adjustments, you managed to nestle it securely among her braids.

"Look at that." you murmured, stepping back slightly. "Now you're a princess too."

Powder hesitated for only a fraction of a second before her small fingers shot up to brush against the cool metal resting atop her hair. Then, as realization dawned, a spark of pure excitement lit up her face. Without another word, she spun on her heel and bolted toward the mirror.

You watched from behind as she tilted her head this way and that, twisting and turning, examining her reflection with unfiltered delight. The way her fingers lightly traced over the tiara, the way her lips parted in a silent, awed smile—it was the kind of joy so rare, so fleeting, that it made your chest ache.

You found yourself smiling too. A soft, almost foolish smile—one you didn't even try to suppress.

Powder was just a small girl living in a cruel, bloodstained world. One day, she would have to see and do terrible things. Things no child should ever be forced to endure. But she didn't have to lose her innocence as early as you had lost yours.

No.

You would make sure of that.

You would give Vander's daughter—Silco's daughter—everything you were never given the right to have.

You were so lost in those thoughts that you barely had time to react when something collided with you. A small body crashed against yours, nearly knocking you off balance. Tiny arms wrapped around your waist, holding on with a fierce, unrelenting grip. Soft blue hair pressed against your stomach.

Powder was hugging you.

For a long, frozen moment, your mind didn't quite know how to react.

There was something about your late-night meetings at the bar—something unspoken, something careful. No matter how friendly your interactions were, Powder rarely touched you, and she rarely allowed you to touch her. It was an unspoken boundary, one you never tried to cross.

And you didn't mind.

Her presence alone was enough.

So to have her hugging you now—arms wound tightly around your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your dress like she feared you'd slip away—felt strange. Not unwelcome, just... unexpected.

There was something heartbreakingly fragile in the way she clung to you, like a child seeking comfort but too proud to ask for it.

The only person who had touched you in all these months had been Silco. His touch was something you had grown accustomed to—the weight of his hands against your skin, the casual, possessive way he would lift your chin to look at him, the way his fingers would trail over your skin, lingering just long enough to remind you that he was there. That you belonged to him.

But this?

This was different.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure, before your hand came up, cradling the back of her head with a careful, almost tentative touch. The strands of blue hair were soft against your fingertips. Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself to her height, making sure to meet her gaze directly.

Her face was warm beneath your hands, small and delicate, though there was a steeliness in her eyes—a fire that had yet to be fully tempered by the world's cruelty. And yet... something about her reminded you of Silco. Maybe it was the intensity in her stare, the way she observed everything with an unwavering, discerning gaze. Or maybe it was just the way she was—defiant, unpredictable, always teetering between innocence and something far more dangerous.

You pulled her closer, arms tightening around her in an embrace that felt... heavier than it should have. Not physically, but emotionally. There was a weight to it, something unspoken pressing against your ribs, making your breath hitch for just a moment. And for a fleeting second, you could have sworn—almost—that you felt it.

That warmth.

That imposing, steady presence you had once known so well. The one who was a leader and yet a friend. The person you would kill and die for.

Vander.

The thought came unbidden, curling around your mind like smoke from a dying ember. You could have dismissed it as foolishness, a trick of your own sentimentality—reaching, grasping for something long since buried. But still, for that brief moment, Powder felt familiar. She reminded you of him.

Then, just as quickly as she had clung to you, she shoved herself out of your grasp, her small hands pressing against your arms with a stubborn impatience that made you chuckle.

"Alright, alright. Enough of that!" she huffed, scowling as if the very idea of vulnerability physically pained her. She wriggled free with dramatic flair, shaking off whatever impulse had driven her into your arms in the first place.

You smirked, amusement curling at the edges of your lips as you let your arms fall back to your sides.

"Guess that's all I get, huh?"

Powder rolled her eyes so hard you half-expected them to pop right out of her skull. Arms crossed, chin tilted up, she scoffed with practiced indifference.

"Don't get used to it."

You wouldn't. But for now, the memory of that fleeting warmth was enough.

You watched her for a moment longer, noting the way she averted her gaze, how she fidgeted with the ends of her hair, the ghost of something unreadable flickering behind those electric blue eyes. It was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual energy. You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head with a soft chuckle.

"Do me a favor, will you?"

Jinx raised a brow, suspicious but intrigued. "Depends. Is it fun?"

You grinned. "Depends. Will you actually listen?"

Her cackle was immediate, sharp and delighted. "Pfft! Absolutely not!"

You moved toward the dresser slowly, the fabric of your dress whispering against the floor with each measured step. The room was bathed in the restless hues of neon—bleeding shades of pink, violet, and electric blue filtering through the open window, painting shifting patterns across the walls. You hadn't bothered to draw the curtains. Maybe you had forgotten. Maybe you had simply stopped caring.

Behind you, Powder was watching, her wide, curious eyes tracking your every movement.

Your fingers found the cool gold of your necklace, the familiar weight of the chain slipping easily between them. You glanced over your shoulder at her, lips curving into something soft, something secret.

"Here." you murmured, turning and holding the necklace out to her.

Powder's eyes flickered between you and the delicate piece of jewelry in your hand. "For me?" she asked, blinking as though the thought had never even occurred to her.

You huffed out a quiet laugh. "No, little one. I need you to take it to Silco for me."

She pouted dramatically, but her fingers still closed around the chain, cradling it like it was something sacred. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing the most important of secrets.

"And while you're at it..." you smirked, tilting your head conspiratorially, "Make sure to show him your new tiara. I'm sure you look far more regal than he ever could."

Powder gasped, delighted, her free hand shooting up to adjust the tiara in her hair. "You think so?"

"I know so."

That was all she needed.

She beamed up at you before spinning on her heels, already bolting for the door. "Okay! I'll tell him you said that!"

"You! Wait, no!"

Too late. She was gone.

She nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste, but it didn't slow her down. Within seconds, she had disappeared down the hall, her breathless giggles fading into the distance, swallowed by the dim hum of the city outside.

And then—silence.

You remained standing there, frozen in place, staring blankly at the uneven patterns of the wooden floor. Now, without Powder's presence to pull your thoughts away, they returned in full force—sharp, relentless.

The night outside was restless, alive. Even in the quiet, the Last Drop never truly slept. There was always something—a muffled conversation behind closed doors, the distant shuffle of feet in the alleyways, the faint clink of glass against glass. But tonight, it was as still as it could ever be.

Still, it wasn't enough to silence the pounding of your own heart.

Your mouth was dry. Your palms slick with sweat. Nervous was an understatement. You felt like you were unraveling, thread by thread. The very thought of setting foot in Piltover again sent a tremor through your spine, curling tight in your stomach like something cold and insidious. You had told yourself—over and over again—that nothing and no one could take you back.

They had failed once, in that pathetic attempt to kidnap you. They would fail again. And yet, the fear still lingered. A quiet, whispering thing. What if?

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing your muscles to move, to do something other than stand there like a caged animal waiting for the inevitable.

One step forward.

Another.

You pushed through the door.

The air in the hallway was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and aged wood, steeped into the walls, woven into the very bones of this place. Familiar. Grounding. But not enough to ease the weight pressing down on your chest. You moved forward, steps light as you neared the staircase.

Then—voices.

Drifting up from below, low and restrained, just beneath the usual hum of the bar. The unmistakable murmur of a conversation on the edge of something sharper.

And Silco's voice.

Smooth but laced with irritation.

"How many times have I told you not to show up like this at this hour, Jinx?"

Silco's voice carried through, edged with that distinct, weary patience he reserved only for her. Not anger, not even irritation—just the kind of exhaustion that came from knowing full well that no amount of scolding would ever change her behavior.

"If I obeyed every order you gave me, I'd never do anything."

You could practically hear the smirk in her voice, that teasing lilt laced with mischief. There was a brief pause, just long enough for you to wonder if, for once, she might actually acknowledge his reprimand.

And then—

A sound. Half-choked, half-laughter. Like someone who had tried to stifle a laugh but had taken a sip of something at the wrong time.

"Jinx!" His voice sharpened, reprimanding, but even from here, you knew.

She wasn't sorry. Not in the slightest.

You and Silco were going to have so many problems when she reached adolescence.

Oh...

And that was what made your chest tighten. Because in that moment, you saw it clearly. You saw what you'd both become for you. The realization hit like a sudden drop, stealing the breath from your lungs—sharp, unexpected, irrevocable. Because this wasn't just about the near future.

No.

You were imagining something more. A real future. With him. With her.

That was dangerous.

You knew what happened when you started caring. When you let yourself get tangled in the fragile, messy concept of family.

You had spent years building walls to keep that kind of vulnerability at bay—brick by brick, carefully, methodically—until the person you used to be was little more than a ghost haunting the edges of your reflection. And yet, here you were. Standing in a dimly lit hallway, half-hidden in the shadows, listening to them bicker below.

And for a brief, foolish moment, you let yourself believe in something soft. Something that could be ripped away.

Just like Vander.

The thought struck like a blade slipping between ribs—silent, precise, lethal. You inhaled sharply, grounding yourself before it could take root. No. You couldn't afford to dream about things that were never meant to be yours.

You clenched your jaw, forcing the sentiment down, burying it where it belonged. Now wasn't the time to drown in memories. Now was the time to act. It was time—time to silence the voices in your head and, just as importantly, to put an end to the monologue Silco was undoubtedly about to deliver on the virtues of following orders.

So, you stepped forward. Emerging from the shadows of the staircase.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Powder. Sevika. Silco.

And suddenly, you were hyper-aware of yourself.

Powder tilted her head, ever-curious, her fingers idly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Sevika with an empty glass in her hand — being the person who had laughed before — let out something close to a scoff — more amused than annoyed, though you could see the sharp gleam of interest in her eyes.

But Silco...

Silco was different.

His expression remained composed, that usual mask of calculated indifference, as if your presence was nothing out of the ordinary. But you knew him too well. You noticed the minute widening of his sharp blue eye, the way his body stiffened ever so slightly. You saw how, in an instant, his entire focus shifted, as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

He was watching you now, truly watching.

Silco was dressed entirely in black, an imposing figure draped in darkness. His heavy overcoat, made of thick, luxurious fabric, fell over his shoulders with effortless elegance, its weight amplifying the sharp silhouette of his frame. Beneath it, a richly embroidered waistcoat clung to his torso, the intricate patterns woven in deep crimson and burnished gold. The swirling arabesques traced across the fabric, reinforcing the aristocratic aesthetic of his attire.

Black gloves encased his fingers, their smooth leather barely creasing as his hands flexed at his sides. And then, there was it—the half-mask.

A stark, unyielding white, covering the left side of his face. The porcelain-like surface was smooth and rigid, concealing the ruined skin beneath while paradoxically drawing attention to the haunting brilliance of his orange iris. The contrast was striking—one half of him veiled in pale perfection, the other raw, exposed, and piercing in its intensity.

He looked like a specter. A monarch in mourning. A devil wearing the guise of nobility. And right now, all of that intensity—all of him—was fixated on you.

Silco didn't speak—not at first. Instead, he stepped forward, until he reached the base of the staircase. Then, without hesitation, he extended a hand toward you. An invitation. A silent command.

The flickering of the bar lights caught on the sharp angles of his face, casting half of it in shadow, the other half illuminated just enough for you to see the quiet intensity in his gaze. That mismatched stare—cool calculation in one eye, searing ember in the other—pinned you in place, a wordless demand that sent something shivering down your spine.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

Even through the smooth leather of his glove, you could feel the warmth beneath—the undeniable heat of him. It wasn't just physical; it was something deeper. A fire that had burned you before, in ways you couldn't name, and yet, you let it consume you now without resistance.

As you descended the steps, Silco's grip remained firm, unwavering, a tether grounding you to him as the rest of the world faded. There was something intoxicating in the way he held you—possessive without pressure, a silent declaration that he would lead, and you would follow.

The moment your foot touched the last step, he moved.

In one fluid motion, his arm curled around your lower back, guiding you seamlessly into his orbit. There was no space left between you—no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just the press of his body against yours, the faint scent of smoke and burnt gunpowder clinging to him, the unrelenting pull of a force as inevitable as gravity itself.

Then, Silco finally turned his attention to Sevika.

"Ensure everything stays in order while I'm gone and stay away from the gambling tables tonight."

Sevika gave a single nod, accepting the command swiftly and without argument. But you saw the flicker of tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her lips. You knew exactly why. Silco had just denied her one of her greatest vices—and Sevika loved to gamble. Silco, however, had already moved on, his gaze shifting to the small figure lingering nearby.

"Don't blow anything up. And go back to your room, you're not wandering around the bar at this hour."

"But—" Powder started, her voice already edging toward a protest.

Silco was faster.

"Sevika."

That was all it took. No elaboration. No further instruction. Just a name. And somehow, it was enough.

There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent efficiency that needed no further words. In an instant, Powder was plucked off the ground with effortless ease, as if she weighed nothing at all. Sevika slung her over one shoulder like a sack of restless cargo.

Powder, predictably, did not go quietly.

"Hey! Put me down!" She twisted in Sevika's grasp, her limbs flailing, her blue braids whipping through the air as she squirmed like a feral cat caught in a too-tight hold.

Sevika barely spared her a glance, already carrying her toward the exit.

"Try not to claw my eyes out this time, kid."

Powder growled in frustration, her tiny fists beating against Sevika's shoulder in protest.

The man beside you—Silco—watched the scene with nothing more than mild amusement, exhaling softly through his nose. He didn't seem particularly concerned with the struggle unfolding in front of him, as if this was just another routine occurrence.

Then, as if Powder's tantrum was nothing more than background noise, he turned his attention back to Sevika, his voice smooth, controlled.

"Make sure the new instructions reach Singed today."

Sevika gave a brief nod, her movements efficient even as she adjusted her grip on the wriggling child. When the little one turned to face Silco and met that stern, reprimanding gaze, she simply accepted her fate. There was no protest, no attempt at negotiation—just a resigned sigh as she allowed Sevika to usher her away toward the staircase.

You watched as they passed, Powder peeking at you over Sevika's broad shoulder. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes before she formed a tiny gun with her fingers and mimed shooting. You gasped dramatically, clutching your heart as if she had struck a fatal blow.

Her grin widened before she disappeared upstairs.

Then, without a word, Silco raised a hand and made a simple, dismissive motion. The few men lingering around the bar immediately obeyed, slipping out into the streets without hesitation. Within moments, the room was empty. Silent.

Leaving only him and you.

Silco turned his attention back to you, his presence suffocating in its intensity. He reached for you, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he guided your body to stand directly in front of him. His touch wasn't forceful, but there was no mistaking the command in it. He wanted you here—precisely here, within his reach, within his grasp.

His hands moved with a quiet deliberation as he swept your hair aside, the leather of his gloves cool against your heated skin. A glint of violet caught your eye, and before you could react, he was fastening your necklace around your throat. The gemstone at its center shimmered with a deep, rich purple—the only vivid color against his otherwise monochromatic attire. It didn't match anything you wore.

But you didn't care.

Silco's fingers moved swiftly as he secured the clasp, but they didn't leave you once the task was done. Instead, they lingered.

One hand descended, tracing over the curve of your waist, his touch a whisper of leather and heat against the firm structure of your corset. Slowly his palm skimmed lower, following the shape of your body, fingers pressing just enough to make you aware of every place he touched. It was a touch both torturous and indulgent, as if savoring the feel of you beneath his hands.

The other remained firm at your waist, holding you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His gloved fingers trailed downward, exploring the slit in your dress, just barely grazing the soft skin of your thigh. A tease. A silent promise. And still, his grip on your waist tightened, a reminder—

You weren't going anywhere.

"You look sinfully divine, dove."

Silco's voice was a low murmur against your skin, the warmth of his breath sending a delicious shiver down your spine. "It's almost an outrage, really, allowing those damned Topsiders the right to see you like this."

You laughed softly, tilting yourself further into him, letting the rich scent of lingering tobacco, worn leather, and a metallic note of burnt gunpowder or rust that clung to him invade your senses.

"Weren't you the one saying you wanted to show me off?"

"I've changed my mind."

His grip on you shifted. One hand stayed firm on your waist, keeping you close, but the other slid upward with a languid sort of dominance. The smooth leather of his glove brushed over your throat, fingers pressing just enough to coax a response from you. The faintest pressure—not enough to constrict, not yet—but enough to make you hyperaware of his touch.

Your breath hitched. Your lashes fluttered shut. Your lips parted slightly, instinctively.

He hummed in satisfaction, the sound reverberating deep in his chest.

"I wonder..." His fingers flexed against your throat, tilting your chin up just enough that you could feel the sharp edge of his smirk ghosting over your skin. "Just how late we'd be if I bent you over the bar right now..."

As if to prove a point, Silco moved. Not away from you—never that—but forward, pressing you against the bar counter. The impact wasn't harsh, but it was enough to knock a sharp breath from your lungs, leaving you momentarily caught between the unyielding wood and the even less forgiving presence of the man behind you.

"Don't you dare ruin this dress."

"I'll buy you another."

His reply was smooth, effortless, barely a concern—because of course, in Silco's mind, anything could be replaced. Anything but you.

His lips found the exposed skin of your neck, the heat of his breath contrasting with the cool leather still gloved over his hands. His mouth didn't simply linger; it wandered, trailing along the curve of your neck before his teeth scraped against sensitive flesh. Not quite a bite, but the promise of one. A warning. A temptation.

"Silco."

You injected as much authority into your voice as you could, a firm reprimand meant to reel him back in.

And, surprisingly, it worked.

Silco released you—just enough to let you breathe, though his grip on your lower back remained. Always in control. Always ensuring that even when you thought you had space, you never truly did. His other hand slipped beneath the folds of his heavy overcoat, reaching for something.

A flicker of steel caught the dim light.

His dagger.

Without a word, he handed it to you.

"We're walking into a viper's nest, dove." His voice was low, even, but beneath the smooth cadence lay something else. A warning.

You took the blade without hesitation, flipping it between your fingers before slipping it down into the strap of your stocking. The weight of it was familiar, reassuring.

"And you?"

Silco merely shifted his overcoat slightly to the side. From the folds of dark fabric, the polished barrel of his pistol gleamed in the shadows. A silent answer. You exhaled, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

"Don't leave my side. Understood?" His voice was steady, measured—but beneath that even tone, there was something else. Not quite worry, but something close. A weight behind the words that made your stomach twist.

You nodded. Of course, you understood. That much was obvious.

The two of you were walking into enemy territory without any guarantee of what the night would bring. A Friday night gala—glittering chandeliers, delicate crystal glasses filled to the brim with aged wine, laughter laced with thinly veiled malice. The aristocracy thrived on theatrics, feeding off scandal and intrigue as if it were their lifeblood. And where there was power, where there were secrets swirling beneath silk and velvet, tragedy was never far behind.

A ballroom was an epicenter for disaster. You just hoped it wouldn't end in bloodshed because you'd hate to ruin such a beautiful dress.

[...]

Classical music filled the air, the sound of a live orchestra swelling and echoing through the gilded walls. The melody was rich, sweeping—elegant in a way that made the very air hum with sophistication. And yet, despite the grandeur of the performance, you barely recognized half of the instruments being played.

The music wrapped around the room like a silken veil, muting the murmur of voices beneath it. The gathering was small but meticulously curated, the kind of exclusive affair where wealth was measured not in numbers but in the subtlety of extravagance. Dresses and suits adorned every figure in sight, each piece undoubtedly worth more than the mansion itself. Even the most insignificant details—the golden embroidery on a sleeve, the hand-painted porcelain on the banquet tables—screamed opulence.

And the masks—the masks.

A quiet competition had taken shape among the attendees, an unspoken battle to outshine one another. Every glance you cast across the room revealed something even more ostentatious than before—filigree twisted into delicate vines, gemstones embedded into polished ivory, feathers extending high like plumes of a peacock. And you hadn't even descended into the main hall yet.

White and gold. Everywhere.

Piltover's colors, proudly displayed in every archway, every drape, every perfectly polished floor tile. The people, too, were adorned in them, their presence a living extension of the city's vanity.

And then there was Silco.

A black mark on an immaculate canvas. A shadow in a sea of pristine light.

He stood out effortlessly, his presence a deliberate contrast against the uniform splendor of Piltover's elite. Dressed in his usual darkness, he moved with the calm assurance of a man who belonged—or perhaps one who did not care whether he belonged at all. The weight of disapproving stares settled upon him like whispers behind a closed door, but if he noticed, he gave no indication.

His hand rested firmly at the small of your back, a constant, grounding presence as he guided you deeper into the lion's den.

Where others averted their eyes in quiet submission to Piltover's judgment, Silco met every sneering glance with an unwavering stare, his chin tilted just slightly higher, his expression unreadable save for the glint of defiance in his eye.

Prideful. Unapologetic. Unshaken.

And though you could feel the weight of their disdain pressing against you like a heavy velvet curtain, Silco moved forward without hesitation. And you—held against him, caught in the current of his presence—followed.

"Why is the decor so... Piltoveresque?" you murmured, your voice low as you and Silco came to a halt near one of the grand marble columns, safely tucked away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. "Aren't the hosts from Noxus? I expected something more... dark. More imposing."

Silco exhaled through his nose—something just shy of a chuckle—as he studied the opulent surroundings with the same detached scrutiny as one might afford a chessboard. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried that familiar academic tone, as if he were indulging you with a lesson rather than merely answering your question.

"To put the guests at ease."

You turned your head to look at him, curious.

"It's a subtle manipulation, really." he continued, absently adjusting the cuff of his glove. "The moment you present an environment that echoes the familiarity of those you wish to influence, they become more inclined to let their guard down. A space that exists outside their comfort zone breeds awareness, tension. If the décor were distinctly Noxian, they would be far too conscious of their surroundings. Too aware of where they stand."

Your lips pressed together as you considered his words. A simple yet effective strategy.

If you thought about it, it made perfect sense—especially given the nature of the gathering. Everyone in attendance was from Piltover. Everyone except for the two of you, of course. There were others, like Silco, who would see through this carefully curated illusion of warmth and hospitality, but the majority? The majority were too absorbed in their own self-importance to notice anything beyond their upturned noses.

Piltover's arrogance would be its inevitable downfall.

And that thought, above all else, was almost entertaining.

The sharp call of a voice announcing the arrival of a guest caught your attention, its echo carrying across the room like the strike of a bell.

From where you stood, you watched as the young herald—tasked with announcing titles and names—leaned in, murmuring something to the two men before him. Their backs were turned to you, but even so, you could make out the elegant cut of their attire, the sharpness of their silhouettes.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, his posture confident, a presence that commanded attention even in stillness. The other stood beside him, his frame leaner, a slight tilt to his stance that betrayed the reliance on the cane in his hand.

Then, the names rang out.

"Jayce, of House Talis, and his partner, Viktor."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, heads turning toward the top of the staircase. Your gaze flicked across the gathered crowd until it landed on one in particular.

A woman.

Dark skin illuminated by the warm glow of the chandeliers. Black curly hair twisted into elegant ropes, golden cuffs adorning her hairline, catching the light like scattered embers. She wore gold—bold, provocative, yet meticulously restrained. Every detail of her appearance was purposeful, a calculated balance of allure and authority. A striking beauty. One you recognized immediately.

Of course you did.

You had been instructed to memorize the faces of every Councilor of Piltover as part of your training. It had been drilled into you with the same precision as combat stances and pressure points—Know their names. Their allegiances. Their weaknesses.

The young Medarda approached the two men, though it was clear from the start where her attention lay. She spoke primarily to the taller, more imposing figure, completely disregarding his companion, who stood just beside him. If the slight tilt of his head was anything to go by, he was accustomed to this—being overlooked, existing in the shadow of someone more commanding.

Intrigued, you studied him more closely.

A white-skinned, brown-haired human with a scrawny build. His posture, though compromised by the cane he leaned on, was not entirely weak. His back remained straight, his chin lifted, and there was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself, despite his apparent introversion.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, he turned his head toward you.

Your eyes met.

He wore a dark blue mask, symmetrical to his face, its design simple yet refined. But that did little to distract from his eyes—the sharpness in them, the intelligence lurking beneath the reserved exterior.

The moment was fleeting.

Before anything could be exchanged—before you could read deeper into the man behind the mask—Silco's hand was at your back once more, guiding you toward the staircase. You followed his lead, but your awareness lingered. You caught sight of the young herald tilting his head toward Silco, listening intently to whatever words were being murmured between them. He gave a slight nod in response. Then, as Silco extended a hand toward you, the young man cleared his throat.

"The Baron and Baroness of Zaun."

The title rang out, reverberating through every inch of the grand hall, wrapping itself around you like a noose before snapping back with the force of a whip.

You had heard Silco call you that once before—during the meeting with Marcus—but you had assumed it was nothing more than a calculated theatrical choice, a tool to manipulate the conversation in his favor. A momentary fabrication.

But now?

Now, that same title was being announced as truth.

A ripple of silence passed over the crowd before the weight of countless eyes crashed down upon you.

Zaunites regarded you with scrutiny, measuring, evaluating, weighing their judgment in quiet contemplation. But the eyes of Piltover? Those were different. Oppressive. Unforgiving. They bore down on you with the distinct sharpness of a blade pressed against your throat, staring as if you and Silco were nothing more than unwelcome intruders in their pristine world. Filth dragged in from the undercity, parading in stolen titles and borrowed elegance.

You had never been under such a blinding, suffocating spotlight before. Your breath caught, tension creeping up your spine like ice-cold fingers.

But then—

A hand squeezed yours, grounding you.

Silco.

You turned to him, and the moment your gaze met his, the rising tightness in your chest eased. His eyes—cool, steady, unshaken—held yours with quiet assurance. There was no hesitation in his grip, no flicker of uncertainty in his expression. He wasn't fazed by their stares, their judgment, their barely concealed disdain.

And if he wasn't?

Then neither were you.

You inhaled slowly, gathering yourself as he guided you forward, step by step, leading you down the grand staircase— descending together as if this had always been your rightful place.

You passed by the small trio you had been observing. The tallest of the three offered Silco a polite nod through the pristine white of his mask, a silent acknowledgment exchanged in the space of a heartbeat. The Medarda—adorned with a luxurious golden mask that only sharpened the already cutting edge of her gaze—assessed you both with quiet intrigue, her expression unreadable. The third, however, made no such effort for decorum.

His stare lingered on you, an unsettling weight that crawled along your skin like fingers trailing over silk. There was something deeply disquieting about his attention, not in the way a predator watches prey, but in the way an alchemist watches a volatile reaction unfold in his hands—expectant. Before you could decide how to feel about it, his interest shifted, drawn back into whatever his companion had murmured in his ear.

Silco wasted no time leading you through the ballroom, weaving through the sea of bodies with practiced ease. He guided you to a strategic vantage point—near a wide, arched window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, its glass polished to perfection.

From there, the City of Progress sprawled before you, a sea of golden lights extending far beyond what the eye could capture. The glow of innovation pulsed through its veins, illuminating every towering spire and winding street, each glimmering like a promise of power and possibility. Above, the sky stretched vast and endless, constellations scattered like shattered diamonds, while the moon stood high and unyielding, a silent observer to the night's grand spectacle.

You were so caught in the sight of it all that you almost didn't notice when Silco pressed a glass into your hand.

The deep red of the wine caught the light as you swirled it, watching the liquid cling to the sides of the glass before lifting it slightly toward your nose. A precaution. A habit. The sharp, rich aroma filled your senses, dark berries and oak laced with the unmistakable bite of expensive alcohol. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Satisfied, you took a small sip, letting the warmth bloom across your tongue, sinking low into your chest. Perhaps it would give you the courage to say what had been weighing on your tongue since the moment you heard that title.

"You called me Baroness."

It wasn't quite a question, yet not quite an acceptance either. Your voice was measured, but the weight of the title coiled around your ribs like a vice.

Silco didn't hesitate.

"It's an appropriate title for your current position."

So simple. So matter-of-fact. As though it didn't shift something fundamental between you.

You studied him, searching for some indication of intent. A smirk, perhaps, some flicker of amusement in his sharp features. But he offered nothing. Just certainty. Confidence. As if the thought had never been up for debate in the first place. If he noticed the gravity of his words, he didn't show it. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. Either way, you felt it.

This wasn't just a title.

This was a shift in hierarchy.

A change in standing.

To be called Silco's whore was one thing. An insult, a weapon meant to demean. It carried no weight, no consequence, merely the vitriol of those too afraid to confront him directly.

But baroness... his baroness...

That was something else entirely. That was power. A claim. A role with meaning, with purpose. A position that, once given, could not simply be revoked without consequence.

You wanted to press him for more. To demand the reasoning behind such a choice of words. But instead, you drowned the question in another sip of wine, letting its warmth coil down your throat as you swallowed the implications along with it.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass as you spoke again, voice lower this time, careful. Controlled. But there was no mistaking the quiet frustration simmering beneath it.

"But why choose those particular titles to introduce us, Silco?" Your gaze flicked to his, searching, demanding. "Now we're the center of attention. I thought the plan was to know your enemy, not to offer yourself to them on a silver platter."

Silco showed no sign of concern. If anything, he looked positively at ease, sipping from his own glass as his gaze lazily swept over the gathered elite. The half-mask he wore did an excellent job of obscuring his expressions, leaving only the sharp gleam of his uncovered eye to betray the quiet calculations unfolding behind it.

"That's where you're mistaken, dove."

His voice was smooth, unaffected, as if he were merely humoring a naïve inquiry.

"The best way to operate in a place like this isn't to shrink into the background, it's to give these vultures something to talk about." He gestured vaguely, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another unhurried sip. "Think about it. If you were one of them, wouldn't you be curious? Wouldn't you wonder why someone from Zaun was standing in this very room? What someone from that wretched, discarded undercity could have possibly done to catch the attention of an organization outside of Piltover, enough to be invited?"

As if to punctuate his point, Silco made a deliberately elegant motion with his hand, acknowledging a couple approaching with polite smiles and watchful eyes.

"Curiosity." he murmured, almost to himself, "Is what drives scientists and the ambitious alike. And lucky for us..." his lips curled just slightly, "We're surrounded by both."

The couple arrived, exchanging greetings laced with the thin veneer of civility. You watched with veiled amusement as Silco eased into the conversation, donning the facade of a charismatic diplomat with unnerving ease.

And just like that, the game began.

[...]

The night had been a sea of conversation, each exchange laced with veiled intentions, subtle barbs designed to provoke, and negotiations shrouded in pleasantries. Silco had introduced himself as an industrialist from Zaun, a man whose chemical advancements had reshaped the undercity and earned him the title of baron. It wasn't exactly a lie—but it wasn't the whole truth, either.

And you? You had been presented as his adorable fiancée. The first time he said it, your face burned so hot you were certain it had turned as red as a Piltover noble's finest wine. But you had played the part well, slipping into the role as seamlessly as if it were another mask to wear.

Throughout the evening, you had met an array of scientists and industrialists, individuals of influence but not true power. No politicians had sought Silco's company, nor had he seemed particularly interested in seeking theirs. The conversations were a careful dance of veiled intentions, light provocations designed to irritate or test, and negotiations that held more weight in what was left unsaid than in what was spoken aloud.

There had been only one interaction of note—a woman draped in crimson silk, her face obscured by an elaborate mask shaped like the beak of a raven. She had introduced herself as one of the event's organizers. Noxian.

The exchange had been brief, almost perfunctory. A polite acknowledgment of Silco's presence, a few carefully chosen words hinting at a possible commercial arrangement. Not an offer. Not yet. Just enough to confirm what Silco had already suspected. They were watching him. And, more importantly, they were curious about Shimmer.

A pause settled over the conversation, a lull in the murmur of voices around you. And then— Low and resonant, the first note of a cello cut through the air. It did not demand attention; it commanded it.

The sound unfurled slowly, its depth sinking into the very bones of the room, each vibration lingering in the grand chandeliers overhead, in the polished marble beneath your feet. The melody built upon itself, bold yet intricate, a symphony of shadows and grandeur. Strings wove together, a delicate interplay of tension and release, a harmony that balanced on the edge of something haunting, something intoxicating.

Silco turned to you then, his movement as fluid as the music. One hand extended, his fingers gloved in black.

"I believe we can allow ourselves a slight distraction."

There was something in his tone, in the gleam of his uncovered eye—a challenge, an invitation. A slow smile found its way to your lips. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his, allowing his grip to tighten just slightly. Around you, other couples had already taken their positions, slipping effortlessly into the rhythm, but the moment Silco led you onto the floor, it was as if the rest of the room faded.

As Silco positioned you both for the waltz, you tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"I didn't take you for a dancer." you mused, allowing him to guide you effortlessly. "Who would have thought that the cruel and terrifying Eye of Zaun had such a hidden talent?"

Silco's fingers flexed slightly against your waist, his good eye glinting with something unreadable.

"There are still parts of me you have yet to unravel, dove."

The first movement was graceful.

Silco guided you effortlessly, his hand firm at your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to direct but never force. The music swelled around you both, the deep, dramatic strokes of the cello setting the rhythm, dictating every shift, every step. He moved with precision, controlled and calculated—just as he was in every other aspect of his life. Yet there was an elegance to it, a certain lethality in the way he led you across the floor, as if the waltz itself were merely another kind of battlefield.

His touch was light yet commanding, the glide of his palm against the curve of your waist, as if he wanted to make clear his possession over you. With every step, every turn, you could feel him—his presence, his warmth, the way his breath ghosted against your temple when he leaned in to murmur instructions only you could hear.

"Don't think... let me take care of everything." His voice was low, intimate. A reminder, a demand.

And you did. You just followed his lead, matching his steps, your body responding to his like it was meant to, like it belonged there. The world around you faded; there were no curious eyes, no whispered judgments—only Silco, only the dance, only the quiet, growing tension coiling tighter between you.

Then, he spun you.

The movement was sudden but fluid—his hand guiding yours, sending you into a turn so seamless it felt as though you were weightless for a fleeting second. Your skirts flared around you, the air rushed past your skin, and just as quickly as he had let you go, he pulled you back.

You barely had a moment to breathe before you found yourself flush against him, your back pressing into his chest, your hands instinctively catching his arms to steady yourself. The music swelled, deep and intoxicating, and you swore you could feel the vibration of each note reverberating through his body, through yours.

Silco didn't release you immediately.

His grip was possessive, his palm sliding lower, fingers splayed across the curve of your waist, teasingly close to your hipbone. An innocent touch, one that lingered just long enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand, still clad in that ever-present black glove, skimmed the sensitive skin of your inner arm, fingertips barely ghosting over your pulse as he led you. Slow. Calculated. A deliberate unraveling.

He was guiding you, yes—but not just through the dance.

"You've done this before." The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them, your voice steadier than the uneven rhythm of your pulse.

Silco leaned in, breath warm against the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Observant as always, dove."

And then, without warning, he turned you again. This time a spin on its own axis.

The world blurred for half a second as he spun you effortlessly, his grip unrelenting, pulling you back against him before you could catch your bearings. Your back met his chest agaim, firm and unyielding, his arm wrapping around your waist, anchoring you against him. The movement was seamless, natural—like this had been the destination all along.

A shiver coursed through you as his lips brushed the bare skin of your shoulder. Not quite a kiss, not quite an accident. A mere breath of contact, featherlight, but enough to send fire licking up your spine.

The waltz had shifted.

It was no longer a polite exchange of steps, no longer a performance for the elite gathered around. It had become something else entirely—something intimate, something indulgent, something far too personal.

Silco's hand trailed along your ribs as he guided you into another turn, the touch so infuriatingly delicate that your body betrayed you, leaning into him, craving more. He pulled you closer. Closer. The space between you vanished, swallowed whole by the tension crackling like a live wire, electric and sharp, stretching to its breaking point.

Your pulse pounded against your throat, your breath unsteady as he steered you through the slow, heated dance. Every step was a temptation, every shift in movement a provocation. He was toying with you, savoring the way you responded to his touch, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder just a little too tightly, as if grounding yourself.

Another turn. Another breath of his lips against your skin. Another slow, torturous pull closer. You exhaled sharply, only then realizing you had been holding your breath.Silco, of course, had noticed.

The bastard was smiling.

The curve of his lips betrayed him, the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corners—a knowing smirk that sent heat curling in your stomach. Not smug, not mocking. No, this was something else. The kind of satisfaction that came from control, from setting the perfect trap and watching his prey step willingly into it.

And you had.

You danced as if you were the only two in the room.

The black of Silco's attire stood in perfect contrast to the white of your dress—two opposing forces locked together in an unspoken battle of dominance and surrender. The floor beneath your feet felt weightless, as though you weren't truly touching it at all, as though the world existed only in the space between his hands and yours.

The music swelled, rising in tempo, a feverish, hypnotic rhythm that seeped into your bones. Silco moved with it, with you, every motion seamless, each turn effortless. His grip at your waist was firm, commanding, fingers pressing just enough to remind you who led this dance.

He turned you with purpose, the rush of movement sending the hem of your gown flaring out like a whisper of silk. And when he pulled you back, the impact was intoxicating—your body flush against his, the warmth of him bleeding through the fine layers of fabric separating you.

Politics, alliances, whispered schemes—none of it mattered in this moment. It was only the two of you. The swell of the cello, the thrill of movement and the quiet surrender to something dangerously, beautifully inevitable.

Silco's gaze burned into yours, piercing, consuming. It was relentless, unyielding—an invisible chain wrapped around your throat, stealing your breath with its weight. And yet, you craved it. Drank it in like it was the very air keeping you alive.

A hand at your waist, firm. A pull. A command.

Your body answered before your mind could, drawn effortlessly into the fluid, hypnotic rhythm he set. He led with precision. A teasing press of his fingers here, a brief, intoxicating brush of his chest against yours there. It was a dance, yes, but it was also something else. Something darker.

You hadn't noticed when the other couples began to step back, giving you space, watching.

You hadn't cared.

Because Silco hadn't cared.

And if he did not yield to the audience, then neither would you.

The air around you shifted, thick with intrigue, laced with something unspoken but palpable. You could feel their eyes, hear the hushed murmurs—the curiosity, the scandal, the shock. Oh, they watched. How could they not? You had become a spectacle, something intoxicating to behold, a performance neither of you had intended to give but delivered effortlessly.

And Silco—he knew it.

Knew exactly what he was doing. Knew exactly what you had become together.

He turned you sharply, stealing your breath, and before you could recover, pulled you back—hard. Your back slammed against his chest, the force sending a jolt down your spine, your pulse thrumming wildly as his gloved hand came up, fingers splaying over your collarbone. His breath was hot against your ear, but he said nothing. He didn't need to.

Your lips parted in what could have been a gasp or a slight sigh.

A mistake.

Because Silco noticed.

His fingers traced lower, a ghost of a touch against your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin. The bastard was testing you, measuring how far he could push before you shattered completely.

The cello swelled, a final, desperate crescendo. And then—the last note rang out.

Silco spun you, one last time.

The world blurred around you, a dizzying whirlwind of silk and shadow as your skirts flared with the force of his lead. The movement was sharp, precise, a show of control as much as grace. And then—his grip tightened. The spin ended abruptly, seamlessly, as he caught you, dipping you back into a perfect, deliberate arch.

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

The breath you had been holding shattered into uneven pants, your chest rising and falling beneath the suffocating confines of your corset. Your fingers dug into his shoulders—seeking stability, seeking him—as his hold remained unyielding, solid, keeping you suspended there, trapped in the moment.

He didn't lift you right away.

No, Silco lingered.

His grip at your waist was firm, the leather of his gloves smooth against the corset and gown. His other hand, still locked with yours, twitched slightly, the tension in his fingers betraying him. You could feel the heat of his breath—closer than it should have been. His chest, rising and falling just as unsteadily as yours, pressed against you, the space between you a mere suggestion rather than a reality.

And then—he pulled you upright, too close, too fast. Your body met his in a swift, intoxicating collision.

For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

The music swelled around you, the final echoes of the cello fading into the murmurs of the crowd. But here, in this moment, there was only him. Only the press of his body, the heat of it, the way his fingers—still resting at your waist—curled just slightly, possessively, as if claiming his prize.

His eye, dark and half-lidded, bore into yours.

A shudder ran through you, unbidden, as you felt the rapid beat of his pulse against your own. The sharp inhale he took did nothing to steady him, nor did it steady you. The tension between you was a living thing, clawing, breathing, demanding.

Silco was just as breathless as you.

There was no applause for you both, and if there had been, you wouldn't have heard it. One second, you were standing in the middle of the grand hall, breathless, staring into each other's eyes, and the next—Silco was dragging you away. His grip around your wrist was tight, almost bruising, as dragging you down the dimly lit corridors of that vast estate.

His black overcoat billowed dramatically behind him with each hurried step. You struggled to keep up, the flowing layers of your dress threatening to trip you, but Silco didn't slow down. He didn't even look back. He moved with single-minded purpose.

The moment he found a door—unlocked—he shoved it open and pulled you inside with little care for grace. The air in the dimly lit room was thick with dust and perfume, a forgotten lounge or study, abandoned in the wake of the event outside. But you barely had time to register your surroundings before your back was pressed against the door, the wood cool against your flushed skin, and Silco was on you.

His lips crashed against yours in a desperate, claiming kiss, all teeth and hunger. He wasn't gentle—no, he kissed you like a man starved, like someone who had spent the entire evening barely restraining himself, his patience now worn to nothing. His gloved hands cupped your jaw, fingers digging in as though he feared you might pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't.

Your hands found the fastenings of his overcoat, fumbling with the clasps in a rush to rid him of the heavy garment. The second the last one came undone, the fabric slid from his shoulders, landing at your feet in a soft, weighty heap. Silco, however, didn't stop—he was already undoing the ribbon holding his mask in place, fingers quick and precise. He tossed it aside, letting the pristine white porcelain find its way to the floor, uncaring. Your mask followed the same fate.

His mismatched gaze burned into yours, pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, something dangerous, something reverent — like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could possibly satisfy the ache inside him.

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower but no less intense, his fingers trailing down the length of your throat, brushing over the pulse hammering beneath your skin. His other hand ghosted down your waist, over the curve of your hip, fingers toying with the high slit of your dress.

Doing that... there... with the danger of anyone just walking in was madness. Dangerous. Addictive.

And neither of you cared.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco's hand slid down to grip the back of her thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he effortlessly lifted her leg. He guided it to wrap around his hip, the motion causing the slit of her dress to ride up even higher and expose the creamy skin of her inner thigh.

At the same time, his other hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he tilted her head to the side, baring the slender column of her throat to his hungry gaze. Silco leaned down, his lips brushing against the hammering pulse at the base of her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her skin.

He leaned in to press his lips against the sensitive flesh behind her ear, his breath hot and heavy against her skin as he murmured. "You feel what you do to me, don't you? How much I want you?"

His hips pressed forward, the hard, rigid length of his cock grinding against her core, separated only by the flimsy barrier of his trousers and her panties.

Silco's lips trailed along the column of her throat, his teeth grazing the delicate skin, his tongue washing over the marks he left in his wake. His hand slid from her thigh to cup the curve of her ass, squeezing the firm, supple flesh, as he held her in place, pinning her against the wall with the weight of his body.

"I want to take you, right here, right now." Silco growled, his voice rough with need. "And I know you wouldn't deny me that... You want that too, you greedy little thing."

Silco chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he felt her body tremble and shudder against him, heard the desperate grunt of confirmation that spilled from her lips. He could see the way her eyes were glazed over, her pupils blown wide with desire, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. She was lost, utterly consumed by the pleasure he was giving her... and it only served to inflame his own hunger.

With a wicked grin, Silco mimed a sudden lunge, his hips jerking forward as if he were about to sheath himself inside her slick, scorching heat. At the same time, he leaned in close, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, demanding growl.

"Come on, dove... Don't be shy now. I want to hear you... tell me what you want."

Silco nuzzled against the soft, fragrant skin of her throat, his stubble rasping deliciously against the delicate flesh as he continued to grind his hardening length against her core in a maddeningly constant rhythm. He could feel her body responding eagerly to his touch, her hips undulating instinctively against his own as if seeking more of that delicious friction.

"Please..."

At her breathless, wanton plea, Silco paused, his hand returning to hold her thigh as he pulled back just enough to meet her gauze with a wicked, expectant grin. His mismatched eyes glinted with mischief and a dark, hungry light as they searched her face, taking in every minute detail of her pleasure-drunk expression.

"Please..." Silco repeated, his voice a low, mocking drawl as he arched one eyebrow. "You can do better than that. I figured you'd have learned some manners by now, with all the time we've spent together."

Silco's hand slid up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lower lip as he tilted her face up towards his own.

"Beg for it properly. Let me hear that sweet voice of yours, all pretty and breathless, as you ask me to fuck you. Give me a real reason to give you what you so desperately want." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against hers as he whispered, "Go on... I'm listening."

She hesitates, but only for a second.

"Please fuck me... sir."

Silco's lips curled into a wicked, approving grin at her breathless plea, his mismatched eyes flaring with a dark, possessive light. "Good girl." he purred, his voice a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction. "Such a clever little thing, knowing just what I like to hear. You're learning your place so well."

With that, Silco released her leg, letting it drop from around his hip for just a moment as his hands moved to the waistband of his trousers. With deft, urgent motions, he flicked open the buttons, freeing his aching, throbbing cock from its confines. It sprang forth, hard and heavy, the thick shaft pulsing with need.

Soon after, Silco hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric of her panties, the flimsy lace tearing like tissue paper in his impatient hands. He ripped them away, baring her glistening, needy sex to his hungry gauze, the scent of her arousal filling the air between them.He didn't care much for her grumbling, she was probably irritated that he had ruined a perfectly good pair of panties. But her irritation quickly turned into a longing moan.

Silco positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slick slit, teasing her with the promise of what was to come. He could feel the scorching heat radiating from her core, could sense how her body ached to be filled by him, to be stretched and claimed by his thick, throbbing length.

But Silco held back, a sadist at heart, he wanted to draw out her pleasure, to make her beg and plead for his cock like the desperate little slut she was. So instead of burying himself inside her, he began to rub the head of his cock along her slit, coating himself in her slick, scorching juices.

"Fuck..." Silco groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of denying them both the sweet relief they craved. "My perfect, greedy little dove, so wet and ready for me..."

For a few more tortuous seconds, Silco continued to tease and torment them both, his cock sliding along her dripping slit, coating himself in her slick arousal. The head of his cock caught on her clit with every thrust, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting through her body, making her writhe and buck against him.

"I need you... please, sir." Her voice sounded more like a longing moan than anything else now, but Silco felt the appeal in her plea and that was enough for him.

With a low, animalistic growl, Silco could no longer deny them both the sweet relief they craved. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her in one brutal, merciless stroke.

Silco gave her no time to adjust, no respite from the intense pleasure-pain of being so suddenly, thoroughly filled. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his hips slamming against hers with enough force to make the door rattle behind them. One hand gripped her thigh, holding it high and wide, while the other gripped her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their harsh pants and moans as Silco took his pleasure from her pliant, willing body. The wet, squelching noises of her dripping cunt being plundered only spurred him on, made him fuck into her even harder, even deeper.

He groaned as he felt her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as she matched his brutal pace, her hips rolling and undulating to meet every one of his powerful thrusts. The way her body moved beneath him, so eager and responsive, spurred on his own lust,

Lost in the haze of pleasure, it took Silco a moment to register the single, breathless word that spilled from her lips. But when he did, he stilled instantly, his hips pausing mid-thrust as he stared down at her with a mix of confusion and wary curiosity.

"What?"

"A mirror..." she repeated in a breathless, choked voice, her head nodding to something behind Silco.

He turned his face in the direction she had indicated, his gaze landing on the mirror propped up against the far wall. The reflection that greeted him was a sight to behold — his own back and her leg hooked against his hip. The sight was erotic, almost obscene.

The idea that comes to Silco's mind is so natural that his eyes automatically try to search for something in the environment that will help him complete the plan. He easily finds a table on the wall opposite the mirror.

Silco reached down to grab both of her thighs, his large hands easily spanning their slender girth. In one smooth, effortless motion, he hoisted her legs up and wrapped them around his waist, pulling her flush against his chest. She let out a soft, gasp as she found herself suddenly lifted off her feet, her body molding to the hard planes and angles of Silco's own.

Silco carried her over to the table, the wood creaking softly under its weight as he laid her down upon its smooth, polished surface. He took a moment to appreciate the way her hair fanned out around her, the locks stark against the dark wood, before grasping the edges of the table and dragging it across the floor until it was positioned directly in line with the mirror.

With a wicked grin, Silco grasped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he changed their position. He flipped her over onto her stomach, urging her to lean against the table's edge, her elbows and forearms braced against the smooth wood. The movement made her ass jut out — he only had to move the layers of fabric aside— a perfect target for Silco's hungry gaze and aching cock.

Silco's hand slid from her hip to wrap around her slender throat, his long fingers easily encircling the delicate column of her neck. He applied just enough pressure to make her gasp, to feel the way her pulse raced beneath his palm as he forced her chin up and her gaze towards the mirror.

"Keep your eyes on the mirror." Silco commanded, his voice a low, authoritative growl as he positioned himself at her entrance once more. "Don't you dare look away, dove... or I'll stop. And we both know you don't want that, do we?"

With a low, appreciative groan, Silco began to move once more, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside her welcoming heat inch by delicious inch. He kept his pace unhurried, wanting to draw out this moment.

Silco had long since stopped caring about the way he was corrupting her.

Once, perhaps, he might have entertained the thought—might have traced the trajectory of her descent with something resembling guilt. A flicker of hesitation, of consideration for what she had once been before him. But not anymore.

Not when he saw her now.

She stood before him, draped in that ethereal grace, yet steeped in the sins of man, the weight of them pressing into her skin like an ink that could never be washed away. No longer untouched. No longer something pristine. A wolf in the guise of a lamb—still soft in appearance, still so deceptively delicate, but beneath it all, that fragile exterior was nothing but a lingering echo of what she used to be.

No amount of white could ever restore the purity that had been burned away.

And if he had been one of the architects of that metamorphosis—if his hands had shaped her into what she had become—then so be it. He would take this role with pride.

Especially when she looked at him like that.

Through the reflection in the mirror, her gaze met his, and it held no trace of innocence. No naivety. There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation. Whatever she saw in her own reflection, she did not recoil from it. She did not mourn it. No, there was something else entirely. A quiet, deliberate acceptance. A willingness that sent something dark curling inside him, possessive and raw.

He did not need to tie her down. He did not need to force her into submission. She had already chosen to be his.

His lips hovered near her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "Look at yourself, dove. Look at what you've become."

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

And that was when he knew he had made the right decision.

The orders he had given Singed had been changed for a reason.

He needed her.

Her loyalty was already his. Now, all he had to do was remove her limitations.

She would understand. She had to understand — she would see the effort he was investing, the lengths he was willing to go to for her sake. This was no mere experiment. This was purpose.

He was doing this for her.

For a future where she could stand untethered by weakness. For Zaun.

For them.

Silco's grip on her waist tightened, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he lifted her effortlessly off the table. He held her aloft, pinning her body against his own as he began to thrust into her with deep, powerful strokes that made the table creak and shudder beneath them.

At the same time, his other hand remained wrapped around her slender throat, his thumb and forefinger brushing against her racing pulse. He could feel it fluttering wildly beneath his touch, could see the way her eyes widened and her lips parted around a silent gasp of pleasure as he filled her so deeply, so completely.

Silco kept her face fixed on the mirror, forcing her to watch as he took her, as his body thrust against hers with a primal, animalistic rhythm. He could see the way her hair began to come undone, the once neat and tidy locks now a wild, tousled mess as he fucked her with increasing fervor.

With each powerful thrust of his hips, Silco watched as her body jerked and shuddered, her breasts bouncing and swaying with the force of his movements. Her mouth hung open, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants as she struggled to keep her eyes on their reflection, as he commanded.

Silco's eyes remained locked with her in the mirror's reflection, the intense gaze holding her captive, just as his body pinned her in place. He could see the way her expression began to change, the desperation and need in her eyes giving way to a look of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Unable to hold back any longer, Silco leaned in close, his lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered those two simple, yet profoundly meaningful words. "You're perfect..."

The breathless declaration seemed to be the catalyst she needed, her body stiffening and then shuddering against his own as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her head tipped back, her mouth opening in a silent scream of ecstasy as her climax ripped through her, her walls clenching and fluttering wildly around Silco's throbbing length.

The exquisite sensation of her release was enough to send Silco careening over the edge of his own, his climax hitting him with the force of a runaway train. He buried himself to the hilt inside her, his hips jerking and stuttering as he emptied himself into her willing, receptive body, painting her womb with his thick, hot seed.

Silco's fingers tightened around her throat, his grip reflexively tightening as the pleasure consumed him, his hips pumping and grinding against her own as he rode out the waves of his release. He could feel her trembling in his arms, her body going limp and pliant as the aftershocks of her own climax rolled through her.

They remained locked together like that for a long moment, their bodies joined and their eyes still holding each other's gaze in the mirror's reflection.

It felt like an eternity before either of them moved. The air in the dimly lit room was thick, heavy with the remnants of what had just transpired. Silco was the first to shift, exhaling slowly as he adjusted his trousers, smoothing down the fabric with practiced ease. His fingers ran through his hair, pushing it back into place before he bent down to retrieve the scattered remnants of their discarded clothing.

Among them, he found what remained of her undergarment—delicate fabric now little more than torn lace. Without a word, he pocketed it. A souvenir, a claim, or perhaps just a quiet indulgence. He didn't examine the reason too closely.

The voice that broke the silence was slow, thoughtful.

"Where did you learn to dance?"

Silco paused mid-motion, glancing toward the woman sprawled across the wooden table, her chest still rising and falling with the echoes of breathless exertion. She made no move to dress, no effort to conceal herself—not out of defiance, but something else. A quiet satisfaction, perhaps. A simple unwillingness to break the moment.

He considered her question for only a second before answering, the words slipping past his lips as if they had always been there, waiting.

"Jinx's mother."

The response was easy. Too easy.

"She loved to dance." he continued, his voice steady, detached in a way that only made it feel more intimate. "And when she drank enough to climb atop a table and put on a show, she would drag me into it. Even when I hated it..." a faint exhale, almost a scoff. "There was no denying her anything."

He hadn't thought about it in years. Those trivial, fleeting moments of a past that had long since been buried under blood, ambition, and revolution. And yet, for a second, he could see it—her wild laughter, the way she swayed, uninhibited, careless of who was watching. The way her hands would grab his and force him into motion while Vander laughed in the background, even when he resisted, even when his mind was elsewhere, always thinking of what came next.

Silco found himself smirking faintly at the memory, though he was careful to school his expression before it could linger. He busied himself with folding his coat over his arm, letting his hands work as his mind wandered places it shouldn't.

"Did you love her?"

Silence. ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

"She was my best friend."

That was Silco's answer.

It was simple, straightforward. And yet, the weight of it lingered between you like an unsaid truth, something deeper than the words themselves. You knew, in this context, Silco likely assumed you thought of Felicia as his lover—someone he had once loved in the way a husband loves a wife. Well, he really should love her, but not like this. But his response, vague in its essence, carried something deeper beneath the surface.

Silco did not have friends. Not truly. He resented most of his past, buried it beneath layers of hardened pragmatism and calculated distance. But not Felicia. No, she was the exception. Even now, after all these years, he still called her his best friend.

The weight of that realization sat heavy between you both, thickening the air in the dimly lit room. He did not elaborate, and you did not press him. Some things were meant to be left unspoken.

With a quiet inhale, you shifted, smoothing the fabric of your dress, fingers ghosting over where his hands had been just moments ago. The remnants of his touch still lingered against your skin, the heat of it refusing to fade so easily.

"We should go, dove. The night was not over."

Silco had already finished putting himself back together, every button fastened, every layer of clothing smoothed out into its usual meticulous perfection. Meanwhile, you were still adjusting the rumpled layers of your gown, fingers working over the creases left behind by his hands, his weight, his hunger.

"Need help?" His voice was calm, steady, but there was an edge of amusement beneath it as he secured his mask back onto his face.

"No, it's fine. Go on ahead. I just need a moment to breathe before stepping back into that place."

Silco hesitated. Just for a second. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp line of his jaw as he studied you, as if considering whether to insist on staying. But then, with a curt nod, he turned on his heel and left, his long coat sweeping behind him in a dramatic arc, vanishing through the door without another word. The moment he was gone, you exhaled, turning toward the large mirror against the wall. You looked... presentable. If someone only gave you a passing glance, they wouldn't notice much amiss. But if they lingered—if they truly looked—they would see the signs.

The faint smudge of your lipstick behind the delicate curve of your mask. Stray strands of hair that had slipped loose, framing your face in a way that was too unruly to be intentional. The way your skin still carried a flush, warmth lingering beneath the surface, betraying the ghosts of Silco's touch.

And then, of course, there was the absence of your underwear. A secret that made heat crawl up your spine every time you shifted, every time the cool air brushed against bare skin beneath the heavy fabric of your dress. You sighed, running your fingers through your hair in an attempt to regain composure, when suddenly—

The candles flickered.

And then, in unison, they snuffed out completely.

The room plunged into darkness.

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger hidden at your thigh, blade unsheathed in a single, fluid motion. Your muscles tensed, your breath shallow, ears straining for any sign of movement in the pitch-black silence. And then—just as suddenly as they had gone out—the flames returned, casting the room in their dim, golden glow once more.

Your heart was still hammering when your gaze instinctively flicked toward the table.

You froze.

There, resting atop the polished wood, was something that had not been there before.

A single black rose.

Part 17

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is currently the longest chapter of all, because I was truly inspired by the visuals of The Phantom of the Opera—the grandeur, the masks, the mystery of the ballroom. But look, we have some new faces in the story. It was about time they made their entrance, don’t you think? And this new status? From prostitute to baroness… close your eyes, and it almost sounds like a marriage proposal. I’ll just say one thing—buckle up. A new arc is about to begin...

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#silco x reader #silco x you #reader insert #arcane fanfic #arcane silco #arcane #minors dni #no beta we die like silco #smut

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stvllioner · 4 years ago

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Kinktober Day 8

dabi

☠️ warning(s): 𝕦𝕟𝕚𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕤, chikan, exhibition, voyeurism, anal, humiliation kink, age difference, con-dubcon.

☠️ genre: smut, holiday special.

☠️ words: 3k [12 minutes, 10 seconds].

☠️ read more: kinktober(uary)

☠️ summary: after a long day of university youre coerced into giving him a show... along with the rest of the passengers on the metro train.

It was almost perverse on how much he enjoyed this. Scratch that, it is perverse. It was the hidden secret that even with leaving his old lifestyle he fucked his younger sister’s best friend. None of his family knew of his existence for a million reasons that weren’t going to be met in this story. Yet he didn’t care. As long as he had you still crawling back to him was enough to satisfy his dark desires without a care in the world. Except for the fact even with him accidentally running into you and somehow starting the dangerous entanglement was beyond him.

Just like right now. He wasn't expecting to see you pile into the train with the same uniform you wore for your school, your body begging for him to claim his prize while at the same time telling everyone to go fuck off. Dabi knew his objective as soon as he saw you, moving in to fill the missing gap you needed to be occupied. The train started to move once you got comfortable, your body posture meek as you raised your hand to hold onto the bars, the other holding your cute little school bag close to your body. Even with the clear embodiment of your school uniform dressing your shoulders and left chest it was clear you were nothing more than a university student, the only thing making you look so… delectable being the way you had filled it out.

Now, had you been someone else a stranger to Dabi he wouldn’t have looked your way but seeing as you were rocking just ever slightly, the fabric of your clothing rising just a bit higher is what piqued his interest. It gave him an almost unpleasant tenseness in his chest, knowing that this was a combo you rarely wore unless something was wrong in the laundry or it was your last backup. He didn’t miss the creeps that eyed you, his dark aura shooting them off as he made them think twice.

He’d just have to show them something that they’re missing.

Dabi stepped closer to press up against your smaller frame, the feeling of him catching you off guard. You swallowed as you could feel his body, the bumps, and ridges of his outfit signature with his familiar scent you were used to washing over you with a wave of relief, holding back the need to smile as you peeked back at him with an almost glad look on your face.

“I thought you were someone else.” You spoke fluently. He chuckled as you looked as if he had saved the day as if he wasn’t the villain between you two. He moved his head to nuzzle your neck, his hands wrapping just under your breast and pressing his hips into yours.

“You should be glad I saved you~,” Dabi remarked in a smug tone. You could feel your cheeks heat at the gesture. Whether or not the blood flow showed up on your cheeks wasn’t a concern to you at the moment, the small suspicion that his little small talk wasn’t going to end as innocently as it had started. You bit your lip as his arms aided in pressing your chest against you’re already tight button up. “Heroes get presents, right?” The pressure created a small gap to accentuate, showing bits of your bra and skin that was underneath.

“Wh-What are you doing?” You stuttered as the small attention that one time was brought away from you was slowly coming back, making you shrink back into him as your false safe haven.

“Nothing,” Dabi mumbles against the skin of your neck, the train hitting a more than convenient bump on the track. You whimpered as you rubbed your thighs together, as much you tried to hide it you loved it when people watched you like this. Even though with your attempts to dress as if the thought of sex never crossed your mind you couldn’t help but start to get aroused at the thought of Dabi using you on a train like this for perverts to watch. He chuckled as he could feel your breath start to deepen, keeping your head down as you tried to conceal yourself with the arm that carried the weight of your bag.

Dabi was starting to get bored. His hand came up to dance across the fabric of the button, playing coy before tugging the other side from the other and popping the buttons in the process. Quietly gasped once he had done so, your chest now being partly bared to the world… much to your pleasure. Your tits strained at your bra, the smooth bumps of the train not making it better for your “cause”.

“Stay still for me, doll, okay~?” He whispered against your ear, the sound of his voice making you shiver. You couldn’t help but nod meekly, not daring to look up at the mixture of disapproval and horniness that started to fill the train. His hand scooped up into your bra and brought your tits out into the public view, your nipples rock hard as you tried to keep up your little act to convince yourself you weren’t getting turned on by this.

But you were.

The excitement alone was starting to make you drip annoying as it was.

Dabi already knowing you were, his hands left your upper body, coming up under your skirt and shirking your underwear. There was clear dampness on the thin fabric, the embarrassment of it all going straight to your clit. You whimpered as the air caressed your now exposed intimate bits. His hand came up to cup your sex, letting a sound of surprise at the feeling of your drenched lips against his fingers. “Oh? The bitch is wet~” He mused happily, slipping two fingers into you happily. The sound of his middle and ring fingers slipping into you made an obnoxious noise, your thighs quivering as his fingers were always able to find well inside your needy cunt. His fingers were quick in working in you, his main objective only to have you wet enough to take his already aching cock. Your back arched as you encouraged him to continue in using you as he pleased, his hand making a move to help open your shirt more and pull down your bra fully. Any eye who wanted to watch could, watching as this patched man toyed with this innocent girl on the train.

His fingers left your cunt to give it a small slap, not holding on to the force or ferocity of it. The feeling made you yelp, the sound of both gaining new watchers while some chose to ignore it. Your breathing was heavy as people eyed you, probably wishing that Dabi would do the world some justice and rip off the tiny skirt that you had also worn that hid all the good bits. All they could see was him teasing you and being able to use you the way you were supposed to be used.

“Come on, scarface, pass her over-”

“Fuck off and watch.” He cuts off the loser hastily, his glare glaring at them to let them know to keep away still. “You think any of you greasy fucks can touch her,” He started before he side-eyed you, his famous grin spreading across his mouth when the thought of having these bastards touch upon you was something you wanted. “Hm… maybe the bitch wants it~? Use your word’s, doll~” He taunts, turning you around so your front is pressed against him. Your bag dropped as you braced yourself against him, your legs stabling yourself against him. “If you don’t use your words I’m assuming it’s a no.”

You bit your lip as you at least wanted to keep some of your dignity. Nowhere in your life did you think you were going to be able to live out your fantasy to be used on a public train for anyone and everyone to see, the helpful tool of your mask only concealing your identity as if something was looking out for your well being… as if. His hand flipped up your skirt and exposed the last parts no one else on the train had been able to see but him. Your face buried into his neck once he did the action, your ass now on display with your dripping cunt peeking through the small gap between your legs. Dabi's hands reached back from your waist and grabbed the cheeks apart, showcasing the part between your legs and glistening cunt. He looked over your shoulder to watch as your asshole clenched in excitement, your position looking no better than a bitch in heat. There were a few mutters and mumbles as he displayed you, the original action surprising you.

“D-Dabi-” Your plea was cut off by his hand coming up and tugging your mask down and pressing his lips against yours. His tongue was already violating your mouth, growling as his hand lifted and of slaps against your unmarked skin. Each time your thicc backside jiggled and teased with what was really between it, your eyes watching up at his. The feeling was oddly intimate as if he wasn’t exposing you to the train for voyeurism perverts alike. He pulled away once he had felt satisfied enough, dragging you to sit in his lap once he was sitting in a seat. He tucked your skirt into its band to prevent it from blocking from view, the sound of a few shutters sounded as some went to get a close up of your mostly trimmed cunt, the fact that both your cunt and asshole still had some on it was more arousing to the public eye. Which is what Dabi liked.

His hands found their way to unbuckle his pants and free his hard cock. If the sparse amount of women on the train were loathing not being in your position and only silently observing, they now were jealous. His cock slapped against your cunt once it was free from his tight pants, the hardness of it making it stick up proudly. He tries to hold back his pleasure of letting people his manhood as well, the Prince Albert piercings doing his already impressive cock justice in turning this debaucherous situation exciting.

He thrusts his hips upwards to rub his cock against your soaked labia, a deep moan sounding when he’s able to slip his cock to rub just ever so slightly between the cheeks of your ass. His hands were on your ass again, spreading them as he guided to take his length. Have already been able to take his cock during the late nights and sometimes early morning you had no problem doing so. Your heartbeat was faster as someone commented on how his dick was able to insert inside of you without any problem or hesitation, the onlookers wanting nothing more than to stick their girths deep inside your ass. Your hips worked like magic against his. His just about average-sized hands spread your cheeks to let people view without any obstruction to the view the passengers in the cart watching as they watched this generations of future heroes get dicked-down in a train cart. You had no qualms about letting out the sounds you wanted, your hands gripping onto his jacket as he bounced you against his hard cock. Dabi wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you in place and fuck you.

Your ass jiggled with each thrust against hips. The sound of your cunt swallowing up his cock as his silver studs massaged at your walls and rocked the moans out from your throat. It was almost a dream come true of what everyone had to witness at that very moment. Your words babbled out like an idiot, enjoying the way your body felt being watched as he used you like a cock sleeve. His hand held your ass cheek to help use you, the obnoxious sound of his skin slapping against yours and your sopping cunt fulling the train and the disgusting faint aroma you could sniff out if you were too close.

Dabi greatly got off to using you in public. Some sick way in the back of his head he enjoyed that people could see that you were his, even with how indirect it was. He longed for having you under his thumb, the thought and idea that one of the loser bystanders could do just that sent jolts of pleasure through him and motivated him to fuck you like this. Your mouth hung open as you could feel his tip press against your g-spot, your eyes rolling back and tongue hanging out of your mouth as trembled to keep yourself sane and grounded as he pounded into you like a hungry animal.

Still, those attempts were futile as he didn’t spare you a chance to even make you presentable, a small amount of drool that left the corner of your mouth signified just how gone you were, fully succumbing to the taboo of train groping and public fucking. Your body felt hot, the possibility of having your future ruined because of this was somehow exhilarating, the shallow comments of how much you were a ‘whore’ or a ‘slut’ made you tingle, loving every moment of being degraded and railed in public. You squeezed your walls around his thick and unrelenting cock, your skirt that was tucked still managed to stay in place as you bounced against him, the grip causing you to tense up.

He didn’t care to stop, ready to see you cum on his length and fill his seed deep inside you. It was almost as if he didn’t notice that you had, the only thing is when someone commented that white substance that came from you, the way your holes clenched and ground against his to finish. Your body was a toy for him as he used you, chasing his climax to meet yours. Thankfully your orgasm before had aided in the extra lubricant. He gave your skin a final pop before pressing his hips fully into your cunt, grunting as his cock twitched as he finished his load inside your walls. Your insides happily took in his length in cum, the excess amount making some spurt out as if a scene directly from hentai. I mean, technically this whole experience was a scene straight out of hentai.

“Look at the pretty little slut, full with my cum~” Dabi’s hands groped around your body before lifting you off his cock and spreading your cheeks to watch as the fluids dripped from your gaping cunt. He thought over his options, staring up at your dazed look, and brought you to hips down to rub his cock between your ass cheeks.

“What are you-” Your complaint trailed off once you could feel his tip slowly slip in, the rest of his length following in as well. Dabi gave you a playful kiss, having you take him fully until he bottomed out deep inside you.

“We’re going to give them part two~” He answers you curtly. His jaw clenched as he was able to keep down a groan of pleasure at how tight you wrapped around him. He barely gave you enough to get comfortable, the subtle feeling of his long and thicc cock thrusting into your ass was something you had only done a few times too little. Tears pricked at your eyes as you tried to adjust to his obnoxious length, closing your eyes as you were forced to have other people watch you get used to his cock.

As much as you tried to find it in yourself to be upset… you loved it. You like that you had an audience to watch Dabi stretch your ass out, not sparing you a moment to catch up or feel good. The feeling of him showing everyone on that train your practically virgin hole was being used for the third time in your life. This time, it wasn’t with the help of lube either. You clung onto him like an injured kitten, trying to relax yourself to allow him to use your backhole as much as he wanted.

“That’s it…” He encourages once you loosened up making it easier to slap his hips into yours better. Everyone got an eye full of your submission, wanting to touch and prod at you as well. You weren’t even sure you were deriving pleasure from this, the foreign feeling of his cock in your ass was such a feeling you couldn’t shake off but one that did urge sounds from you. You tried not to grow embarrassed when he pulled out to show off your gaping hole, the necessitous feeling of needing him to fill you up again crawling across your body. Your silent prayers were answered when he maneuvered you back onto his cock.

“I’ll have to use this one till it's just like your cunt~” He teases in your ear, rutting into you as he gets closer. His fingers dug painfully into your body, the hold on your side nearly knocking the wind out of you. He tilted his head to the side as his hips stuttered up into you and emptied into your second hole. You shifted uncomfortably at the feeling of his thick spurting into you was not a sensation you thought you would be experiencing for the day or truly ever. You grunted softly when you felt him pull out, his dick finally limp from the hormones that have been pumped out.

Dabi eyed your disheveled state before fixing what was left of your school uniform, keeping your pair of underwear with him as he shoves it in his pocket. He pushes you out of his lap making you stumble. Your hands come up to gather your stuff quickly as you realized your stop was approaching, have no liberty to be dazed. Your cheeks were hot as you tried to ignore the stares that both accompanied gazing under your shirt and skirt, gathering yourself to hold your shirt together and pull down your skirt. Your eyes followed the material that poked out his pocket, the train doors opening.

“I’ll give these to you next time we meet~”

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evierena · 4 years ago

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The Brothers eavesdropping to MC accidentally confessing their undying love for them. Part 2

INTRO

MC was having their monthly catch-up call with their best friend in the Human Realm. At first, their friend could not believe the situation MC was living, but after a few calls they had finally come to accept the whole "I was summoned to Hell, but it's called Devildom, and now I have to live with 7 hot demon brothers and they are actually kinda nice" situation (yeah, Levi would be proud of my naming skills). Anyhow, during this specific call MC was filling in their friend with the latest update on their newfound feelings for one of the brothers, not knowing that said brother was actually outside their room, eavesdropping! And then, their friend asks "What is it about him that you love so much?"

What did MC respond? How did that brother react and what did he do with that information? Well, let's see...

Asmodeus

- Impromptu spa night!

- That's what he was thinking when he headed to your room, wanting to test a few new products he just gotten his hands on.

- Of course, he had to stop for a second to fix his already perfect hair before going in your room, and that's how he got to listen to your friend through the phone asking:

- "Why do you love this Asmo guy so much?"

- Asmo's eyes went 👀 and he decided to stay a little longer just outside your door.

- "Well, that's easy. Because he's been so sweet and supportive of me, he always tries to bring a smile to my face, he also knows when to stop his innuendos and respect my physical boundaries. Everyone else just see the Avatar of Lust in him, sometimes I feel like even he just thinks of himself as just lust embodied, but I think he has a lot more to offer than just mind blowing sex. He's more fragile than he lets on, his sassy and mean façade are to cover up his insecurities and his vulnerability. He's the King of Self Care but that doesn't mean he loves himself as much as he proclaims, actually I think that the first is a way to make up for the lack of the latter. However, I see the way he craves non sexual affection, the sweet and soft sides of love that he's been denied for his sin. I see all of that and I think he's still the most beautiful being I've ever laid eyes upon, and I have already met another fallen angels, angels, demons and humans. Also, I've seen the way he can create something beautiful out of scraps, how he can redecorate and sew together clothes, accessories and a lot of other cute little trinkets, his creativity is really impressive and I'm so proud of him. I love Asmodeus like I've never loved anyone else in my life".

- Asmo let himself draw another breath in when he finished listening to your accidental confession.

- You loved him for himself. You saw beyond his mask, and still thought of him as the most beautiful being in your life.

- Asmodeus was crying, relieved and moved. He felt the familiar warm and fuzzy feeling he usually felt when he would catch you staring lovingly at him.

- The fifth born was no fool, he caught you multiple times sighing after him, but he was never sure what you meant. Were you desiring him just as much as he was for you? Was there something more? Would he be ready to accept it if it wasn't? Could he recover from being seen just as Lust by you of all people? He wasn't sure, which is why he hadn't acted on his feelings any more than the usual.

- But now, he had the words he longed to hear from you. He was trembling from happiness, he was ecstatic, he couldn't help himself from bursting into your room, catching you in your comfy pj's, hair pulled back and cellphone in front of your face while your best friend continued talking through the camera, but you were busy staring at the tearful pink haired demon.

- He knelt beside you in your bed, he hold your face toward him, skin products forgotten in the floor, and he started to pepper your face in kisses mumbling in between how much he loved you too, and how happy he was to have met you.

- In conclusion, hearing your thoughts about him eased his worries and encouraged him to finally claim the sweet love he's been craving from you.

Beelzebub

- Sweet hungry boy was in his way to the kitchen, and when he passed by your door, he started craving something other than food, something more like your company, so he decided to ask you if you wanted a late night snack with him.

- Of course, because this is how it works, just as he was going to knock on your door, he heard loud and clear.

- "So, you're saying you fell in love with Beelzebub"

- That wasn't your voice, actually, he remembered it from that time he was in your room watching a movie and you received a call from the human realm, it was your best friend from there, right? Then, what were they talking about?

- "Yes" you replied.

- "But why? Can you explain it to me?"

- Boi, did he forgot all about his cravings, all he wanted to hear was your response.

- "Beelzebub is the prime example of a gentle giant. He is so, so, so gentle with me, except for that one time, but still. I love how calm it is to be with him, how honest he is with his feelings for his brothers or in general, he isn't afraid to say he loves them, specially Belphie. I love how easily he welcomed me into his family, I love the way he earnestly tries to control his stomach, I'm saddened thinking that his sin consumes so much of him, but I'm amazed that even like that, he still has so many different thoughts and feelings aside from food and hunger. He is so soft and he works hard, he doesn't talk much but what he says, he means it completely, he protects me from everyone even himself. I'm completely smitten for him, honestly, if he asked me, I would let him eat me alive, but at the same time I know he would never hurt me. His presence has helped me go through so much. When I'm stressed he's always there to let me vent or to reassure me that I can keep going, to offer me his precious snacks when I'm tired, and his hugs when I'm feeling down. I... I love Beel."

- An unaware ear to ear smile was present in the orange haired demon, his heart and stomach agreeing that what he needed now was to hold your human form in his arms and treasure you for the rest of his immortal life.

- What was the best way to convey his feelings to you? He didn't want to upset you by admitting he had eavesdropped in your private conversation with your friend, but he wanted, craved and needed to express his own feelings.

- Of course, food and cuddles.

- So he continued to head toward the kitchen and he began to gather your favorite snacks, well, what he could gather given that the kitchen rather lacked all your human preferences but he managed somehow.

- And then, he went straight to your door, this time knocking before he heard anything else.

- When you opened and saw the huge and adorable demon, holding food and with an excitement you couldn't quite understand in his purpleish eyes, you let him right in.

- Your phone call was finished and so, Beel sat down in your bed and offer you the snacks.

- When you asked why he simply said "Because I love you"

- Damn this beautiful, smooth, adorable giant. Now you were blushing and your brain scrambled trying to find an answer for such a sudden confession.

- After that initial shock, you also responded to him with your own feelings, and he began to explain that both his heart and his hunger, although never truly satisfied, were now fuller thanks to you and your presence in his life. And that is as much of a romantic confession you'll get, because for him, that is honestly how he feels and he hopes you understand what he truly means.

- Of course you do, and you're about to cry because omg your crush just confessed to you.

- Then he gives you the snacks, and he said he was sorry for not being sorry for eavesdropping on you earlier.

- What can I say? You said you loved his honesty.

- In conclusion, Beel is more satisfied now that he listened to your confession, and is even more now that he also confessed. Now you both get to be full and satisfied with each other.

Belphegor

- In his defense, he technically wasn't eavesdropping, it was your fault for not realizing that he was also in the attic, under the covers in one recondite corner, half asleep.

- So, you were talking with your bestie, and your laughs and antics while updating them on your life, woke him up completely, but he was having fun listening to the way you retell your adventures with him and his brothers.

- And then, your friend asked: "Soo, MC, have you finally confessed to sleepy boi?"

- Well, well, what do we have here? Thought Belphie, even more invested in your conversation now that it had took a turn to his liking.

- "Of course not! These days I have been so conscious about him I can't look at him much less be alone with him to even think of confessing"

- Oh, so that's why it seemed like you were avoiding him.

- Honestly, Belphie thought you had finally come to your senses and realize you shouldn't involve yourself with him for your own good. He was hurt, it hurt him more than he was willing to admit, and he had isolated himself to also avoid you, so it wouldn't hurt as much. That was the reason he was in the attic that night.

- "Anyway, MC, just let me ask one more time, why is it that you love Belphegor so much?"

- He heard the hitch in your breath, he heard you inhale and exhale deeply, but he himself stopped breathing at all, an he stayed still trying to attract the least attention to himself in the corner. He felt a light blush paint his cheeks, sweat forming in his forehead.

- "Well, even though we started off badly, he has repent himself, he is still trying to earn my forgiveness, it doesn't matter how many times I tell him I already did. He understands me, he gives me a safe space to just sleep and let go of my stress, he listens when I want to vent, and I honestly find his humor hilarious and relatable. He is a bit bratty but I find it so cute. And he is hurting so deeply, he has been for so many years, so beyond our existence and just now he is starting to open up, to let go, and heal, it's just beautiful. Belphegor is so simply beautiful, his soft smile, his lazy eyes, his crazy bedhair, his low and raspy voice. I love everything about him, and I will give all that I own to know more, to see more, to be there when he realizes his own worth"

- The youngest brother was blushing, and his heart was beating fast and loud in his chest, he felt a warmth spread through his veins he had missed during the last days without you.

- Belphegor knew right there, he was done for, it wouldn't matter whatever happened, it wouldn't matter what anyone said, he was going to love you for all eternity, and he would spend every second he could with you, treassuring you and loving you.

- Starting now.

- Belphie got up from his spot in the corner, startling you, he gathered his blankets and pillows and brought them to you, ignoring the fact that you were a panicking, blushing, stuttering mess.

- "Belphie... I was... It's just... It isn't... I-I" he put a finger in your lips, effectively shutting you up, he took your phone, and pressed it against his ear.

- "It's bedtime, so excuse us" and hung up.

- His heterochromatic eyes never leaving your e/c ones, his finger still pressed against your mouth, pillows and blankets surrounding both of you, his scent flooding your senses.

- You saw a smile pulling his lips up, his eyes admiring you with such soft love. His hand moved to cup your face, and he brought you in for a small kiss.

- And then he fall in the sea of fluffly warm beneath him, dragging you along, and he made sure to find the most comfortable position for both, one that allowed him to hold you and the he whispered.

- "I love you too, dummy"

- In conclusion, when Belphegor accidentally finds out about your feelings for him; he basks in the most sweet and peaceful dream he's ever had, with you right in his arms.

I struggled for months to write Belphie's part, but I finally did it & I quite like it.

Again, if you find any mistake, please, kindly point it out for me, so I can get better.

Thank you for reading and have a great day/night!

Atte. Evie

Edit: Here’s Part 1

Tag list:

@katsukis-sad-angel

@anonymous-hq

@dawn-808

@monsoloooo

#obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #asmodeus x mc #beelzebub x mc #belphegor x mc

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meat-husband · 6 years ago

Note

Slashers first time doing it with their s/o ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° ?

I’ve been waiting for this ask lol thank u for stepping up anon, you’re braver than any US marine.

Sorry this took forever to get out, I just had a hard time organizing my thoughts about these stinky boys.

Brahms

Lots of really uncomfortable mask kisses. No, he’s not taking it off and yes, you are expected to smooch it. You get a lot of bruised, and possibly bloody, lips as a result. Way, way in the future, once he’s as certain about your loyalty as he can be, maybe he’ll take it off if you promise not to peek.

Let's be honest here - he busts outta that wall with his dick hard. He is the human embodiment of DTF, so the literal moment you’re ready for it, he’s already taking his pants off.

He thinks he knows what to do, but once there is a real chance at getting laid, his mind is blank. Probably just ends up sort of awkwardly humping you until you put a stop to it, but don’t laugh otherwise he’s going to have a tantrum like you’ve never seen before.

Anyone who tells you that he wouldn’t nut before the clothes even come off is lying. And he’s not super concerned with your lack of release, either, so you have to somehow get off before he does or wait for him to stop being a brat, neither of which are very likely.

Speaking of that, he’s going to make a mess and yes, you are expected to clean him up afterwards. No, he’s not getting out of bed to take a shower, it doesn’t matter if that would be easier.

Absolutely no technique. He grabs everything too hard, bites where he shouldn’t, and is overall just clueless about what to do and when. Way too eager, so he tends to just try and blow past foreplay completely.

He’s fine with you teaching him or showing him what to do, but don’t expect him to catch on to the parts that aren’t about him very quickly. The goal is for him to get what he wants, and if he’s feeling generous then you won’t be left hanging.

Eventually he’ll come around to the idea that pleasing a partner is just as much fun as being pleased. He’s still going to be selfish and bratty about it, and more often than not he’s still going to be the one who cums first, but he’ll quickly learn to enjoy it once he sees how desperate it makes you.

Unbelievably smug afterwards. Somehow very, very proud of himself and the ego boost is just insufferable. On the upside, you’ve got a few days with him as well behaved as he’s ever going to get, so enjoy the calm while you can.

You’re not going to have a second alone though, because he’s going to be feeling that clingy, cuddly afterglow for a while. Wants lots of affection and attention, so you’d better be ready to drop everything and coo over him on command.

Michael

He’s got the general idea down, but not really any of the details. He’s not about to let you sit him down and teach him though, he’s just going to do what he wants. He may not understand exactly how it works, but he’s not going to take it slow either.

You can try and direct him, but he’s just going to ignore you. He’s pretty much ready to get right to it straight away, and he doesn’t take suggestions. There’s no romance or affection to it when he approaches you.

The mask stays on. He’s probably never going to be comfortable taking it off during something so intimate, maybe pulling it up just enough so he can bite. He won’t go in for a kiss on his own, but he won’t complain if you kiss him, just so long as you realize that the mask is going to be more involved in it than he is.

Way, way too rough. He digs his nails into you everywhere he squeezes and he’s got no idea how to be gentle with someone else. He doesn’t pin your wrists, but rather holds you to the bed by your hair, so you can still squirm around without being able to go anywhere.

If you’ve got a dick of your own there is a special danger that comes with this experience - he’s masturbated before and it’s not a slow, gentle process when he does it. The first time he gets his hands on you, his grip is bruisingly firm and not at all pleasurable.

He’s very physically dominant and he’s going to pretty much do what he wants, putting you where he wants you and deciding what’s going to happen. His goal the first time is simple, so he’s not going to try out anything too complicated.

There’s a lot of build up and expectations going into it, mostly on your side, but it’s over quicker than you had anticipated. To be fair, it’s likely his first time with another person involved, and he isn’t entirely comfortable being around people, or you, yet.

He’s probably not going to stick around for cuddles afterwards. If he doesn’t just get up and leave, you can get away with curling up against his side, maybe putting an arm or leg over him, but don’t expect him to stay there for long.

Prepare to be woken up in the middle of the night, because he isn’t going to wait until morning for round two. After the first few times he’s more open to suggestions, but you’re going to have to outright ask for anything you want, there’s no room to be shy about it when he probably has no idea what you’re subtly hinting at.

It might not be noticeable to you, but he’s much more possessive afterwards, following you around and keeping a closer eye on the people you spend time with. This is the point of no return, and after this you pretty much straight out belong to him in his mind.

Bubba

He’s got a little bit of an idea about what’s expected of him, but it’s vague and only what he’s picked up from being on the farm and hearing his brothers talk. He’s seen the animals in the pastures, so that’s about his only reference for how sex works.

He falls in love pretty quick and he’s ready for sex just as quickly. He might not really know what he wants exactly, but if you happen to ever share a bed at some point, it’s pretty easy to figure out for yourself.

You can set the pace, because he doesn’t really have any idea on how to start things, and he wouldn’t want to push you anyways. He isn’t going to pick up on anything subtle though, so you’ve pretty much got to just come out and say it.

Later on down the line, you can maybe talk him into removing the mask when you’re alone, but he’s not comfortable with it just yet. He’s happy to switch to whichever face you like the best, though.

You’re going to have to guide him through everything, but so long as you provide a lot of praise, he’s happy to let you take charge. It’s a big relief to have you making the decisions with this, because he would just be a worried mess otherwise.

He’s very, very eager and that makes him more than a little clumsy even though he’s trying so hard to be gentle. It’s more awkward than painful, but as long as you gently correct him, he’ll figure it out.

He wants you to tell him what to do, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely submissive about it. He’ll still pick you up and hold you down if he’s on top, or use his size to keep you still when you start squirming.

It’s going to take a few tries before you actually get to penetrative sex, because he is a big fan of foreplay. He likes being the one to make you feel good and having you call out for him, so he’ll spend the whole time focusing on you if you let him.

He will stay in bed for cuddles as long as he can, but you both probably have work to get back to. If there’s time, he wants a snack because all that work has made him hungry.

Good luck handling him after, because anything as simple as prolonged eye contact is going to get him going. Now that you’ve shown him what to do, he’s going to be more confident seeking you out.

Thomas

He’s rather shy when it comes to affection or romantic things in general, but that does not extend to this. You might think you’re safe to tease him and then act innocent, but that’s probably what pushes him over the edge. He might be a little hesitant to start with, but once you get him riled up any nervousness goes away real fast.

The family never really thought he’d find anyone in the first place, so there’s not much education when it comes to this. He’s heard the men talk and picked some things up from that, and once you come around they go into overdrive catching him up on what he ‘needs to know’, but he’s given a lot of information all at once about things he’s never heard about before. Please take a moment to explain that anything that Hoyt has ever told him about this subject should not be trusted.

This is a no smooching zone, but feel free to put your lips anywhere other than his face. As he gets more comfortable, small kisses will be allowed, but never without the mask on.

He’s not used to having to be gentle with people, so even though he doesn’t mean to, he’s more than a little rough. Even if you happen to like being manhandled, you’ve got to be careful that he doesn’t go too far, and there will most likely be some bruises at the least.

Probably going to happen in the basement, because although he doesn’t really know enough to be shy about it, that’s just where he’s most comfortable. In the future you will have to try and get him to understand that, no, he cannot just bend you over the nearest piece of furniture whenever he feels like it.

You need to slow him down unless you just wanna skip straight to the main event, because he has no idea what foreplay is at all. He’s not going to want to slow it down either, so he’ll be eager to hurry up and get to it.

He’ll do whatever you tell him you want, but if you don’t speak up, he’s just going on instinct. He’s impatient when you stop to explain things to him, he’d rather just figure it out as he goes.

Falls asleep almost immediately afterwards, and good luck getting out of bed when he’s holding you down. Everyone else has a pretty decent idea of what’s going down, so you have to endure a lot of raised eyebrows and vulgar jokes, as well as some not so subtle encouragement to get started on grandbabies.

He has a pretty loose concept of marriage, but this definitely counts as something similar in his mind. He was territorial before, but he’s much more possessive afterwards.

He’s a little bossier afterwards, stepping in more to help you around the house and keeping a closer eye on you in general. You’re his now, and that means he’s responsible for you.

Jason

You might think that you’ll have a lot of issues about sex to help him get over, but good news! He’s already got a loophole - Jason is a good boy, and good boys get to do whatever they want. He’s special, so it’s not bad when he does it.

Despite catching more than a few people going at it, he’s got no idea what to do. Besides the lack of knowledge, you’ve also got to get that strength under control because he can get carried away really quickly when he’s excited.

He’s not shy about it at all, and is open to whatever you want to try with him. There’s no hesitation when you want him to get undressed, and he’s more than eager to get your clothes off as well.

Absolutely wants the first time to be with you sitting on his lap. Even if he didn’t make that preference known, it was probably going to happen that way regardless, because it’s where you are most of the time anyways.

Big boy is big, and you’re going to feel like you deserve a medal once you’re fully seated. There’s got to be some kind of award for perseverance that you qualify for now.

Kisses are a must. He’ll take the mask off, or leave it on depending on what you prefer, but one way or another, he's getting his mouth on you.

You’re going to have to teach him pretty much everything, but he catches on easily and is quick to let you know what he likes the best.

He really tries to be gentle with you, but he can’t always stop himself from getting rough. He tends to move you around himself if you’re not where he wants you, picking you up and tossing you around.

You’re getting cuddles, whether you actually want them or not. Maybe you’re sweaty and dirty, but you’re not getting out of his arms until he’s satisfied that you’ve been properly snuggled for as long as he can get away with.

He was always physically affectionate, but it goes through the roof now. You’re constantly being followed, one hand in his, as you go around the house, and frequent stops for kisses are required.

#Slashers #michael myers #bubba sawyer #thomas hewitt #brahms heelshire #jason voorhees #slasher x reader #anonymous #wow this took so long #but its like i knew what i wanted to write #and then the words just... didnt happen lol #and vincents not here cause this was from before i added him #but i think im gonna go back and add him to some asks #maybe just put it on ao3 instead of edited everything here

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kinkykawaiian · 5 years ago

Photo

She is based off of Biblical Lilith. She was inspired by other interpretations of Lilith//

Working on a detailed reference sheet.

Name: Lilith

Alias: Death Dealer, ,Mistress of Betrayal, The Red Queen

Occupation: Weapon's dealer, Black Hat’s Emissary, Leader of the Red Macabre Corporation, Also ringleader of an underground circus for villains where she torments her victims((those who betrayed her or some man that committed a crime against a woman))

Age: VERY VERY VERY OLD

Race: Succubus

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Bisexual but leans towards men more

Biography:

As far as the legend goes; she fled the garden of Eden when she refused to submit to Adam. God had sent three angels to retrieve her but they never found her. She was lost, naked and alone; searching for a place to call home and where she could be her own woman. That is when the devil manifested before her and offered her a place in the depths of hell. Promising her that she will be free to do as she pleases with no man ruling over her. And that is where she made her home and ruled over a legion. Years turned to centuries, centuries turned to millennias and millenias turned to eons that she wasted in that inferno.She evolved into the monster she is today and earned the title The deceiver of men, bows to no one and queen of the night.(The year 1860, Washington) She was summoned on earth by a mortal looking to get his rocks off with the infamous succubus and it backfired on him when she drained his life energy for sustenance; leaving nothing but a hollowed out corpse. Now, free to roam Earth, she disguised herself as a normal woman; killing several men in her wake. She was nomadic; never staying in one place and always traveling state to state; town to town and eventually she happened upon a small town in Mexico. She saw a discrete ad around the town for a masquerade for the insidious. She attended the ball expecting to find her new victim. She wore a crimson red and black Victorian dress; it's silk straps draping off her shoulder; along with black gloves and a crow mask, her hair tied back in a bun adorned with roses and black feathers. During the festivities; she met the infamous Black Hat. His face was concealed by a mask. He approached her and asked for a dance while complementing the color of her attire. The first thing she noticed was his top hat and assumed he had a high place in society; and since she has an affinity for men in power (because she wants to dominate that power) she accepted his offer. Hours passed as they spent the night dancing away; eventually the events came to an end. As they were leaving the building; Black Hat whistled to summon his steed and to Lilith's surprise it was an undead horse with it's head engulfed in teal flames. He took her by the hand and they road together through the woods in the dead of night.Upon arriving at a lake where they dismounted; he asked her who the girl behind the mask was. She removed her mask to reveal her face; her eyes shifting to their demonic form as she told him who she was and she asked the same from him and he revealed who he was(At this time he was El Charro Negro)). The two schmoozed for several hours; talking about their conquers, victims and who they walked over to get to where they are. She was also admitted that she was going to make a meal out of him; assuming that he was a mortal when they first met. He laughed in response and told her that he was about to do the same until he saw her eyes change. He was curious if she had any place to go. She told how she usually targets men and spends the night at their place before moving on to their next victim. He offered to bring her home and have her work for him in return, being impressed by the temptress of deception. She was smitten by the Eldritch demon and she took his offer. Once at his estate; she was given her own room and a set of rules to follow; to which she had a difficult time following because she'd be damned if she let a man rule over her. This caused them to butt heads but she still served him well with sacrifices and assassinating her targets effectively. Although she came close to almost dying once while trying to seduce and kill a monster hunter who was on Black Hat's trail. He had holy weapons that subdued her which he tortured her and sawed her wings off; her ear got torn and her horn chipped; he was about to slice her throat with a blessed blade but was interrupted by the leering shadow of a monstrous Black Hat who engulfed the room in darkness. Lilith had loss consciousness from the blood loss at this point and she came to back in her bed with her boss tending to her wounds. He looked annoyed and chewed her out for failing to do the job; of course this lead to an argument between the two but she receded back to laying on her side in pain; allowing Black Hat to continue bandaging her wounds. He gently stroked her hair before exiting the room calling her a"Beautiful imbecile" and told her "Not to let it happen again because the next time I just might let you die" Black Hat enjoyed her wild and wicked nature; trying to contain it would be foolish but he thrived on the conflict that came from him attempting. When he presented her a contract to finalize her employment; she question it's context. Black Hat was annoyed by this and promised her she would get anything she wished from the organization if she signed the doted line. Once she signed; he gave her anything she had asked for. She asked to start her own circus; so he gave her an underground circus to run where she would torture her victims for the insidious masses to see; along with two tigers trained to maim and eat those victims. She saved the money she earned(While also giving Black Hat his cut) she eventually branched off to start her own organized crime empire called The Red Macabre Corporation in the year of 1920. Black Hat was happy to see her flourish into a villain of her own but at the same time seething in anger because he secretly enjoyed her company(And her cooking; she would cook fresh stillborn babies for him). This made him grow even more bitter and even more strict with his future employees. Nonetheless, she went off; leaving the estate to run her own business. Now in present day; She still does business with Black Hat and they still have some kind of strong tension going on between them and it is unknown if it's hatred or sexual. But when no one else is looking; they will waltz privately in his office; reminiscing about the night they met all those years ago. They have a very antagonizing romance that comes off as contempt at first glance; so you'd have to read between the lines.

LIKES:

-Drinking in general

-The suffering of men who thought they were superior to women

-Musicals

-Old detective shows

-Singing and dancing

-She likes spicy things(perfume,foods,gum,sex)

-Guns; her favorite being her golden Berretta 92; a semi automatic pistol

-Tigers

-being the center of attention

-wine

-cherries

-cheese cake

-electro swing, jazz,heavy metal and waltz

-Dementia's illusive nature in small doses

-the rare sweet moments between her and Black Hat that happen in private

-roses

-living in the lap of luxury

-the color red

-Carnage

-Bathing in virgin blood

-the taste of human flesh

-When Black Hat sings "Vaillainous thing" to her ((

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwCdShFGjwI

))

-Belly dancing(mostly to Heavy metal),waltzing or tango.

DISLIKES:

-Other people's children

-Being referred to as the Night hag

-Being asked what her age is

-Being called a sinner

-Being annoyed

-anything cold

-Glitter

-Being disrespected

-Most men

-Outdated views

-pranks

-when Black Hat melts puppies

-Being told what to wear

FUN FACTS:

-Lilith can speak several different languages; including English,Spanish and pig Latin.

-She has been summoned to the surface world before in the past a few times; Once by Mary 1 of England(in the year 1552) and helped her rein the Kingdom with an iron fist. She also taught her to bathe in virgin blood to maintain her youth. But as all deals go; she collected her dept when "Bloody Mary" met her demise. She has her soul now trapped behind mirrors; only to be summoned to scare stupid children when they repeat her name three times in a dark bathroom.

-Lilith is an excellent cook(She mostly cooks human flesh with herbs and spices)

-Lilith covers her chipped horn with a band at all times

-Black Hat has indulged in her sinful nature a few times and it usually leaves them both bitten up,bruised and bleeding. And it is their dirty little secret to keep.

-Lilith pursued Black Hat out of her own free will

-If Black Hat were to ever disappear Lilith would take his spot and rule ruthlessly and mercilessly and do away with the mortals he hired and summon a legion to take their place.

-Lilith views Black Hat as an equal; despite him viewing her beneath him. However, he does view her as the closest thing to his equal.

-Lilith left his residence before he started to brand his employees and never allowed herself to be marked by him if it wasn't by his teeth or claws.

-Black Hat and Lilith have private meetings every so often where he complains about his employees or talks about his new devices he wants to sell or they drink and reminisce about their past

-Lilith will never say it out loud but she loves Black Hat; despite all their escapades together.

-When she was living with Black Hat he would request for her to sing him to sleep when he was restless (( She would usually sing "Belong to me"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkBEnIoRqWw

))

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

Personality: She is charismatic, bold and is never afraid to refrain from sharing her thoughts. She is the embodiment of the sin lust so she is very lewd in nature. She is cruel to those outside of her inner circle and could care less about them. She is careful with who she deals with given her past experience with shady characters. She also comes across as bit of a narcissist and hogs the spotlight. She is manipulative and deceiving; leading her victims to fall into her trap. She is ruthless when dealing with victims. She also makes a lot of suggestive jokes.

Fighting Style: she is very flexible, quick and agile so she will use that to her advantage. She fights like an animal,using her horns to ram into her enemy, her clawed nails, fanged teeth and tail. Also may use her hooves to step on her enemies. Or she'll just simply unload led into you.

Powers: intense charisma and seductive power to match her good looks she uses to her advantage to manipulate unsuspecting victims,can disguise herself to look human, Manipulates dreams, Can see in the dark, Pyrotechnic, is able to make items manifest themselves in a snap of a finger, she can also walk up right walls and ceilings. She can teleport in a close proximity(She cannot teleport through dimensions however), sucking her victim's life dry to leave behind a hollowed corpse, Immortality. She also can use a spell to charm her victims(Only works with mortals) to get what she wants. Despite having these supernatural powers she is not as strong as Black Hat. She doesn't even come close to what he is capable of.

Quote: "Don't mistaken my respect for fear or you will loose it”-Lilith to BH

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

Voice Claim: Cat Pierce ((

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fv8QI0C4oCw

))

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

Theme songs:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3AAOx_6jfek

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RViFRTgC2y4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9irdrSZ9Ys

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afZR_1BY0CA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TFUUS_Yqew

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G9sENKMK8Tk

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjOtKC_GZ9o

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdFaadxJl4g

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4cKIxhcTT8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5yP9olT_TdM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QL60uWjiXrw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3FLpc-5yvM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eJbxI-jZbA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BkdXdVxTdNA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCXsRoyFRQE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NeaC0gPRJpM

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

Her and Black Hat's playlist:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bql8WO0GvqI

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkBEnIoRqWw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwCdShFGjwI

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGti3Bzlxhw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGbe-lEDCc4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bR5u9jb0PJE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4MZTU1-_bw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3ObHjm1fAE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ79Rpv3kNk

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHOE50gGP30

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teuGzBoN8hE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8xTZIOAPhs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpOSxM0rNPM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AeFLR9hKQ6Y

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISgaQcScFQE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Fp4yRDEVyM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s5rtxcogEsU

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36714VSOchI

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMx6FA8gmgU

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JRw-8tDiPQc

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccY25Cb3im0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WD-7zn3WCq8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x83P5LjpWpA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6feSJsCxIw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ts--MxmAFkQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ia--jqrELbE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WsZ2fUXbZg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzjUs5yR68o

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ow1QqW0jzTo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-s4uLaaMBc

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

Roleplay Examples:

Lilith walked into the ballroom and was instantly awestruck. The room was nearly one thousand feet long by five hundred feet wide, with the ceiling stretching up another hundred feet above her head. It made her feel smaller than an ant. The walls were a shimmering white and gold. Dozens of glittering crystal chandeliers spiraled down from the ceiling. Candles lit on each pillar; which illuminated the ballroom’s occupants. A group of five women in front of her all had flowing, elegant ball gowns that were frilly but pale. She could hear their low chatter as they talked among themselves and laughed, seemingly completely at ease in this festive atmosphere. Lilith's crimson and black gown made her stick out like a swore thumb. She wondered through the masked crowed aimlessly as she discreetly scouted for her next victim.

Lilith grinned widely as the stranger in black accepted her offer. She rested her free hand on his shoulder before they began to glide through the ballroom floor together; the sounds of violins filled the air. They stood out in their dark attire as they waltzed through a sea of pale pastel gowns and suits. The demoness in disguise had hunger written in her eyes. One could easily mistaken that look for lust but she was actually fantasizing how she would devour this man when given the opportunity"You are an excellent dancer"She complemented her partner.

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

This interpretation of Lilith and art belong to me

Villainous belongs to Alan Ituriel

#villainous oc #villainous bh #villainous black hat #villainous #my art #art #Myart #Oc #villainous rp

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palettes-and-prompts · 5 years ago

Note

First, I have to say I'm a big fan of your work! 💖 Second, I was wondering if I could request some prompts for a female character that's devious and crafty but hides her real personality behind an innocent mask please?

You sure can! Also, I love characters like this.

Dialogue Prompts

1) "Would you mind helping me do it? This is way too heavy for me to carry." 2) "I wish I was as smart as you, you always know what to do." 3) "You may have everyone else fooled, but you can't fool me." "I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm just here with my friends." 4) "I know a con artist when I see one, and you? You're a good one. So what can I get you to drink?" "Cherry coke with extra cherries please!" "Alright, and what do you really want me to get you?" "Whiskey neat." "I'll add the cherries anyway since you wanna play innocent." 5) "Wow! That sounds really complicated, I don't think I could do all that." "It's really easy actually, want me to show you how it's done?" "Really? You'll show me?" "Of course, anything for you." 6) "What should I get? I like this one but I really like this one too. I can't get them both, I only have enough for one. Which one do you wanna see me wear?" "Baby, you know you only have to ask, I'll get you both of them." "You don't have to." "I want to, I like spoiling you." 7) "You do that little innocent act in bed?" "Don't talk to me like that." "I'm curious, they eat it all up, right? Just wondering if you're able to keep it going when they take you back to their mansions." "Why do you think they're still with me?" 8) "Look at that, looks like I was right, you're not so innocent after all." "You saw right through me?" "Pretty easily." "The other know?" "You going to kill me if they don't?" 9) "What are we doing here?" "Look at them, so desperate, they're the perfect people to steal from. Desperate and so naive. You and me are going to be rich. Follow my lead." 10) "You really hate me that much that you think I'm capable of doing something like this?" 11) "You really think I'd kill someone, do you really not trust me that much. I thought you said we were friends." 12) "Cut the shit, where'd you really hide the money?" "What money? I really don't know what you're talking about? I'm just Person A's assistant." 13) "How'd you know it was an act?" "Six inch heels aren't exactly what I'd say embodies innocence." 14) "I've been watching you from the side this whole time, playing innocent, playing perfect so you wouldn't notice me watching. You really should be doing background checks on your staff, especially the good looking ones. They've always got something to hide." 15) "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just incredibly happy to see me again, detective?" "What have you been up to, Person A?" "Following the law like a good abiding citizen." "Uh huh, so I wouldn't find any money in your room or a bag full of wallets or anything?" "Detective B! Are you accusing me of breaking the law? I would never do such a thing." 16) "Watch yourself, Person A, I've got my eyes on you." "Oh yeah, do I look cute from this angle? Or do you prefer to have me in a different angle? Maybe bent over the hood of your squad car?" "How about in a pair of handcuffs thrown in the back?" "Officer B! I never knew you were so kinky!" 17) "I can't talk you out of jumping off the roof can I?" "Afraid not." "You'll die from this height without someone to catch you." "Think I don't have a plan?" "I think you have a death wish." "Oh, detective, don't you know cat burglars always land on their feet?" 18) "I see right through your cutesy act. This one is already mine, I've been working on this for three months. So walk your ass out that door before you fuck this up for me." "Three months? I could have had this guy for everything he owns in a day. You must be a shitty grifter." 19) "There's something about you that tells me you're more than a pretty face." "Oh yeah, what might that be?" "The gun in your pocket." 20) "Can you help me? I'm lost and don't know which way I'm going." "Sure thing, where are you trying to get to after you steal my wallet with this terrible tourist distraction." "Saw right through me, huh?" "Pretty face and clever ruse, but you a terrible actor/actress." "Like you can do it better?" "Watch and learn, amateur."

Regular Prompts

1) A is taught by a mother figure in their life to be polite, look pretty, and keep their mouth shut but ears always open. They're taught to be a good listener and taught to fight if they ever need to. To be more clever and work harder than any man they know, but always seem naive in front of everyone. 2) A's always been good at their job at being a spy until Person B sees right through them with a glance. When they can't stop thinking about them they try their hardest to make them see they're a normal person who's really naive and not manipulative. But B never buys it and tells them they have a tell. A then obsessively thinks about what it could be until they confront B in the night pissed off and clearly tired but very alert. B just tells them they read people for a living an that they're also a spy. 3) A is a con artist who's very good at charming everyone they meet, especially men. They're always racking up tens of thousands of dollars a night going to benefits thrown by millionaires. B is a millionaire who constantly sees them at benefits but never rats them out when they steal. When A chats when them all night they end up really hitting it off and when B's dancing they lean in close and ask if they're really interested in them or if it's the money they like. A doesn't steal from them and tells them they'll give them an answer at the next benefit. (Bonus if they end up falling in love and A teaches B how to steal more and make it look legal like they have.) 4) A is a burglar who seduces men and gets them to take them to art museums and show them all the art pieces and explain them. B is a detective who's been trying to find them for months. 5) A is a good looking model who plays dumb with mobsters and sells information to people for a price. B is a detective hiding undercover in the group who falls for A but can't make a move because they'd be endangering them. (Bonus if they both fall hard for each other.) 6) A is a smart person who acts as arm candy for men in the mafia. A plays dumb around them and lets them self get pampered by men while they're constantly avoiding sex/relationships with anyone. B is one of the members of the mafia who don't fall for A's act and treat them like a member rather than someone who's clueless and naive. 7) A is an actor/actress who can't find work but they manage to use their talents to be a great grifter. B is the one person who catches on fast and decides to recruit them with their gang of grifters and give them a place to call home. 8) A is a con artist who's main goal is to take down Person B who trained them to be great at what they do since they betrayed them. (Bonus if it's a game of cat and mouse for the whole story and the two end up falling hard during the chase. Maybe it even ends with A tricking them to get B to chase them back.) 9) A is always hanging around bad people, playing innocent and getting bad people to want them. Whenever they get them alone they flip the script and go completely bat shit and murder the ones they lure. It isn't until A meets B who tells A that they we're only pretending to be bad to impress them that they begin to do more research and make sure they're more careful with who they lure in with their looks. (Bonus if B is a murderer too and knows A's the one killing and knew exactly what kind of person they were and that's why they were attracted to them.) 10) A is a grifter who meets grifter B trying to score the same thing they are. While competing for it they become aware of the other person's skill and decide they can work together for the same thing and that they'll split it before they part ways. But when the grift is over they're sad to leave each other, especially if they've had some romantic moments, and decide to stay and work on more things together.

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hellopastelpukepink · 5 years ago

Text

Arkham Knight Scarecrow x Shy Reader

Sorry, this took fifteen days before I noticed the request! Wrote it in one sitting so I hope it doesn’t suck and you like it. Original Request: Hello! Can I request An Arkham Knight Scarecrow X a Reader who’s super shy and is scared of almost everything? Like they freak out when they see Jon, but at the same time they love him..? --- You watched as the clock ticked by, worried as Hell, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. It was approaching 2am and you still hadn’t heard any word from Jonathan. You’d seen the news, understood his motivations, understood why he was doing this but your anxiety was getting the better of you. What if he’d been caught?

You’d brushed the thought away. He’d promised you he wouldn’t, that he would indeed, succeed this time.

Alone in your apartment with only the glow of the television lighting the room, you paced, unable to sleep you knew this was going to be a long night. Outside you could hear the pitter-patter of rainfall, what was usually soothing to you now felt like white noise, like the buzzing anxiety in your chest.

Then there was thunder and you trembled, taking a seat like it was some terrible omen of things to come. You just wanted to be comforted, you wanted to see Jonathan, as ironic as that sounded. He was the embodiment of fear itself, his very visage absolutely terrifying but with you, he’d been patient, kind and understanding of your weaknesses.

You could barely talk around him. He was so brilliant, so eloquent and in turn, you felt like such a moron in his presence, afraid to utter a word.

You curled under a blanket and stared at the television screen not really registering what you were watching, just focusing on the images before you. Take a deep breath, you reminded yourself, just as Jonathan had suggested to you during one of your panic attacks. Exhale, focus on a single point in front of you, notice everything about it, describe it to me.

You focused on the news anchors shirt, bright red like fire, then noticed her eyes, blue like the sky. Thunder rumbled again and you let tears flow, quickly losing track of your grounding exercise.

There was a tap at the glass and you jolted up, staring in the direction of your slider door. You were on the ground floor and you knew who it was and in no time, the door slid open and in strode Jonathan or as he liked to call himself these days The Scarecrow.

You trembled at the sight of him, it was nothing new but he was horrifying to look at and that was the point. He wanted to invoke fear into the eyes of all who looked upon him and it worked. Especially for you, someone quiet who struggled with severe anxiety.

“Are you alright?” He asked, that deep voice making your heart melt.

You nodded solemnly, avoiding eye contact.

Jonathan walked over to the television and shut it off, leaving the two of you in complete darkness. You meeped a little before you felt him resting on the couch next to you, his course fingers running over the supple skin of your face. “You’re shaking.” He said.

You said nothing, happy the darkness concealed your blushing face. “Darling, were you worried?”

Silently you pulled him into a tight embrace, letting the tears flow into his coat.

“Did you practice the grounding exercises I told you about?” He asked. You nodded, resting your head into the crook of his neck, sniffling.

“Good girl.” He said, hand running through your hair. He placed a finger underneath your chin and made you turn to face him. You could barely see him in the dark, listening to the rain, to the beating in your chest and to the rasp of his breathing. “You’ve been so brave my little darling.” He praised.

“Jon,” You finally piped up, “I missed you.”

“I know.” He replied, nuzzling against you. “I missed you too but you understand how important my work is, right?”

“Of course.” You said quickly.

“We’ll keep working on more exercises for your anxiety then maybe, you’ll be able to join me sometime.”

You nodded, wanting that more than ever.

Finally annoyed by the darkness you got up and went to the kitchen, pulling out a lighter in one of the drawers. You came back and lit a candelabra you’d left on a table by the couch. Jonathan always visited you at night so you figured it’d come in handy.

Then with a deep breath, you took a seat and stared into Jonathan’s pale eyes, biting your lip.

“I’ve been thinking.” You finally worked the energy to say. He stayed silent, allowing you to speak further. “I-I’m ready.”

“For?” He knew what you were suggesting but wanted to rile you up, wanted you to say it to him with your own lips.

You were shaking again, your eyes on the floor now, embarrassed.

“I-I want-“ You were hesitant but suddenly you gathered the courage to grab his hands in your own, and squeezed, shutting your eyes as you let the words flow, “I-I want you to make love to me.” You blabbered quickly.

You weren’t looking but from your peripheral vision, you saw that Jonathan had tilted his head.

“Oh?”

“Stop teasing me.” You rasped, feeling yourself getting hot with need. “Jonathan, I love you. I love you so much. Please-“

Jonathan leaned into your ear, nuzzling against you as he did, “You want me to fuck you?”

You felt yourself get so wet at his words, finding it hard to breathe as you blushed.

“Y-yes.” You admitted.

“You want it rough? You want me to put you into submission like the little slut you are?”

You only mewled and held on to him tightly, “J-Jonathan!” You heaved. “Say it then. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“O-oh God,” You pleaded, holding onto him tight, yelping like a bitch in heat in his ear, “Please, fuck me. Jonathan, please fuck me like the little whore I am.” He chuckled, his teeth grazing along the length of your neck.

“My beautiful little darling. How long I’ve dreamed of this.” He admitted before he turned you over, hands running through your hair and then pulling. You, in turn, raised your pleated skirt, pulling down your panties, your need for him so evident.

He let go of your hair so you wrapped your hands around the arm of the couch, looking over your shoulder to see Jonathan unfastening his trousers, pulling out his length.

“Be gentle.” You pleaded.

“Of course.” He said, pressing himself against your virgin entrance. Slowly he plunged into you and you exhaled a sigh, head resting against the armrest of the couch. Jonathan pumped his length deep into you, the wetness of your sex letting lose a wet squelching sound as he fucked you. You blushed from embarrassment. “Little slut, looks like you’re in heat.”

“Fuck you!” You mumbled, still embarrassed at the lewd sounds.

“I already am.” He teased. “And you’re so tight.”

“S-stop.” You mewled, not wanting to hear anymore.

“And warm.” He continued, “You fit like a glove my little darling.”

You panted as he continued to pound into you, your moans intoxicating him to continue.

“I-it feels so good!” You rasped, howling, unafraid if anyone in the complex would hear you. “S-scarecrow!” You pleaded, “O-oh Scarecrow. Fuck me till I break!”

“Oh, I can break you.” The Scarecrow teased, voice menacing, terrifying you.

To you, Jonathan and The Scarecrow were two different entities altogether. Jonathan was sweet, patient, and loving while The Scarecrow was malevolent and dangerous. You knew The Scarecrow was mostly there right now, pounding into your backside and you had to be careful.

“Oh, Scarecrow. You’re so big and yummy. Please, be good to me. Please, fuck me like the little whore I am.”

Jonathan’s gauntlet traced over your neck and down your back, the gauntlet with the needles and the fear toxin he’d never used on you. The stuff he swore he’d never use on you. You felt anxiety well in your tummy, beads of sweat forming at your forehead.

“I-I love you.” You reminded him.

“I know little one.” He said in turn as he fucked you relentlessly. “You’re a good girl. I’d never hurt you.” He said, easing your anxiety.

“A-are you going to cum in me?”

“Maybe.” He said softly. There were a few more shallow fucks before he pulled out, huffing heavily, turning you over on the couch so you were on your backside. “But I’m more concerned about your needs.” He admitted, parting his jaws to lick rhythmic strokes along your sopping wet pussy. You let out a hearty sigh as he did, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“S-Scarecrow!!” You mewled.

His tongue ran along your throbbing clit in heavy circles. You were already aroused so you could feel yourself getting close to an orgasm.

“N-no.” You sighed, writhing against the couch, “I-it’s too soon!”

“No, little one. Cum for me. Cum in my mouth.”

“S-scarecrow!!” You pleaded, “I-it’s going to be big! I-I’m going to cum!” “Then cum my little slut.”

His hot breath against your pussy lips brought you closer and when his tongue spaded against your clit you felt yourself cum in heavy succession. Your pussy contracting, over and over again like a heavy rippling wave until it slowly subsided and you were left panting heavily beneath your lover. “Jonathan.” You mewled.

He looked up at you, mask and jaw wet with your need.

“I love you.”

#scarecrowxreader #arkham knight scarecrow #scarecrow #Jonathan Crane

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a-wandering-ghoulette · 6 years ago

Photo

MyRock ; issue n°44 (Jan/Feb 2017) A Nameless Ghoul from Ghost interview.

Photos: Manon Violence Interview: Mark Renton

2017 has been the year of all records for Ghost! After an exceptional concert at Hellfest, a nicely lead Download Festival (despite voice problems) and a France tour still in minds, the band then launched a triumphal American tour. Meanwhile, the satanic clergy also draw its awesome “Popestar”, EP lead with drums beating by the heady single “Square Hammer”. Telephonical talk with one Nameless Ghoul to take stock on the past, the present and future of this definitely fascinating band.

//Before continuing, note this issue is still available for international orders on their online shop. Direct link to this issue’s page in source! Don’t be surprised by the first cover shown there, it’s litteraly a two covered mag… The mag is meant to be read in 2 time: you start by one side, no matter which one, and when you reach the middle, you have to close it and flip it then tadaaa you have more to read on the 2nd side!//

(Read the full interview under the cut and feel free to point out mistakes!)

Hello, who’s calling? Nameless Ghoul: Hello! I’m one of the Nameless Ghouls.

Which one? Which instrument do you play in the band? N.G. : I’m our clergy’s official spokesperson. I’m also Ghost’s founder, main composer and, most of the time, I play guitar.

How do you feel at the approach of Papa Emeritus III’s end of reign? Because there’ll certainly be a new Papa Emeritus soon… N.G. : You’re right, we’re close to the end of a cycle. Personally, I always saw change as a good thing. It’s stimulating. We still have a lot of concerts to give in 2017, but I think I can safely say that at the end of the next year, all Nameless Ghouls will be tired of Papa Emeritus III! It’ll be nice to see a new leader coming to guide us.

How would you describe the personality of Papa Emeritus III compared to his predecessors? N. G. : First of all, Papa Emeritus III is an entertainer! He loves projectors, he loves the public, and he loves success. The first Papa Emeritus was someone very rigid, very strict, and very solemn. A real son of a bitch! (laughs) To be honest, we don’t miss him at all! Papa Emeritus II was a pervert a little bit sadistic, and, in hindsight, I think he wasn’t very at ease on stage. He wasn’t a showman, unlike Papa Emeritus III! Him, he’s the guide we missed to rise up the quality of our shows, to reach the step above and communicate with our fans. We will be eternally thankful for his work. I believe he have paved the way for his successor…

Precisely, what are you waiting from the future Papa Emeritus IV? N.G. : Well, I want him to be scary. That he bring back something more tenebrous, while remaining spectacular. Broadly speaking, I want the next album to come back to a gloomier atmosphere.

Fueled by ego

On a more personal viewpoint, what is your relationship with your character? N.G. : What’s exciting me the most with Ghost, it’s that the project is a real challenge for the individuals involved. Everybody is on an equal footing. Furthermore, there’s something really thrilling to embody a character which is a part of yourself, but never totally you. Traditionally, rock stars always reach the point where they fuse with their creature. In the end, rock’s always been fueled by ego. Even if you’re part of a fully honest and underground band, you’ll always have this desire to be under the spotlights, to be recognize, famous and loved. Those pretending the contrary are liars. Roughly, no matter the music you make, you all secretly dream to be a kind of Justin Bieber. (laughs) To be masked is something very different. It’s a kind of anomaly in the entertainment system. Because every day, you never receive the admiration you deserve. When I’m not on stage with Ghost, I’m going back in anonymity. It’s very positive for me. I would say, my character brings me some stability in my daily life. But I’m aware my case is a bit special since I’m Ghost’s main composer and thus I’ll always be linked in a way or another to this project. But being in the obscurity is sometime more complicated to manage for the other Nameless Ghouls…

This mystery surrounding Ghost inevitably attracts the fans curiosity. This year, some of them started a vast quest to discover your identities. We imagine it’s part of the game, but what are you feeling regarding it? N.G. : From the beginning, we knew it’ll be impossible to keep the secret until the end. It’s already a miracle we held this long. (laughs) Personally, it doesn’t matter. I think the work accomplished pays its own way. I mean, our albums, our concerts and our universes are that strong they succeed to supplant the reality. Today, people don’t care to know who’s under Papa Emeritus’ hat. When they come to see us play, they want the real Papa. It’s a bit like if our creature ended up escaping us to live its own life.

2017 has been a successful year for Ghost, with appearances in huge festivals, a colossal American tour and the worldwide success of the EP “Popestar”. How did you live that? N.G. : This year has been amazing on every points, really! We’ve been able to see how much the band has grown by federating more fans. However, I’m not someone who contemplate our success and congratulate myself. The past doesn’t interest me. But the future does. When we take a step forward I always try to have in mind the next one. 5 years ago, we played at the Olympia supporting In Flames and Trivium. It happens that on 11 April next we’ll come back, this time as the headliner. But instead of rejoicing, I like to tell myself: “OK, it’s cool, but what I really want to do is Bercy!”. And if one day we make it to Bercy as the headliner, I know in a corner of my head there’ll be the Stade de France. I’m ambitious. (laughs)

I come from extreme metal.

Ghost is one of the rare bands to link metal to the general public. Do you think it explains this popularity? N.G. : I think, yes. We see more and more diversity in the public at our gigs. Of course, there are metalheads with long hair and battle jacket, but there are also hipsters, girls who usually listen to pop music, and alternative rock lovers. I find it fantastic. You know, musically, I come from extreme metal. It’s been in my genes since my teenage years. I listen to many other things, but it’s where I come from. It’s my identity and it’s what forged my mentality. At the point that, when Ghost began to be successful, I started to feel guilty. I had that feeling I transgressed underground metal’s tactical rules, which are systematic rejection of success and popularity. It took me a lot of abnegation to understand success isn’t nefarious, on the contrary, it’s the reward for an hard work. And deep down I think I was scared to be rejected by my own community, to be treated like a sellout.

Have you ever been confront to animosity from fundamentalists metalheads? N.G. : Oh yes, mostly now! On internet, some start to let their hate flow on Ghost. But it’s OK, I understand. Myself, if I wasn’t in the band, I think I would hate Ghost. (laughs) Because in metal, once a band makes money, they’re sellout. It’s like this and I accept it. It’s also an old metalhead’s thing. People who were here during the rise of the extreme genres grew up with a certain code of conduct, with a more rigid thinking. By the way, I’m going to tell you a secret: some of my best friends abhor Ghost. They hate the band. They don’t understand what we do, they think it’s crap. But it’s nothing. They can. They stay my friends after all. (laughs) It’s different with kids, they are more open minded. But in hindsight, I’m figuring out that me too, in my daily life, I’m an old fart. (laughs) I listen to a small amount of new things. Nothing give me more joy than a good old “Master of Puppets”, a “Seven Churches” by Possessed, or a King Diamond, my hero!

King Diamond & Merciful Fate.

Would you say King Diamond was the biggest inspiration for Ghost, in terms of theatricality? N.G. : Indeed! As far as I remember, I’ve always listened to King Diamond and Merciful Fate. At home, my mother listened to a lot of 60’s and 70’s classic rock, like Beatles, Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. My brother, him, listened to harder stuff like AC/DC, Sex Pistols, Rainbow… I liked all of this, but when my neighbor introduce me to King Diamond I had the feeling to be someone special. I was listening to this crazy stuff that no one else knew at home! I was 8 and, at this age, as you can imagine, I was very marked by his albums’ visuals. King Diamond is the one who open me the door to this gloomy universe which is now find in Ghost.

Kid from the 80’s.

We also guess an interest for the 80’s! If previously you made a cover of Depeche Mode, your EP “Popestar” offer us covers of Echo & The Bunnymen and Eurythmics. N.G. : I’m a kid from the 80’s, it’s the soundtrack of my life. I think it’s mostly thanks to the radio, which was always switch on at home. I like all classics: Mike Oldfield, Nik Kershaw, Eurythmics, Midnight Oil… When I was a teenage, I kind of liked to show of and act like a thoug one who only listen to extreme metal, but secretly, in my bedroom, I listened to Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet and Bronski Beat. (laughs) And, in the end, Ghost is exactly this: a mix of Kiss, Depeche Mode and Merciful Fate with a bit of Pink Floyd over it, especially “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn” and “A Saucerful of Secrets”.

On your last EP, there is the heady single “Square Hammer”. It’s the first time you embrace that clearly pop’s codes. Is this song representative of the sound you would like to have on the next album? N.G. : You know, album after album, each time we ask ourselves how far we can go. It was already the case with “Infestissumam”. At the time, we wondered if the song “Ghuleh/Zombie Queen” wasn’t too much. After a moment of hesitation we were like “Fuck! Black Sabbath made ballads so why not us?”. On “Meliora”, we wondered if there weren’t too many ballads. Then, when we composed “Square Hammer”, we found the title too direct, too effective. We were scared our fans wouldn’t understand. We’ve always had this metalhead consciousness tugging us. But in the end, we thought a good song is a good song, no matter the shape. So to answer your question, I think our next disc will wander further more into these melodies, indeed.

You have a break until the resumption of the tour, on March. Will you write the new album while you’re at it? N.G. : Of course! I’m already on it, I have some new songs… And a good idea where I want to go with this album, but it’s too early to talk about it. The problem is the 2017 tour will extend and I’m not sure we’ll have the time to finish the recording before going back on the roads. I think we’ll finish it in late 2017, with a potential release in 2018. Earlier seems difficult to me! All I can tell you is that visually, the next album’s imagery will come back to something way darker than “Meliora”.

What can we expect for your next date at the Olympia, on 11 April next? N.G. : I saw today that our concert is sold out, it’s amazing! It’ll be very alike shows we gave in the USA this year. We have a stage structure more sizable compared to the last time we came in France. Visually, the show will be impressive, but we’ll also play some rare titles. The only deception is we won’t have the pyrotechnical effects, because they aren’t authorized at the Olympia. So it’ll has to work doubly hard! You know, we love to play in France. We are always very well hosted here. Moreover, what I most loved since the release of “Meliora” it’s to play again and again in France. I really saw our public grow out there when it comes to Hellfest or Rock en Seine. To feel appreciated like this is the greatest reward. Furthermore, the food is succulent in France, people are lovely and you have this attitude a bit impertinent which is rather close to that of Ghost. France, it’s our second home. We’re eager to be back at the Olympia and to party with you! (Translator note: Ooooh you and your sweet like honey words~ We love you too, dear.)

Bonus anecdote:

(Almost) naked with James Hetfield! Our new friend Nameless Ghoul is an ultimate fan of Metallica. Before becoming friend with James Hetfield, he met him in circumstances rather… embarrassing: “Metallica, it’s the greatest band in the world! I hadn’t have time to fully savor their last album but I’m so happy to know they’re alive and in great shape. It also means they will tour, and thus we’ll get the occasion to meet on the road. James Hetfield has been one of Ghost’s first supports. I had the chance to meet him several times, and since we often message each other. The first time he’s been introduced to me, the situation was rather… surrealistic. We were in our lodge, changing ourselves, and here come James Hetfield suddenly appearing by the door to say hi. And you know what? I was in underwear! It was the most embarrassing situation of my life! I was there, in underwear, in front of my greatest idol! How embarrassing!”

#the band ghost #Nameless Ghouls #papa emeritus iii #special ghoul #tobias forge #interview

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jeanandthedreamofhorses · 6 years ago

Note

You're into ASOIAF too? Oh wow. You certainly made the right call dropping this shitshow -and yeah, looking back, I didn't think it possible to have a worse season than S5 but hooo boy, was I wrong-. Knowing its abomination of an ending now, I'm trying hard not to let it ruin the books for me, too, so take this as a cautionary tale, lol. And bc some positivity would be nice and I do always enjoy reading your opinions, if it's okay, could I ask you about your fave ASOIAF characters and such? thx!

Frick yeah, the question I’ve been waiting for! I can gush about pretty much every character since they’re all so amazingly well written, but for a brief list of the top contenders… (TWOW spoilers ahead!)

5. Asha Greyjoy

“If there are rocks to starboard and a storm to port, a wise captain steers a third course.”

Irreverent, cynical, mocking, confident and dangerous, what’s not to love about Asha? She immediately made an impact with such scenes as her “sweet suckling babe” quip and was one of my favourite side characters in ACOK.

AFFC, however, was when she really got to shine, where to my elation she got a POV chapter, and more in ADWD. Despite her seemingly Ironborn-to-the-core personality, we discover she’s actually one of the least zealous of the Ironborn, sympathetic to the New Ways and those influenced by the culture of the ‘greenlanders’ like Rodrik the Reader. As one of the few reading Ironborn, she’s clearly one of the most intelligent of the Ironborn and certainly more open-minded, which leads to her down-to-earth sales pitch for the Kingsmoot, a sensible, realistic policy which would be genuinely best for her people - while still, of course, maintaining some elements of conquest: she is the kraken’s daughter, after all.

This side to her personality that sympathises with the fringe elements of her society and is able to make realistic assessments of the possibilities of success comes largely from the difficult position of being a prominent woman in the hypermasculine, heavily patriarchal Ironborn culture. Being raised as Balon’s substitute son has landed her more freedom than most Iron women, but in a complicated position nonetheless. She manages to handle it to the best of her ability, however with Balon gone she comes to realise just how precarious her position always was.

Now, like many other characters in ADWD, she is dealing with the hardship of broken dreams. Disaster piles upon disaster for Asha, from the failed kingsmoot to the loss of Deepwood Motte to becoming captive to Stannis (a dynamic I can’t wait to see more of btw, what an interesting clash of personalities!). Like Tyrion, her bravado serves to mask her insecurity, and her sense of powerlessness from recent events - both in commanding her own destiny and the heartache from the ruinous state of her family - really comes out in her inner monologue during ADWD.

How fitting, then, that this is when she reunites with Theon, another character whose lofty ambitions were torn brutally to the ground. Asha lorded it over him in Winterfell, but perhaps now she can relate. Mock as she may, Asha genuinely loves her family, and it’s another appealing aspect of this lonely character navigating her way through her unusual existence on the tightrope of social norms.

4. Tyrion Lannister

“You poor stupid blind crippled fool. Must I spell out every little thing for you? Very well. Cersei is a lying whore, she’s been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know. And I am the monster they all say I am. Yes, I killed your vile son.”

Everyone loves Tyrion, and how can they not? He’s one of the wittiest and most intelligent characters in the series, and the first stumbling block when it comes to which side we should root for. While he was always one of my favourite characters from the start, factoring in his complex family life and struggles on account of his dwarfism (and later the maiming of his already ugly face), my favourite part of Tyrion as a character is how all the things we love about him are flipped on their head in ADWD.

Tyrion tells us in AGOT to wear your shame like “armor and it can never be used to hurt you”. It’s an empowering statement, but throughout ASOS we see how insecure Tyrion still is inside, and his ignoble treatment at the hands of his father and the people as a whole in the kangaroo court for Joffrey’s murder, can, ultimately, be boiled down to his being a dwarf. His armour fails him, and he is still utterly unable to be loved, appreciated, or respected by anyone. Only by Tysha, as he finds out, who is now lost to him - ripped from his hands by the machinations of his father and the one family member that Tyrion still loved, his brother.

It’s at this point that Tyrion is never the same again. He murders Shae in cold blood, and he murders his father, and he regrets none of it. He is becoming the monster they said he was.

When we see him in ADWD, the dark side of Tyrion that had always been hidden behind the hope he had clung onto creeps all too shockingly for the surface. His jokes are now too cynical to laugh at, dark and disturbing and cruel. He uses his intellect for no greater good beyond his own personal amusement, deliberately influencing Young Griff to attack Westeros prematurely just in the hopes that his sister might get the axe. He is on no side but his own, acting brazenly irresponsibly as he has no interest in the grand schemes others have set out for him, or even in his own life. The chips on his shoulder are now genuine murderous intent, daydreaming about raping and killing Cersei and mounting Jaime’s head on a spike next to her. Where Tyrion’s whoring habits had seemed roguish and humorous before, in Essos he is depicted raping clearly reluctant sex slaves.

What makes this all the more disturbing, and all the more literarily brilliant, is that it casts aside the biased curtain we had seen Tyrion through before, and the result is shocking. How much more free to consent is a Westerosi prostitute than a Pentoshi sex slave? How worthwhile were the barbed comments he made so frequently when they ultimately led to a litany of testimonies against him as soon as he lost his privileged position? The worse devils of Tyrion’s nature come out in full force, and we see much more of the black of the character Martin described as “the grayest of the gray”. Perhaps the difference now is that Tyrion’s POV lacks a single element of self-love. The readers are repulsed by him in the same way he repulses himself.

Nonetheless, Tyrion seems to be rekindling something of a purpose in ADWD, as characters nurture themselves back up from the wreckage in the aftermath of the War of the Five Kings. He has lost the Lannister’s golden influence, but his silver tongue still serves him well. However, we may never see the old Tyrion again. This Tyrion has not repented for the vile things he has done, or the vile things he intends to do. He was caricatured by the citizens of King’s Landing as an evil advisor whispering into the monarch’s ear - this may become something closer to the truth when he at last meets with Daenerys.

3. Jaime Lannister

“Does my lord wish to answer?” The maester asked, after a long silence. A snowflake landed on the letter. As it melted, the ink began to blur. Jaime rolled the parchment up again, as tight as one hand would allow, and handed it to Peck. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

Who saw a Jaime POV coming? What an incredible way to open ASOS after the prologue, to see things from the eyes of one of the series’ most notorious villains. I don’t think I need to explain at length how impactful it was to gently peel off the layers of Jaime’s character, revealing the true reason he killed Aerys, his growth in his interactions with Brienne, the embodiment of the chivalric values he abandoned, and most significantly, losing the hand that was his entire identity and vanity. Anyone who has read the book or watched the show can relate.

Since then, he continues to fascinate. He is discovering talents beyond swordsmanship, entering into a negotiation even Tywin could have been proud of. He has learned how to use his bad reputation for nobler ends, scaring Edmure Tully silly enough to end the siege of Riverrun without shedding a single drop of blood. He is still fighting for a Lannister king, true, but that is only staying true to his role as Kingsguard: now that he has lost his sword hand, he is discovering what it means to be a knight again, in an unconventional and thrilling way.

I chose the above quote because it captures the beauty of AFFC Jaime, breaking away from the sister he fought so hard to return to and decisively cutting out her influence for good. In Jaime’s reverse knight’s fable, refusing the call of the damsel in distress is one of the most upright things he has ever done. How fitting that he should then meet up with the woman who influenced him to take the other path - only she seems about to betray him, too…

It will be so interesting to see Stoneheart’s perverted justice on a character whose head we once wanted on a chopping block but now want to survive at all costs. I don’t think Brienne will be able to follow through with it to the end. After all, Jaime must live on to fulfil a certain prophecy…

2. Euron Greyjoy

“The bleeding star bespoke the end,” he said to Aeron. “These are the last days, when the world shall be broken and remade. A new god shall be born from the graves and charnel pits.”

It’s common enough to hear writers and critics talk about how your villain can’t simply be evil, and that they need to have sympathetic motivations or else they’re badly written. I think that’s true sometimes, but only when your evil villains fail to capture the raw horror of what evil really is - that’s when they feel wooden or cartoonish. To successfully capture that heart of darkness, however…

That is what George R.R. Martin achieved with Euron Greyjoy, the most terrifying character I have ever read.

Everyone underestimates Euron. They know he’s mad, but they don’t know how mad he is. They think they can outmanoeuvre him, like Asha, or betray him, like Victarion. They think he’s lying when he says he’s sailed to Valyria and means to conquer Westeros with dragons. Only Aeron knew. Only Aeron knew the depths of Euron’s depravity, and how far he means to fly. Because he’s the only one who heard the scream of the rusted iron hinge.

The Forsaken showed that it was all true, that Aeron was right all along - that he, like the oracle Cassandra, warned the Ironborn but was condemned to be ignored. Euron has an ambition unparalleled by any other character in the series - he means to turn himself into a god. He’s the only one depraved enough to go to the lengths it would take to make that dream a reality.

We should fear Euron, we should fear him very much. And yet, I think his dreams of godhood can never fully come to pass. He is, after all, still a man - still fallible, as we saw him shrink away at the Reader’s reprimand in The Reaver and change his tactics accordingly. His humanity will be the death of him - not any goodness in his heart, but a weakness common to the human creature. The dragons he means to dance with, and potentially the Others too as some theories go, will move at a pace beyond those mortal legs.

His attempt to fly will inevitably end with a fall. But that headfirst plunge will take the Seven Kingdoms with him.

1. Stannis Baratheon

“I know the cost! Last night, gazing into that hearth, I saw things in the flames as well. I saw a king, a crown of fire on his brows, burning… burning, Davos. His own crown consumed his flesh and turned him into ash. Do you think I need Melisandre to tell me what that means? Or you?“

Here is a man so totally dedicated to his duty that he is willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish it, even if it means his own destruction.

He is a character that believes in justice and the word of law more strongly than any other, and watching his dogged persistence to put a corrupt world to rights no matter the odds has always struck a chord with me, especially in this world teeming with such selfish and barbarous characters.

He is not such a performer as other characters, not as openly humorous as Tyrion (though lowkey he has an incredible dry wit), nor as pretty as Renly, nor as lighthearted as Littlefinger. He’s a dour person, hard and unpopular. But if you listen to the conversations he has with Davos, there is an incredible heart to this man who has placed all the troubles of the world on his own shoulders, and strives through cold and stormy weather to make the best, most just decision he can for no other reason than that - because it is just. Justice is hard, sharp and unyielding, not pretty, not humorous, not lighthearted - but necessary. In a king more than anywhere else. That’s why those who do follow Stannis, like Davos, follow him with such faith and loyalty.

He often proceeds about this goal in questionable ways, compensating for the imperfections of his forces and of his own personality. This is the rickety bridge Stannis walks on, as a man who will go to any means necessary to accomplish what he feels must be done. Sometimes this might mean unleashing dark forces better left locked up, sometimes it might mean committing so terrible a sin as kinslaying, sometimes it might mean sacrificing a child to awaken stone dragons - and sometimes it will mean rescuing the realm from a wildling incursion when no other king cared.

Moments like that unforgettable “STANNIS! STANNIS! STANNIS” stick so powerfully in my memory because, much like Jaime, the real virtue of this character had yet to shine so brightly as it eventually would in ASOS. Something which had always been there takes us unawares. And he is evolving, too, ever becoming more flexible, more willing to compromise, more hesitant to burnings, more dedicated to the good of the realm over himself.

And there is a whole other layer of tragic pathos that lies behind his character. Try as hard as Stannis might, and God does he try, he is not Azor Ahai, and every reader knows he will not sit the throne at the end. Even Stannis knows where this road will leave him. But he persists anyway, in the face of death. The courage of that, the self-sacrifice - how can one not be moved by it?

One of the finer points of Stannis that often goes missed in (understandably) overzealous attempts to correct the show’s butchering of his character, is that there is a part of him that does want to be king. He’s lived in Robert’s shadow his entire life, as Asha thinks to herself in ADWD, and there is a part of him that does yearn for recognition. Quotes like “Robert could piss in a cup and men would call it wine, but I offer them cold clear water and they squint in suspicion and mutter to each other about how queer it tastes.” reveal that, I think.

So this is a whole other internal battle within Stannis - he must be careful not to allow his judgement to falter against the part of him that is jealous of Robert, of Renly, that wants to be the hero Melisandre says he is. This very human aspect complicates further the already complicated war between deontological and utilitarian ethics that wages in his head, with Davos and Melisandre as their respective spokesmen. Much as he may want to be a perfect king and avatar of justice - he is still human.

The depth and tragedy of Stannis Baratheon is Shakespearean. My heart shatters in advance for the moment Stannis has made his greatest sacrifice of all to halt the advance of the Others (not the Boltons, he’ll flatten them like pancakes), and for it to do nothing, nothing at all. For him to realise he was never the hero of this story, and that now he has gathered all this blood on his hands where there is no spring to wash them in.

A man so just as Stannis could never forgive himself. But we, the readers, shall never forget the battles he fought as an axle of this universe striving to be something greater.

Honourable Mentions to Aeron, Victarion, Barristan, Jon (Snow and Connington), Cersei and Brienne. Yes, I really like the Greyjoys 🦑.

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #stannis baratheon #euron greyjoy #jaime lannister #tyrion lannister #asha greyjoy #not snk

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pirateisabela · 7 years ago

Text

Talk of Skyhold

Jaras Lavellan/Dorian Pavus

Fluff

Summary: Jaras and Dorian at three different times in their early romance where they not only have a healthy sexual relationship where saying no is okay but also feelings eventually smack a certain someone in the face.

3141 words

Read on AO3

It was a long week for Jaras and his companions. He, Dorian, Sera, and Iron Bull had spent the last week in Emprise du Lion helping the villagers and taking Suledin Keep on top of a mountain. They rarely slept—as per usual when they were out in the field—and by the last day of their mission, the effects on Jaras were obvious. He couldn’t wait to return to Skyhold and sleep for sixteen hours straight.

The ride back to Skyhold, even on horseback—or, rather, a Dracolisk in Jaras’s case—took the better part of a day and through miles and miles of snow and rugged terrain, no less. The most agonizing part of it all, however, had to be crossing the long bridge into Skyhold, the bridge the embodiment of “so close yet so far away.” Jaras didn’t care why whoever inhabited Skyhold originally put it there: he loathed that bridge with every fiber of his being, even more than those stupid masks the Orlesian nobles insisted on wearing to show how much better than everybody else they thought they were.

Jaras wasted no time to crawl into bed once he returned to Skyhold. Thankfully, they made their not-so-grand entrance in the middle of the night, so the only people there to greet them were the advisors and Cassandra. He greeted the four of them, excused himself, and then walked with quite a bit of purpose back to his quarters. Creators, he was never as happy to flop down onto his bed as he was when he first returned from missions.

Jaras only cared enough to rip his shoes off before he snuggled up underneath the covers. It was so warm, a nice change from the raging winds in the Emprise and in the mountains on the way to and from Skyhold. A reprieve from the wind was rare but not as rare as it was to get away from the snow and the sharp bite in the air. The tip of Jaras’s nose was still numb from the ghost of the cold. Emprise du Lion was a miserable place that was quite ecstatic to share its own pitifulness with anyone who was unlucky enough to stay there for a week or two.

Already, the tendrils of sleep were wrapping around Jaras, and he welcomed it. The past week was long and hard, and he couldn’t wait to finally get a good night’s rest. When he woke up in the morning, he was sure Cassandra and Josephine would hound him about his mission report, Cullen would want to hold a war room meeting about the troops and villagers in Emprise du Lion, and Leliana would surely have something to talk with him and Harding about. All of that could wait until the morning, though. For now, Jaras would sleep…

A knock came from the door, and Jaras cursed silently. Maybe he could just pretend he was already asleep, and whoever it was would just come back in the morning…

The knock sounded again, and Jaras groaned as he ripped the covers off himself and walked down the stairs towards his door. Unless something was on fire or someone was dying, Jaras would just dismiss the visitor and go back to sleep. The Inquisition did just fine without him while they were gone: they could handle eight more hours. Or maybe a solid twenty-four.

Jaras unlocked the door and turned the knob, ready to send the visitor on their way, but he found himself smiling instead when the door revealed Dorian standing at the threshold.

“Well, I figured you would be asleep by now,” Jaras joked, opening the door further to allow Dorian to come in. He smiled back at Jaras, and the twinkle in his eyes threatened to make Jaras swoon.

“Where is the fun in that?” Dorian asked as the two men took their chat up the stairs and into the center of Jaras’s room, right in front of his bed. “Why be well rested when you can sate something else?”

Jaras chuckled. “If you came here for a booty call, I’m afraid that’s not happening tonight. I’m falling asleep standing up.”

Dorian took a step closer to Jaras, leaving practically no room between them and definitely no doubt to Dorian’s intentions. “Oh come on, we just spent a week with nothing but sexual tension and the cold. I’m sure we’ll both be done and off to bed in twenty minutes, tops.” Well, that wasn’t a lie: there was quite a bit of sexual tension. Even though they shared a tent, neither of them dared to take their clothes off for more than five minutes at a time because of the cold. There was also the fact that Dorian was still hesitant to even think naughty thoughts about Jaras in the presence of anyone but their other two companions. The whole trip, Dorian and Jaras were reduced to furtive glances and quick make-out sessions in dark corners like they were in freaking Skyhold still. It drove Jaras mad, but still, sleep took priority over his sexual desires. Besides, he didn’t want to fall asleep during sex and make a fool of himself. He did that once with Aththorn, and the stupid man refused to let him live it down.

“I’m afraid it will just have to wait until tomorrow, ma elgara. I’m too tired.” Jaras leaned in for a kiss, and Dorian did not hesitate to do the same. The kiss, however, became more than a kiss, and the two men were disrobing themselves in seconds. The thought of helping Dorian undo his buckles, however, sent a rush of sense through Jaras, and he thanked the Creators for Dorian’s unconventional fashion choices. Tonight was not a good night for sex for Jaras, but his dick wasn’t too worried about that.

Jaras gently pushed Dorian away from where they sat on the bed. “Nope. Not happening tonight,” Jaras said, still breathing hard. “You can spend the night, though, and maybe something will happen in the morning—well, probably the afternoon.”

Dorian sighed, but he continued to undo his buckles. “I might as well. Your bed is softer than mine, anyway, and after a week of sleeping on the ground, I think I deserve it,” Dorian joked in his usual flippant manner.

So, the two of them continued to disrobe, though a bit less enthusiastically this time. Jaras was finished in about a minute and a half—rogue armor was light and uncomplicated—but Dorian did not crawl under the covers until over ten minutes later. By that point, Jaras could barely tear his eyes open and glance at his lover, but he managed.

“Goodnight, ma elgara,” Jaras whispered, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Sweet dreams, amatus,” Dorian smiled as he whispered back.

//\//\

Jaras spent the whole day in War Room meetings. With the attack on Adamant approaching, Jaras and his advisors wanted to leave no room for mistakes. They were unsure of what exactly they would find in the building—they knew the basic layout of it thanks to Cole and old documents in the possession of one of Josephine’s contacts, but that was all before Corypheus. How many Wardens would be at Adamant? Could Jaras sway or reason with any of them? Would Corypheus himself be there? What about the Venatori? Jaras and his advisors were unsure of too much for their comfort.

It was well after nightfall when the five of them—Cassandra had slipped in at some point, though the other four were not hesitant to accept additional help—decided there was simply nothing else they could plan at this point. Everything they could sort through was sorted through. They exhausted the last of their knowledge, and it was time to call it a day. Jaras left the War Room reluctantly and unsatisfied—he didn’t like leaving room for error, but it was all they could do right now unless something else came to light.

Their incomplete plan was still on his mind as he walked into his room to find his lover, Dorian, sitting at Jaras’s desk, reading a book. Jaras could say that he was surprised to find Dorian there, but that was a lie: when Jaras left for the War Room meeting early that morning, Dorian was in that very same chair with that very same book. Dorian had recently refreshed his tea, but otherwise, everything was exactly the same.

It took Dorian a moment to tear his eyes away from his book as Jaras walked in and sat roughly on the couch and began the strenuous process of untying his shoes.

“Ah, you’re back, amatus,” Dorian said, setting his book down while smirking at Jaras. “I figured you and your advisors were halfway to the Anderfels by now: no one’s heard from you all day.”

If Jaras were in a more favorable mood rather than stressed and tired from the day-long meeting, Jaras would have quipped back. Instead, he merely huffed out, “I wish.”

Dorian stood up and walked over to Jaras, sitting beside him on the couch. “Rough day, then?” he asked.

“Quite,” was all Jaras said.

Dorian reached over and began unbuttoning Jaras’s shirt for him. “Well, I know something that can take your mind off of that.”

Jaras sighed. “I’m sorry, Dorian, I’m just not in the mood right now. It’s been a long, stressful day: I just want to sleep. You can stay the night here, anyway, though.”

Dorian continued unbuttoning Jaras's shirt, but withdrew his hands after the last notch and placing one hand on Jaras’s knee. “Not even something short? I can do that thing you like.”

“If you really want, I can do something for you, but I just don’t think I could enjoy myself while thinking about Corypheus.”

Dorian laughed. “Ah, he’s such a cockblock. If we don’t both enjoy it, then there’s no point. I guess I’ll just have to be your bedwarmer tonight, then.”

“What do you mean ‘bedwarmer’?” Jaras asked incredulously. “Your feet make Emprise du Lion seem warm.”

Dorian shook his head, astounded by Jaras’s audacity. “Well, at least I’m not a furnace. Honestly, I thought I was going to have a heat stroke last night.”

“Well, a heat stroke is better than your lower body freezing off. I swear, I might have to start wearing pants to bed. If I don’t, then Corypheus won’t kill me: you will the next time your leg brushes against mine in the middle of the night.”

“And I’m the dramatic one,” Dorian chuckled. They continued their conversation as they removed their clothes, Jaras considerably faster than Dorian, as always. As soon as Jaras was in nothing but his smalls, he crawled into bed and wrapped himself up like an Antivan burrito with the blanket. Dorian said that he was going to have a heat stroke, so he didn't really need the blanket, now did he?

Yet again, it took another ten minutes for Dorian to climb into bed with Jaras. The elf still didn’t understand Dorian's extravagant fashion choices, nor could he even begin to fathom all the complicated steps to removing it. He always tried every time he and Dorian had sex—and even occasionally when they were just sucking face—but to no avail. Dorian eventually has to just take his clothes off himself.

Dorian laughed at Jaras snatching all of the blanket, but he didn’t say anything: he just wrapped Jaras in his arms in a spoon. They laid there in comfortable silence for a moment until Dorian spoke up.

“So, do you have another War Room meeting tomorrow?” Dorian asked.

“Fortunately, no,” Jaras sighed. “Well, at least not until Hawke and Stroud get here, but Varric doesn’t think that’ll happen until the day after tomorrow. That's what I’m hoping for, anyway.”

“I was under the impression that the War Room meetings were your favorite part of being Inquisitor,” Dorian joked. “I’m shocked. Truly.”

Jaras chuckled and wiggled one of his hands free to whack Dorian on the side of his leg. “Ah, yes, I will never get over the rush I feel as I listen to Leliana and Cullen arguing over why we don’t need troops or spies literally everywhere we could go while Josephine tries, and fails, to get them to shut up. Endless bickering for hours and hours on end: what could be better?”

“I think the only thing that could compare would be spending another week in Emprise du Lion.”

Jaras groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

They were both quiet for a moment, letting the conversation drift off into silence again. Sleep slowly crept up on them, and they embraced it with open arms. Jaras was on the edge of sleep when he whispered, “Goodnight, ma elgara."

When Dorian finally replied with "Goodnight, amatus,” Jaras was already asleep.

//\//\

Dorian knocked at the door, each thump sending his heart into his throat. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here—he’s never just… shared a room with one of his lovers for more than a night or two, and sex was always a factor. He doesn’t do this, nor did he ever expect he would, especially when he was still in Tevinter.

But he’s different, he reminded himself. He stayed. He wants more, just like you do. He won’t turn you away—maybe he even wants this, himself.

Dorian…wasn't very good at this. He had never been with another man who wanted more than just sex, not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. He liked sex. Very much. But he liked more, too, though—just as much, if not more than it. In Tevinter, two men could never have more than a sexual relationship. It just didn’t happen. No noble wanted to be outcasted, become a pariah. Love wasn’t considered something valuable enough to risk everything. But now, with the Inquisition, everything he couldn’t have with a man back in Tevinter, he could have now and with a man he cared very much for who wouldn’t have even been considered high enough of a class for it to be a scandal in his homeland.

He has never shared a bed with another man without it being “strictly no strings attached” or something. He’s never been more than a port in a storm. So how was he supposed to go about this? What does he say? “Hello, I like you quite a lot and I was wondering if you’d care to sleep together, but, you know, without sleeping together. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?”

Before he could worry about it any longer, however, the door to the Inquisitor’s room creaked open, and there Jaras was, barely wearing anything more than his smalls. Dorian refrained from chuckling at that, but his nearly naked lover did ease his mind a bit. Maybe it does help imagining everyone else in their underwear?

“Oh, Dorian, I wasn’t sure if you were going to come by tonight,” Jaras said, and judging by the look on the elf’s face and the embrace he pulled Dorian into, Dorian guessed Jaras was rather hoping the mage would stop by.

“You know me, unpredictable as always,” Dorian joked. He thanked the Maker for his childhood in Tevinter because he knew he absolutely didn’t look as nervous as he truly was.

Jaras kissed him chastely on the lips, then took Dorian by the hand and led him into the Inquisitor’s quarters. Dorian spoke up once they finished climbing the stairs, knowing if he didn’t say something now, then tonight would be enjoyable but completely unproductive.

“So, amatus,” Dorian began, still not entirely sure what he was going to say, “your room is awfully big. It must get lonely when we don’t spend the night together.”

Jaras shrugged, using one of the belts on Dorian’s chest to bring him closer. “Sure,” he chuckled, “I’m not used to having so much space to myself. Or sleeping inside a building, for that matter. I am Dalish, remember? Tents and aravels are more my speed. Not that I don’t prefer buildings. It’s a lot warmer, especially on top of a mountain like we are.”

As soon as he finished talking, he kissed Dorian again, and Dorian had to make a conscious effort to pull away. “You know, the room would be even warmer if there were two people living here instead of one.” Dorian hoped he was being obvious enough without actually having to say it.

It took Jaras a minute to process what the mage had just said. “What, like you moving in with me?”

“Sure, if you want,” Dorian said nonchalantly. “We would have to do something about those awful bedsheets, though.”

Jaras grinned cheekily. “Really, you want to sleep in my room? Every night? Wow, Dorian Pavus, I didn��t think I’d ever see the day.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t you get smug. I’m probably in your room more than mine, anyway, and this way I won’t have to do a walk of shame across the Skyhold courtyard every morning.”

“But I thought you were worried about people finding out about us?” Jaras whispered scandalously. “Gossiping about the Tevinter magister probably using blood magic and sexual favors to pervert the mind of the oh-so-mighty Herald of Andraste?” Jaras couldn’t help but grin at the hilarity of it, even though Dorian was sure there were some Chantry women squawking about it right now.

“Let them talk,” Dorian whispered into Jaras’s ear. The elf’s smile widened at that, and he closed the distance between the two of them yet again and plopped a kiss on Dorian’s mouth.

In the morning, Dorian would go back to his old room and collect his belongings. He’d empty out his drawers, maybe have Jaras help him carry over all his beauty products. There were several stacks of books he’d stolen from the library still sitting in the corner of his room, and he would have to sort through the piles and decide what he was ready to return and what he was still reading. He had a few trinkets from Tevinter and stupid little things Jaras would hand him or sneak into Dorian’s pack while they were on missions—a flower or two, a rock shaped like a dick, an arrow that killed three Venatori at once, weird things like that that Dorian thought were too funny or too sweet to get rid of—but all of it was small and light and easy to move from his old room to the Inquisitor’s quarters. They would be done moving everything by lunch, and half of Skyhold would surely be talking about it an hour after that. Dorian was finding it hard to mind, however, because he was now living in the same room as his amatus, and that was worth all the talk.

#also thanks gaysparkler for moral support looking over this and helping me decide on a name x)#jaras lavellan #dorian pavus #inquisitor #dorian x inquisitor #dorian x jaras #i guess i'll tag that too #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #my ocs #my writing #i finally finished writing something and even posted it aren't you guys proud x)#the slayer writes

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ofthedivinekrp-blog · 7 years ago

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Did you hear? BANG JAEHYUN, the nineteen year old STUDENT/BARISTA, was spotted in downtown Yeoshin. We heard they’re a descendant of VENUS is known for having the ability(s) of LUST EMBODIMENT. If you look closely, they have an uncanny resemblance to BTS’ JEON JEONGGUK.

* . ✧ ˙ ˖ — and deep down in the soul, something rises, knowing well that what made us is what could be our demise.

Venus is the Roman goddess whose functions encompassed love, beauty, desire, sex, fertility, prosperity and victory. In Roman mythology, she was the mother of the Roman people through her son, Aeneas, who survived the fall of Troy and fled to Italy. Venus was central to many religious festivals, and was revered in Roman religion under numerous cult titles.

The Romans adapted the myths and iconography of her Greek counterpart Aphrodite for Roman art and Latin literature. In the later classical tradition of the West, Venus becomes one of the most widely referenced deities of Greco-Roman mythology as the embodiment of love and sexuality.

* . ✧ ˙ ˖ — we are capable, pressured into valiant things, able to do what others can’t in this foreign land.

Jaehyun has the ability of Lust embodiment, the ability to embody all forms of sex, lust, and arousal. From this, he’s able to gain power from the apparent lust emanating from others, as well as himself. While Venus was the Goddess of a vast amount of qualities, Beauty and Sexual Desire were two of her main abilities. She was a pillar for many in this regard, though Jaehyun’s own doesn’t hold a candle. While he’s well-aware of capabilities, the youth is still learning, and has only since barely mastered its main properties. There’s a certain selfishness that comes to his abilities, mixed foul with his traits and he knows it. But from what stems of this power, many would consider him a sexual master, due to further applications that derive from it–spanning from heightened stamina, to sex specialty.

Despite having mastered some of its applications, the power can quickly go out of his control depending on the situation. Particular in light of emotional circumstances, or high powered ones, Jaehyun can unintentionally invoke its applications and find himself falling into its whole. He can become a mess of emotion and a sex addicted monster at the best of times.

* . ✧ ˙ ˖ — as stories told, legends passed, languages spread, we start to forget who were before.

triggers in the following passage: Depression, mental instability, suicide, death, adoption, bullying, sex addiction.

His parents were your picture perfect couple, the type bragged about in lifestyle magazines–with their expensive yet humble possessions, gleaming smiles and eyes that lit up the world when they shared a glance. A couple of dreamers, who wanted nothing more than a child to call their own, to further their romance and install some spare love into another being. They had succeeded in the process, of course. It had been steady, Doctors telling them that they were to birth a healthy child–that complications were of no concern. They were nothing but smiles and sweet laughter, until the nine month mark hit and that twinkling laughter turned to sobs. Jaehyun had been born, as healthy as a newborn could be. But at a cost, his mother had died sometime after labour, after having held her child for a matter of moments.

Thus left two. Has father had succumb to grief, hardly having time to look after his child. He became forgetful, reserved. Family friends were usually the ones to come over, simply to look after Jaehyun through his stages of development. He was thankful for that, for those who spared their time to think of him while his father had neglected to do so. But, it didn’t take long before his father had had enough. Days spent without his “soulmate” had hollowed him out entirely, made him forget that the world existed without her and for a moment, he’d considered ending it all. Except it didn’t stop at consideration. And that’s when Jaehyun, only just old enough to speak full sentences, had found his father laying on his bed, not breathing and as pale as snow. Suspected suicide, they’d called it.

From then on, Jaehyun was sent to an orphanage. The relatives that had once looked after him, had not signed for care, and thus laid the only option left. It didn’t affect the boy, though. In fact, being forced to interact with other children his own age was a benefit. He’d been socially inept before, due to his withdrawal from his father. Conversation had never flowed then. He wasn’t the most social of kids during his time at the orphanage, but he’d gotten far better. That didn’t stop the bullying, though. As with anything, there’s always a hierarchy. It just so happened Jaehyun was at the bottom of the food chain here. The elder kids felt it best to consistently tease his inability to socialise, to pick on his background, to throw him down as a lesson. He’d just taken it, without moving a muscle nor speaking against it. A blank slate.

It continued as such. Bruises painting his porcelain skin constantly–to which didn’t help when it came to bullies twice as difficult in school. Only when it came to high school, did he develop a backbone. During the first years, he’d been painted as a bad boy due to his apparent social phobia. He’d spend every moment alone, and would remain silent during class. Decked in dark clothing, completely oblivious to the world around him. It was because of this mysteriousness, he was dubbed a problem child. He’d still keep his mouth shut in light of those same bullies, but he was stronger now, physically. He could counter demand, and avert attention with little more than shoves and the like–the occasional punch when necessary. Lord knows how many times were was temporarily suspended due to the amount of fights he’d gotten into. Perhaps a trigger for his depression. The loneliness of it all. As if the world was against him. And maybe it was.

That’s when his power had made itself obvious. Instead of seeking out conversation, he instead took to seeking out company through sexual means. Meeting upperclassmen behind the school with a quick five minutes. Pulling boys out of the corridor into closets. He’d garnered a reputation for himself. The consistent one-night-stands and quickies weren’t helping with the names. With the quick jabs sent his way. He seemed to manifest sexual attraction no matter what. Even the straightest of men would find himself taken by Jaehyun. And he revelled in it, couldn’t help but feel good about it. Fed his ego like nothing else, and he ran with it too well.

Towards the end of high school, he was a near completely different person. Cocky and proud, disruptive. The school playboy. He lived up to the name and then some, used his apparent power to his own selfish and greedy needs. Until he was caught. It was funny, really. How the headmaster had walked in on Jaehyun and his teacher, the latter bent over a desk. Of course, the teacher got fired for sexual misconduct. Jaehyun suffered a similar fate. Luckily, it had happened little before graduation. Luck was seemingly on his side.

But he couldn’t stay. He’d had enough of repetitive routines, having already left the orphanage after surpassing legal age. The next step was obvious, and he’d found himself finding education at Yeoshin. His old self remained, though. Entirely too self-worthy, sarcastic and sex addicted. Most of which was used as a mask to shy other away from the timid boy beneath. He’d found work, dedicated himself to study, found himself craving sex far too much for words. And it was that same addiction that was quickly becoming his downfall. While he could control some attributes, he struggled with most. The power was more-so controlling him over anything.

#otdfollow #accepted #bang jaehyun #otdjaehyun

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bthump · 8 years ago

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Well this originally started out as a jokey take on how heterosexuality is the True Villain of Berserk, but then I was like, shit this actually works surprisingly well and is kind of depressing. So now I’m doing it more seriously. This isn’t meant to be some grand unifying theory of Berserk lol, it’s not even close to airtight or anything, the story just happens to lend itself weirdly well to this particular reading.

So here’s how Griffith’s narrative works as an almost certainly accidental, yet imo somewhat relatable, metaphor for being closeted and repressed:

The only way for him to realize his dream is to marry the princess. War, battles, glory, promotions, even the Eclipse, those are all stepping stones that enable him to one day marry Charlotte. Marriage is the only door to his dream. Even when he becomes saviour of the world, he’s still gotta marry a woman to make it official.

Griffith’s all-encompassing, all-important dream is embodied by heterosexual marriage.

Set up in perfect opposition to that dream, the only one who makes him forget about it, and the one he has to sacrifice to attain his dream, is Guts, the man he’s in love with.

So it should be pretty apparent how that central conflict lends itself to a closeted gay man torn between obligation and desire kinda reading, right?

The details don’t do much to counter it either. It’s Charlotte’s presence that creates the rift between Guts and Griffith - she’s there, refocusing Griffith’s attention from Guts to his heteronormative goal during their significant, romanticized staircase conversation when Guts asked why Griffith would risk his life for him and Griffith failed to give him a reason. And she’s the one Griffith directs the speech to, inadvertantly convincing Guts that he doesn’t care about him and making Guts decide to leave.

The dream is also defined by emotional repression. To achieve it Griffith has to project a perfect image of himself to everyone - the nobles, Charlotte, the hawks, everyone. When Casca catches him in a moment of vulnerability and watches him injure himself in a river he snaps out of it, represses, and acts like nothing happened afterwards. Guts is the only person he willingly allows to see him less than perfect - when he’s conducting assassinations, for instance. He opens up to him in emotional vulnerability when he asks “do you think I’m cruel?” In that moment, Guts suggests that Griffith’s emotional expression of vulnerability is incompatible with achieving his dream - “Ain’t this part of the path to your dream? You believe that, don’t you?”

Guts is able to walk away and abandon Griffith because Griffith can’t tell him how he feels, he can’t tell Guts why he risked his life for him and he can’t tell him that he wants him to stay. Casca even points out that they should stop and talk things out, and we the reader know that their rift is based entirely on a misunderstanding that could be cleared up so talking things through would actually achieve something - but she’s dismissed, and they duel instead.

So a dichotemy is set up between the dream/Charlotte/heteronormativity, and emotional repression vs Guts the man Griffith loves, and expressing his feelings for him.

The tragedy of Berserk is that repression wins.

Guts leaves because Griffith can’t express how he feels. Griffith has sex with Charlotte in an attempt to seize his dream, having lost Guts, (of course this act of striving for his dream is represented by heterosexual sex) and ends up trapped in a dungeon. There he both finally admits to himself that Guts is more important to him than his dream and fittingly loses the ability to communicate at all. He’s also, to top it off, locked away behind a mask modeled after the helmet he wore while pursuing his dream. After losing Guts and having sex with Charlotte he’s not just choosing not to express his emotions, he’s forced to remain silent and hidden.

After he’s rescued the mask stays on and words remain unspoken. A lot of shit happens and eventually he has a breakdown. And interestingly, it’s not just the prospect of Guts leaving again that causes him to finally break from reality. It’s also the thought of Casca staying.

After overhearing Guts and Casca he envisions himself chasing his dream again (and isn’t it fitting that it’s described as playing? ie not real, a make-believe expression of himself), and then he sees himself - and here it gets really depressing - seemingly married to Casca. He’s still helpless and unable to communicate, as though he’s caged inside of himself. In his vision Casca wears a dress, has hung up her sword, and is raising a son with him, named after the man Griffith is in love with. Griffith is dressed up and attractive again. It’s terribly picturesque in a idealistic heternormative way. Casca leans down to kiss him and then spoonfeeds him, all the while he’s silent and motionless and seems lost as all he thinks to himself is that the peace and quiet isn’t so bad.

Tbh if you’re reading Griffith as a gay man this dream comes across as a nightmarish metaphor for being trapped in repression, trapped in a heterosexual marriage and societal expectations, his voice, body, and even his own mind lost. It’s disturbing.

And in the soup made by Casca is the behelit.

The thing is that the behelit isn’t the escape from that nightmarish vision it seems to be at first - it’s an embodiment of it. What happens when Griffith summons the Godhand, sacrifices the Band and most notably Guts, and becomes a demon?

His heart is frozen. He’s later reborn with the sole purpose of becoming a wholly emotionless, utterly perfect image of himself - the image he’d tried to project as a human: a perfect saviour, a perfect leader, and a perfect fiancee, straight out of a fairytale. One half of a perfect heterosexual couple, ruling a perfect kingdom.

Femto’s new body incorporates the mask he was forced to wear in the torture chamber. The transformation doesn’t fix the problem caused by his broken body or his lost tongue, it doesn’t return his ability to express his feelings to him, it rips them out from the source - it destroys his emotions so he has nothing left to express. “This peace and quiet... isn’t so bad.”

When Griffith chose to sacrifice Guts he didn’t choose freedom or personal empowerment - he chose to remain a voiceless, tortured man in a locked cell, he just removed his ability to feel pain or long for more.

(Or tried to at least. Time will tell how his newly bthumping heart figures into everything.)

Disclaimer: I don’t think this works as like... a great, sensitive and thoughtful depiction of the effects of internalized homophobia on a gay man lol. Berserk is offensive and homophobic af and choosing to read it like this doesn’t fix that problem at all. I just kind of dodged some of the worse stuff but yk, there’s no way around the fact that griffith/femto/ngriff is a gay-coded antagonist and most of his villainy revolves around that coding.

Also I’m mostly closeted myself so there’s definitely some projection going on here. That’s partially the point of this. I don’t relate fully to this narrative but some aspects of what I wrote do hit home, and hopefully that comes across and this doesn’t feel exploitative.

@yesgabsstuff @mastermistressofdesire I’ve mentioned this essay b4 and I believe you’ve both expressed interest in a complete version so voila.

#a #b #character: griffith #arc: ga #theme: dreams #theme: repression #theme: heteronormativity #character: neogriffith

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the-master-cylinder · 5 years ago

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SUMMARY In 1893, a young woman wears a magical bracelet and the dark shadow of an evil jinni (genie) looms over a bloody scene, foreshadowing the violence to come.

In modern day, three criminals burglarize a house owned by the now elderly woman with the magical bracelet. The criminals kill her with an axe to her face and find the lamp. A genie is released from inside and possesses the old lady’s corpse to kill one of the burglars by head butting him with the double-headed axe still lodged in the corpse’s skull. The genie finds and murders the other two intruders.

After surveying the crime scene, an officer sends the evidence, including the lamp and bracelet, for display at a natural science museum. From inside the lamp, the genie observes the museum’s curator, Dr. Bressling, cataloguing the newly arrived artifacts. Dr. Wallace’s teenage daughter, Alex, is also present and she tries on the magical bracelet. In a fit of adolescent angst, she says to her father, “Sometimes I wish you were dead!” She’s unable to take off the bracelet.

Alex’s class goes on a field trip to the museum where her dad works. The genie possesses Alex’s body and convinces her friends to go on an “outing” later to spend the night at the museum. The genie levitates Dr. Bressling’s body and decapitates him with a ceiling fan. The genie embodies more people and museum artifacts to commit acts of violence. Many bloody murders ensue. In the form of a resurrected snakeskin, he murders an opera-singing security guard. Alex’s friend, Babs, takes a bath at the museum and is killed by the demonized snakes during her bath. The genie’s true form is finally revealed as he chases Alex and her friends down the halls of the museum. Help arrives and together, they try to “destroy the lamp to destroy the jinn by throwing the lamp into the fire inside the incinerator.

At the end of the credits, the opera-singing security guard returns to take a bow.

DEVELOPMENT The fantasy-horror movie The Lamp, produced by H.I.T. Films of Houston, Texas. Shot for a little more than $2 million in a little less than six weeks, the film will already have opened in most of the rest of the world by the time Skouras Pictures releases it here late this summer or early fall. According to Warren Chaney, The Lamp’s writer and producer-and Deborah Winters’ husband-that strategy enabled the film to make its money back even before a U.S. distribution deal was struck.

“This picture developed out of an old McGuffey Reader that had the ‘Aladdin and His Lamp’ story in it,” explains Chaney. “My mom used to read it to me when I was four or five years old. There was a picture of a genie in there-half-animal, half-man that wasn’t your friendly genie, and he scared me.”

Chaney went on to make his own 8mm films as a child. He later joined the Army, where he did TV shows, training films and videos and picked up a PhD in behavioral sciences. After leaving the military, he worked as a professional magician and then became involved in TV writing and production for The Fall Guy, among other programs. And even when he moved into feature production, serving as executive producer for the comedy Hunauna Bay (directed by Halloween III’s Tommy Lee Wallace), that childhood image was still working in his head. Finally, it worked its way out through his fingers and onto paper, and The Lamp was born. “My wife had been after me for some time to do a horror movie, because she loves horror films, but I didn’t want to do a regular dice-’em slice-’em thing. So I thought, ‘What would happen if Aladdin’s lamp really existed, and what if it did grant you wishes … but instead of the fantasy that has developed around the lamp, that of the nice sweet genie that grants your wish, it’s more like the actual mythology?’”

He began researching the idea, aided by some friends in the Middle East. “The legend of Aladdin really springs up in two quarters, with two existing legends. One is Chinese, one is Middle Eastern, and they both overlap somewhat,” Chaney elaborates. “Well, I didn’t know anyone in China, so I leaned toward the Middle Eastern version, which is essentially that the genie is a spirit that can take on the form of a man or animal, and it takes on more than that. It takes on the master. According to tradition, the master literally becomes enslaved by the lamp.”

The film’s actual budget was $1.6 million but by the time the production house and studios add on to it, it was around $3 to $3.7 million-about a third of the average film budget then. But, I spent only $1.6 on the film. The film had a 6 week prep time followed by a 5 week film shoot on location.

“I was originally going to shoot the movie in Hollywood. We were going to use Marina Del Rey and dress it up as Galveston,” admits Chaney. “but Fred Kuehnert, a friend of mine I’ve known for 14 or 15 years, said, ‘Why don’t you film this story in Texas? We’d like to get involved with you.’ We ended up shooting in Houston, in Galveston and in Los Angeles. We were able to get most of our locations in Houston, but had to return to LA to shoot some scenes.”

Kuehnert, the president and cofounder of H.I.T. Films in Houston, is no novice. He was executive producer of both The Buddy Holly Story and Aurora Encounter, and before that he served a long stint in TV production. He also knew how to get films funded. The Lamp ended up getting much of its production budget from investors in Kuwait, who were, as Chaney points out, interested in the legend.

Tom Daley, the film’s director, was there from the beginning as well. A former film student at the University of Texas, where he did some palling around with Tobe Hooper, Daley has directed commercials and music videos, including Julie Brown’s “Homecoming Queen’s Got A Gun.” (“I’m infamous for that one,” he laughs.) He and Chaney met at the Milan Film Festival in Italy a few years ago, and nearly collaborated on a movie to be called Breakdancers From Mars. Says Chaney, “It was a sciencefiction parody. It was also one of those cases where I’d get one part of the funding and I couldn’t get the other, then I’d get the other and the first would fall out, so circumstances were such that we began The Lamp instead.” In fact, Chaney, who has taught at the university level, is a bona fide film buff. He’s written articles on movies for several publications, and met his wife at a Western film convention in Memphis, where he was visiting his mother, Penny Edwards, a well-known B-Western star of the ’40 and ’50s. In conversation about The Lamp, he mentions such venerable films as Tod Browning’s Dracula, King Kong, and Howard Hawks’ The Thing. “With a name like Chaney, you have an obvious throwback to the classic horror films,” he chuckles. “I pulled a scene, slightly, from Man in the Iron Mask, there’s a shipboard scene like in Nosferatu, things like that just off and on throughout the picture. There’s a little touch of Lionel Atwill’s Mystery of the Wax Museum. And, obviously, I couldn’t leave out Phantom of the Opera, Hunchback of Notre Dame or The Unholy Three.”

Director Daley agrees that The Lamp harkens back to some of the classic horror films in many ways, although he cites Poltergeist as well as John Carpenter’s The Thing as an influence on his approach. He also credits cinematographer Herbert Raditschmig for the film’s look, which he says is “very rich.”

Whether or not The Lamp will establish itself as the best of the independent horror crop remains to be seen. But it already can claim one distinction. “The concept is the thing that’s really different,” claims Chaney. “There has never been an evil genie movie.”

One of the preliminary design for “The Genie” by Barbara Anne Bock

I did a few versions of the Lamp and Genie. The director just picked one. I always liked to draw mythical beasts. The Lamp is kind of based on sex. The two dragon things are having a good time! I know Chris Biggs sculpted the Lamp alone. The Lamp stayed pretty much the same during sculpture. Brian Wade, Chris Swift and Gabe Bartalos sculpted the Genie. It changed (for the better!) from the original sketch. They made it look great. It was about 10 feet tall and massive. – Barbara Anne Bock (“Genie” and “Lamp” Designer-Reel EFX)

“The Lamp” by Barbara Anne Bock

SPECIAL EFFECTS With Chaney producing, Daley attached as director, and Winters handling the casting and functioning as associate producer, The Lamp swung into preproduction. “It was a very ambitious project and we didn’t have much time to shoot it,” says first-time director Daley, “but the crew put up with working 15, 16 and 17 hours a day. It sometimes took until 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. to finesse the mechanical FX to the point where they were successful. But overall, everything went very smoothly. We spent so much time prepping it-from January until March of last year, working on the special FX, storyboarding the picture out, and doing the casting-that it went much smoother than most.”

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CGI didn’t really exist at that time as we have them today. The effects” that were added in post were mostly “animation such as the glow around the genie, the lamp clicker, smoke enhancement, etc. I knew and liked David Hewitt (Technomagic Film Effects/Hollywood Optical Systems], very much. He worked with us in post-production and some of the animation effects that were added, were his. David was a few years older than me, but being young at the time, we struck it off pretty good. He had also been involved with “stopmotion” animation and I was very tempted to go that way with the genie. Eventually, budget limitations and time overtook us, so I continued with what we had.

A five-man crew from Reel EFX (makeup FX and creature construction supervised by Gabe Bartalos and Jim Gill), in addition to the makeup and mechanical FX, also built the glass shields to keep the snakes away from the actors.

Some of Gabe Bartalos’ fondest memories of the shoot was the construction of the amazing genie and operating it on set. The sculpture, giant fiberglass molds and even foam fabrication was accomplished in Los Angeles at Reel EFX. We then trucked everything down to Huston, Texas, and set up a temporary work space. The genie was revealed in pieces, so we assembled him in sync with production. The first week just the arm was needed to burst through a wall, so Jim built an articulated aluminum armature that was inside the creature’s arm. I then painted the skin using a combination of rubber cement paint that was airbrushed on and complimented by hand painting details in PAX paint. By the time the full genie was needed, we were ready, and it was pretty impressive. The entire genie was mounted on a riser arm attached to a heavy weight dolly. Mounted on the sides of the dolly were the long controllers for the arms, torso rotation and head movement. Under the genie where his waist ended, we attached a cheesecloth pouch that had huge amounts of smoke pumped through it so it looked like the genie was floating on a column of smoke. When we pushed him through the museum at “high speed” with all of us on the dolly manipulating the creature, it was a real thrill—this was making a monster movie!

The genie was latex with foam rubber backing, sculpted from a ton and a half of clay. Its bottom part was mostly a liquid nitrogen tank; operation of the top was, according to Reel EFX’s Martin Becker, “partially pneumatic, partially hydraulic, and partially cable pull. And part of it was radio-controlled.” Becker is “fairly happy” with the work he and his crew did, although he feels that a bit more time would have served the FX better. The hardest part consisted of getting the 20-foot tall monster to move with some degree of freedom. With its elongated, fully-articulated arms stretched straight out, the three-fingered humanoid creature was 23-feet wide. The genie stands only eight feet tall. Its misty bottom was added by means of a liquid nitrogen tank connected below the waist. “The liquid nitrogen gave a nice effect, was non-toxic and didn’t smell everybody out of the room like a lot of fog generators do,” said Bartalos. “Basically, it’s 70 percent of what air is-only much colder. You only have to worry about getting frostbite.”

“The reanimated mummy” was an effect that I tackled” says Bartalos. I began by getting a store bought medical grade skeleton. I then molded its face and created a cement “positive” which allowed me to sculpt on new features. I gave the illusion that the eyes had dried into their sockets, that the skin collapsed around the bones’ high points, and that the overall texture was dried and decomposing. I then molded my facial sculptures and ran them in foam rubber. These pieces I now was able to apply to the skeleton’s face, custom made prosthetics for a skull! I added stringy white and grey hair and painted the whole skeleton with parched colors (a lot of grey and umber tones). At the same time Jim was we waist of the skeleton. He installed a cool pneumatic rig that allowed the skeleton to sit up on its own when activated. He also added a mechanism inside the jaw, so it could chomp down on one of the students’ fingers. For this effect I made a fake hand that had a blood tube concealed inside of it. In closeup you see the “Mummy” bite down on the fake hand and pierce the finger. In the wide shot it was the real actor (Scott Bankston] with his finger bent back with a prosthetic stump attached and plenty of flowing blood.

I did most of the on set gore effects. There is a scene where a lovely young lady [Damon Merrill] gets attacked by snakes while she takes a bath. I was tasked with applying nine different prosthetics to her entire body that simulated the snake bites. Right before cameras rolled, I added fresh blood dripping from the puncture holes and spritzed it with water. The added water over the blood made for a very real “bloody wet look.” One of my favorite effects was the “Night Watch-Man” character that is established as a junk food over-eater. I created a “wrap-around” prosthetic that gave the illusion that mysterious forces have slammed copious amounts of food down his throat. Once I applied this burst neck prosthetic, I placed various hard candies in the open wound: Smarties, Mints, Twizzlers, etc. Good fun.

The Lamp features a reanimated mummy, an animated skeleton and some gore FX as well, all done by Los Angeles’ Reel EFX The major effect is a 26-foot-tall genie-and, unlike the genies usually encountered in popular fiction, this one is anything but benevolent.

Hewitt’s most spectacular effect involved an animated scene in which the vaporous genie flies out of the lamp into a swimming pool, reaches up out of the water, and jerks an actor down by the legs. His favorite FX scene in the picture, however, is one that is mostly mechanical. “It’s the mummy scene in the museum, when the mummy bites the boy’s fingers off and then sits up and bites him in the throat,” he says. “The only thing we did there was right at the beginning of the scene, when the boy and the girl are running through the museum.

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We added the possession part, where the green vapor flies into the room real quick and just for a split second you see the skull of the mummy glow. All we did was enhance the stuff the guys at Reel EFX did. Physical and optical effects work really well together, and when you can put the two together it really sells the effect much better.”

Like the rest of the cast and crew, Hewitt worked under time constraints, finishing the opticals in five weeks. And, though he laughs about “rotoscoping on an airplane” in order to make his deadline, he found working on The Lamp a pleasant experience. “You couldn’t ask for a nicer guy to work with than Warren Chaney,” he states. “He was real open to suggestions. He really knows the pictures back to the silent days, all the effects pictures, so we had a great deal of fun together.”

For Deborah Winters, star of such mainstream films as Kotch and Class of ’44 as well as the recent TV miniseries Winds of War, working with makeup FX was a new experience-and a not altogether pleasant one. The interesting thing is that if she could’ve found an Arab woman in Houston, she probably would have been spared.

“I had all the agents looking, and they would send me an Italian woman, and a Mexican woman, and it just didn’t work out,” recalls Winters, whose previous horror movie experience includes 1976’s Blue Sunshine. “So Warren said one day, ‘Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do. I guess we’re just going to have to have Martin Becker’s people handle this as another special effect.’ And I said, “OK, that’s fine,’ because I was fed up with the whole thing of trying to find somebody,” she laughs. “Then Warren said, ‘You can do it.’ I said, ‘I can do it?’ He said, ‘Sure. You can change your voice and no one will even recognize you; it’ll save us a lot of money and you can forget about it.’” That was how Winters found herself encased in five hours worth of makeup for four shooting days, after flying to Los Angeles and getting a head and torso cast.

“Doing makeup FX in a movie is tough,” she affirms. “I really had no idea. Between the contact lenses and the makeup, and having to sit around and wait until you can’t move and you can’t eat. . . At one point, there was smoke involved in a scene, and the FX guys blew smoke in my face and I couldn’t breathe. It was an experience. But the worst of it was the two hours it took to remove the makeup. Believe me, it was very painful. I had my Early Times with me. After doing this thing, I don’t think we could’ve found anybody that would’ve wanted to go through it.

“It was worth it, of course,” she adds. “But one day Warren told me, ‘Maybe we can do a sequel with the old lady,’ and I said, ‘Listen, brother-if you do a sequel, you can play the old lady.'”

Winters also portrays the old lady as a young girl in the prologue, and has a major role as the museum curator’s paramour. The curator is played by James Huston, and his daughter is Andra St. Ivanyi, a student at the University of Houston who gets high marks from both Chaney and Fred Kuehnert for her performance. Chaney also speaks very highly of Hollywood Optical Systems, the LA outfit that created the optical FX for The Lamp. Fans of low-budget horror and science fiction will recall Optical’s boss, David Hewitt, as the director behind the threadbare ’60s epics Journey to the Center of Time, Dr. Terror’s Gallery of Horrors and The Mighty Gorga. For The Lamp, he and coworkers Bill Humphrey and Larry Arpin added more than 50 optical FX in post-production and, admits Chaney with a laugh, “saved my rear in a couple of places.”

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RELEASE/DISTRIBUTION/DELETED SCENES According to Warren Chaney, The Lamp was the title of the film as sent to distribution. H.I.T. Films separated U.S. domestic from overseas and so “two films” were born: “The Lamp” and “The Outing.” Skouras Pictures took the pic as The Lamp and released it in theaters in the overseas markets; TMS (The Movie Store) was the domestic distributor and wanted to cut 18 minutes out of the film in order that it could run “one more time” in the theaters. The original film ran 102 minutes but after their cut, it was reduced to 86 minutes. Now, their method for editing left a lot to be desired: they merely took a pair of scissors and cut 18 minutes off the front end; they tacked on some “cheap” credits and ripped off some of John’s music (John Carpenter] and they had a pic that would run 4 or 5 times per day instead of 3. Reviews for the original were pretty good; reviews for The Outing were much less so-and I agreed with the critics.

There were some longer shots of the genie that were cut out of the original scenes but later reinserted by the studio. My belief has always been that the “less you show” the greater the fear since people worry about what they can’t see. I wanted to film much less of the physical genie; Tom wanted to film more of the creature and so shot a great deal more footage in production. When I did the final edit however, I cut much of it out but as fate would have it, both distributors (Skouras Pictures and TMS) agreed with Tom and edited much of it back into the picture. I have always believed that when you are filming creatures “less is more,” but given the success both distributors had with the film, it’s hard for me to argue against them.

Five scenes were cut from the opening of the film. The opening scenes set the picture up to be a “tall tale”—there was considerably more detail about the ship, its cargo, and what happened on the way over (however, there were no hints as to the cause … you heard the screams and the helmsman lashing himself to the wheel). In a later scene (cut from the movie), one of the hoods (played by Hank Amigo, Brian Floores and Michelle Watkins] while delivering groceries, hears the old lady talking to the lamp. It occurred prior to the scenes where she was killed. That scene set up the “killers,” her, and her mystical aspects which is misunderstood by the thugs as her having a lot of money. When the scenes were cut, the picture opened in what was probably the poorest directed segment of the film: the scenes with the hoods in the van, on the way to the old woman’s house (if I had known this, I would have destroyed that part of the print). As a consequence, there was no “logic” to the film’s story from that point forward.

The end of the movie was trimmed (some 3 minutes). The museum director’s daughter [Andra St. Ivanyi) was being taken to a local hospital (explained by Detective Charles). Given the circumstances of the killings in the museum, the police are keeping her under guard. The teacher [Deborah Winters] remains to answer questions. There is a scene of a delivery truck delivering cases of soda. When the driver handles the cases, the bottles jingle, producing the sounds of the “evil-bracelet.” What was cut earlier was a quick scene early in the film when the driver is doing the same thing as the kids enter the museum. Andra St. Ivanyi looks at the truck and then at her bracelet. At the close of the film, the same thing happens, only now it’s a deathly reminder the girl of what happened. What was cut in the final scene was the close up of the bottles clinking together and making the bracelet sound.

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CAST/CREW Directed by Tom Daley Produced by Warren Chaney Written by Warren Chaney

Deborah Winters as Eve Ferrell / Young Arab Woman / Old Arab Woman James Huston as Dr. Wallace Andra St. Ivanyi as Alex Wallace Scott Bankston as Ted Pinson Red Mitchell as Mike Daley (as Mark Mitchell) André Chimène as Tony Greco Charity Merrill as Babs

Makeup Department John Blake … special makeup effects artist Ron Clark … hair stylist / makeup artist Thomas Floutz … special makeup effects artist William Forsche … special makeup effects artist (as Bill Forsche) Rick Jones … hair stylist / makeup artist Brian Wade … special makeup effects artist Gabriel Bartalos … special effects makeup Barbara Anne Bock … special effects makeup Nichael Boggio … special effects makeup Jack Bridwell … special effects contact lenses Lesley Chaney … special effects assistant Paul Clemens … special effects makeup William Forsche … special effects makeup (as Bill Forsche) Jim Gill … special effects makeup Tom Hartigan … special effects assistant Frankie Inez … special effects supervisor / special effects: California Bettie Kauffman … special effects coordinator Richard Mayone … special effects makeup James McLoughlin … special effects makeup Bart Mixon … special effects makeup Frank ‘Paco’ Munoz … special effects mechanical supervisor John Naulin … special effects makeup: California Steven Summerfield … special effects makeup Christopher Swift … special effects makeup coordinator (as Chris Swift) Brian Wade … special effects makeup

CREDITS/REFERENCES/SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY Fangoria#67 Cinefantastique v17n01 It Came from the 80s! Francesco Borseti

The Outing (1987) Retrospective SUMMARY In 1893, a young woman wears a magical bracelet and the dark shadow of an evil jinni (genie) looms over a bloody scene, foreshadowing the violence to come.

#80sFilms #80sHORROR

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farsouthproject · 8 years ago

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The Decay of the Angel:

Yukio Mishima and Paul Schrader on the Body, Death, Suicide, Sexuality and the Nature of Evil

Being a reworking of three previous blog posts into one essay.

On a hot day after Christmas, in a second-hand bookshop in Newcastle, New South Wales, I came across The Decay of the Angel by Yukio Mishima. It was one of those books that resonates immediately at some visceral level without even having to open the cover: the book as fetish object. On beginning to read in the shady basement where I was staying, one of the first impressions the book made on me was that the title, in English, seemed to be a mistranslation. The decay referred to pertains to a dimension dreamed by a rich old man, Shigekuni Honda, one of the novel’s main characters. The name of this dimension has been more often translated into English (from many and various Asian Buddhist texts) as the ‘God Realms.’ So the ‘angel’ who loses her wings would belong to a pantheon of gods and goddesses rather than a host like the seraphim.

A closer translation into English might have resonated with Wagner’s Götterdämerung (Twilight of the Gods), that I suspect may have been in Mishima’s mind when he wrote it. One strand of narrative traces Honda’s reconciliation to a less simplistic Buddhist world view than that with which he begins in the book. Could Mishima also be alluding to Nietzsche’s death of god? The allusion to decadence is still there. Despite the questionable title, The Decay of the Angel has been rendered in beautiful translated prose that evokes the sea, the ships, the industrial harbour of Yokohama, Honda’s dreams, and his obsession with a sixteen-year-old boy, whom he takes for a reincarnation of others he has followed in his life, all of whom have died young. Both Honda and the boy Tōru seek to destroy each other in a web of evil that ultimately threatens to destroy them both.

It was after completing the writing of this book, which Mishima considered to be his masterpiece, the last of his Sea of Fertility tetralogy, that he committed seppuku, planned as a grand theatrical staging of a ritual suicide at a headquarters garrison of the Japanese Self Defence Force, or the army by any other name. Mishima is considered by many to be a proto-fascist but the truth seems to be far more complex. Paul Schrader’s film, Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters, takes on the complexities of Mishima’s entire life as art; another resonance with Nietzsche’s idea of life as a constant act of creation: an expression of the will to power.

In an interview about his Mishima film, Schrader says, ‘I do believe that the life is his final work and I believe that Mishima saw it that way, too. He saw all his output as a whole, from the tacky semi-nude photographs to the Chinese poetry to the Dostoyevskian novels to his private army – it was all Mishima.’ (Schrader on Schrader, Faber and Faber.)

The film has never been distributed in Japan. Schrader says, ‘Mishima has become a non-subject. People read about him but there is no official viewpoint, so that if you’re at a dinner party and his name comes up there’s just silence. Now, that atmosphere of cultural discomfort is amplified by the fact that one of the precepts of the Japanese psyche is that outsiders really can’t understand them… So if (the Japanese) don’t understand Mishima, how can a foreigner possibly hope to?’

It’s true that when reading writers of other cultures, or writing about them, or making films about them, inevitably the maker creates his or her imaginary versions of that culture that those who are born into it may not share at all and resent the intrusion on the shared cultural construction of those born in place.

Schrader – as does Mishima’s biographer John Norton – sees Mishima’s suicide as the ultimate theatrical expression of a man who wanted to reconcile art and political action in real life. The film builds toward this climax in a collage of ‘present-time,’ flashback, and novel-dramatization, each with its particular filmic ‘look’ that draws on Costa Gavras, the black and white of the Golden Age of Japanese cinema, and the present day theatricality of the set designer Eiko Ishioka.

Purity, the Emperor and Suicide

A red rising sun opens the film and the image is underscored by Wagnerian echoes in the extraordinary music composed by Philip Glass. The music quickly transforms into a military snare tapping a march, as Mishima vests himself in the dress uniform of his private militia, the Shield Society. The film begins on the day when Mishima sets out with four cadets from the Shield Society, ostensibly to instigate a military coup but with the intention of committing seppuku because he knows that the coup will inevitably fail.

The end of the mission is foreshadowed in the film’s dramatization of Mishima’s novel The Runaway Horses. A group of military cadets plot a coup. Their leader, Isao, says to his followers: ‘The Emperor’s face is not pleased. Japan is losing its soul. In a single stroke, we’ll assassinate the leaders of capitalism. Burn the Bank of Japan… At dawn we’ll commit seppuku.’ To his military superior he says of the plot: ‘Japan will be purified. We’ll only use swords. Our best weapon is purity.’

In a telling interrogation, the police detective, who has arrested the young plot leader, says: ‘You’re still too young and pure. You will learn to tone down your feelings.’ Isao answers: ‘If purity is toned down it is no longer purity.’ And the detective: ‘Total purity is not possible in this world.’ And Isao’s reply: ‘Yes, it is… if you turn your life into a line of poetry written with a splash of blood.’

As a young man though, it appears that Mishima’s resolve of purity and oneness with the spirit of Bushido was undermined. Schrader’s film depicts Mishima in his late teens where he claims that his dream is to be a soldier and fight for the Emperor and Japan. The young Mishima is mortified when he exaggerates his physical weakness at his army medical and is discharged as unfit for service. In the film’s voiceover, the adult Mishima character says, ‘I always said I wanted to die on the battlefield. But my words were lies, I never really wanted to die.’

Schrader uses this moment as a turning point where the character of Mishima resolves to perfect his body, the better to embody the spirit of the Samurai. And this worship of the perfect body resonates with Mishima’s sense of his sexuality.

The Body and Sexuality

Schrader was stopped from using Forbidden Colours – Mishima’s most overtly gay novel – by Mishima’s widow who wished to play down her husband’s sexuality. Schrader got around this by basing some scenes on Mishima’s semi-autobiographical novel, Confessions of a Mask. He introduces the writer’s sexual orientation as he deals with the writer’s childhood. In the movie’s first chapter, entitled Beauty, at the age of twelve, Mishima is taken to the theatre by his grandmother and through an open door, he sees three Kabuki actors, all of them men, one of whom is playing the part of a woman, the others in effeminate make-up. Schrader’s shots of the boy and the actors creates a palpable sexual tension. At school, the boy is ridiculed by his classmates for being a poet. When the boy Mishima sees a picture of St Sebastian pierced by arrows it arouses him to masturbate.

During the black and white flashback sections of the film, Mishima is dancing with another man in a gay bar. He’s upset when his dance partner jokes that Mishima is too flabby. Mishima takes up bodybuilding to improve his physique.

In voiceover, Mishima says, ‘My life is in many ways like that of an actor. I always wear a mask. I play a role. When he looks in the mirror the homosexual, like the actor, sees what he fears most, the decay of the body.’

In the second chapter of the film, entitled Art, Schrader develops the character’s sexuality using a dramatization of Mishima’s novel Kyoko’s House. The actor in the story takes up bodybuilding as he fantasizes having the physique of a matador so that his body will be as beautiful as his face.

There follows a long voiceover soliloquy as Mishima, lauded in Japan, respected abroad, goes on a journey across the world.

‘As the ship approached Hawaii I felt as if I emerged from a cave and shook hands with the sun. I’d always suffered under a monstrous sensitivity, what I lacked was health, a healthy body, a physical presence. Words had separated me from my body. The sun released me. Greece cured my self-hatred and awoke a will to health. I saw that beauty and ethics were one and the same, creating a beautiful work of art and becoming beautiful oneself are identical. I attained physical health after becoming an adult. Such people are different from those born healthy, we feel we have the right to be insensitive to trivial concerns. The loss of self through sex gives us little satisfaction. I was married in 1958, my daughter was born in 1959 and my son in 1961.’

In the dramatization of Kyoko’s House the bodybuilding actor gets into an argument with a visual artist. The actor says, ‘The human body is the work of art. It doesn’t need artists.’ But the artist replies: ‘Okay, let’s say you’re right. What good does your sweating and grunting do. Even the most beautiful body is destroyed by age. Where is beauty then? Only art makes human beauty endure. You must devise an artist’s scheme to preserve it. You must commit suicide at the height of your beauty.’

The actor signs a sadomasochistic pact with an older woman libertine who cuts and burns the actor’s beautiful body before they commit suicide together.

Evil as Aesthetic in De Sade, Genet and Mishima

In The Decay of the Angel, the old man, Shigekuni Honda steals a glance at the young Tōru ‘and felt that he was seeing in that glance his own life… The evil suffusing that life had been self-awareness. A self-awareness that knew nothing of love, that slaughtered without raising a hand, that relished death as it composed noble condolences, that invited the world to destruction while seeking the last possible moment for itself… his own inclinations all through his long life had been to make the world over into emptiness, to lead men to nothing – complete destruction and finality.’

Honda wants to cultivate Tōru’s evil potential. The evil in The Decay of the Angel is all on the level of personal betrayal. The aesthetic is similar to that of Jean Genet who gives himself over to sordid betrayal and punishment. He makes Evil into Good, or more than that: into holiness and sanctity; hence Sartre’s essay Saint Genet.

In Literature and Evil, Georges Bataille points out that in Sartre’s essay on Jean Genet: ‘It seems to me that the whole question of Good and Evil revolves around one main theme – what Sade called irregularity. Sade realised that irregularity was the basis of sexual excitement. The law (the rule) is a good one, it is Good itself (Good, the means by which the being ensures its existence), but a value, Evil, depends on the possibility of breaking the rule. Infraction is frightening – like death: and yet it is attractive, as though the being only wanted to survive out of weakness, as though exuberance inspired that contempt for death which is necessary once the rule has been broken.’

Just as Honda wants ‘to lead men to nothing – complete destruction and finality’, Sade in Les Cent Vingt Journées de Sodome imagined as many ways as possible to destroy human beings singularly and collectively. Bataille says: ‘In the solitude of prison Sade was the first man to give a rational expression to those uncontrollable desires, on the basis of which consciousness has based the social structure and the very image of man… Indeed this book is the only one in which the mind of man is shown as it really is. The language of Les Cent Vingt Journées de Sodome is that of a universe which degrades gradually and systematically, which tortures and destroys the totality of the beings which it presents… Nobody, unless he is totally deaf to it, can finish Les Cent Vingt Journées de Sodome without feeling sick.’

Sade spent time in jail because he acted out to some extent the frenzies to which he was driven. He did cut a female beggar, Rose Keller, with a penknife and pour wax into her wounds. He did organise orgies at the castle of Lacoste though not to the extent of acting out the fantasies he wrote of in Les Cent Vingt Journées de Sodome, but for sure, women and men were badly hurt. In comparison with characters in the writings of Genet and Sade, the evil of Honda, or of Georges Bataille’s characters, is a little tamer. Honda, as we see, holds back at ‘the last possible moment.’

And Honda’s female friend, Keiko, tells Honda’s protégé, Tōru: ‘You’re a mean, cunning little country boy of the sort we see sprawled all over the place. You want to get your hands on your father’s money, and so you arrange to have him declared incompetent… your sort of evil is a legal sort of evil. All puffed up by illusions born of abstract concepts, you strut about as the master of destiny even though you have none of the qualifications. You think you have seen the ends of the earth. But you have not once had an invitation beyond the horizon… You’re a clever boy, no more.’

Whereas Sade and Genet pushed their criminality in waking life to extremes beyond ‘decency,’ they pulled back at the last moment from death, and left that ultimate ‘expression of freedom’, if it can be called that, to their literature. Mishima did not go so far in his literature as Sade or Genet, or even Bataille, in their portrayals of sexuality. And Mishima is the better writer for it.

Finally, Mishima didn’t pull back – as Honda and Tōru do – in his life or his death. He was determined to unify his actions and his art. It’s Mishima’s obsession with the body and beauty and its connection to his sexuality and ideas of purity that creates the complex psychology that foreshadows his death by suicide and how he made that theatrical performance of seppuku the union of action and art.

In Schrader’s film, in voiceover Mishima says: ‘The average age for men in the bronze age was eighteen, in the Roman era, twenty-two. Heaven must have been beautiful then. Today it must look dreadful. When a man reaches forty he has no chance to die beautifully. No matter how he tries, he will die of decay. He must compel himself to live.’

But Mishima already was losing the desire to live. Again, in voiceover, the adult Mishima says: ‘A writer is a voyeur par excellence. I came to detest this position. I sought not only to be the seer but also the seen. Men wear masks to make themselves beautiful. But unlike a woman’s, a man’s determination to become beautiful is always a desire for death.’

Politics

In the third Chapter of Schrader’s film, entitled Action, Mishima, as writer, has reached the height of his fame, and has perfected his body to the point of narcissistic infatuation. He poses for photographs as a samurai, as St Sebastian, as the successful artist beside Greek sculptures. He founds a private militia, complete with uniforms designed by himself and the tailor to General Charles De Gaulle. He names his militia the Shield Society, a spiritual army to protect the Emperor and the pure spirit of Japan. He is aware of the ridiculousness of his position. In a speech to gathered dignitaries of the theatre world of Japan and the West he states: ‘Some people have called us toy soldiers. But our goal is to restore the noble tradition of the Way of the Samurai. I have always supported the tradition of elegant beauty in Japanese literature. I cannot stop striving to unite these two great traditions.’

When Mishima is invited to speak on campus at a university protest occupation in the sixties, there is something absurd in his facing the vociferous students. They accuse him of being illogical in his purist stance. He says: ‘Having got to this position out of sheer pride, I’m not going to become logical now. We all want to improve Japan. We’ve all played the same cards, but I have the Joker. I have the Emperor.’

In voiceover, he says of the moment where he faced the students: ‘For a moment I felt I was entering the realm where art and action converge, for a moment I was alive.’

Seppuku

Chapter Four of Schrader’s movie is entitled The harmony of pen and sword. Mishima says in voiceover: ‘The harmony of pen and sword. This samurai motto used to be a way of life. Now it’s forgotten. Can art and action still be united? Today this harmony can only occur in a brief flash. A single moment.’

He dedicates more of his life to the Shield Society.

‘Running in the early mist with the members of the Shield Society I felt something emerging as slowly as my sweat. The ultimate verification of my existence… Our members were allowed to train in the facilities of the regular army. I flew in a combat fighter. These privileges were granted to us because of the symbolic significance of our society. Even in its present weakened condition the army represented the ancient code of the Samurai. It was here, on the stage of Japanese tradition, I would conduct my action. Having come to my solution I never wavered. Who knows what others will make of this? There would be no more rehearsals.

‘Body and spirit had never blended. Never in physical action had I discovered the chilling satisfaction of words. Never in words had I experienced the hot darkness of action. Somewhere there must be a higher principle that reconciles art and action. That principle it occurred to me was death. The vast upper atmosphere where there is no oxygen is surrounded with death. To survive in this atmosphere, man, like an actor, must wear a mask. Flying at 45,000 feet, the silver phallus of the fuselage floated in sunlight, my mind was at ease, my thought process lively, no movement, no sound, no memories. The closed cockpit and outer space were like the spirit and body of the same being. Here I saw the outcome of my final action. In this stillness was a beauty beyond words, no more body or spirit, pen or sword, male or female. Then I saw a giant circle coiled around the earth, a ring that resolved all contradictions, a ring vaster than death, more fragrant than any scent I have ever known. Here was the moment I’d always been seeking…’

The final act of the film and of Mishima’s life in politics and art took place on November 25th 1970. Allowed into the barracks of the Japanese Self-Defense Force with his four cadets, and welcomed into the commander’s office, Mishima took the general hostage and demanded that the soldiers of the garrison be commanded to assemble in front of the building in order to hear his speech. The general acceded to his demands. Mishima stepped out onto the balcony and addressed the soldiers. He exhorted them to rise up in the spirit of Bushido and to install the Emperor as the rightful ruler, and to protect the pure spirit of Japan from Western military and economic occupiers. Ridiculed as much by the soldiers as he had been by the university students, Mishima realized that the soldiers had hardly heard a word of his cry for resistance.

Mishima stepped off the balcony from where he had delivered his final address. In the office of the commander of the barracks, he knelt to disembowel himself. He botched the ritual. One of his cadets was supposed to behead him with a sword. The chosen one made a mess of it and another cadet had to take over while the first cadet committed suicide. Tastefully, Schrader doesn’t show the acts of self-butchery. The film closes with a poetic vision of the rising sun and the poetic lines of transcendence that describe the final moments of Mishima’s character Isao from The Runaway Horses…

What is it in Mishima and in Schrader’s biographical account of his life that holds such a fascination for me?

On an aesthetic level, Schrader is a Western artist who is trying to understand an artist of the East who is a fanatic in his pursuit of perfection. This essay (in the French sense of essayer) became an obsession for me: another way of understanding my attraction to the idea of a pure and unattainable perfection whether in literature or spirituality.

Mishima, as symbol, embodies for me all those weaknesses of systems that strive for such purity of spirit; that are inevitably an expression of the egotism of wanting to be a master – of oneself or of others; combined with the whole traditional set-up of sensei and disciples, that finds its ultimate expression in the blindness or delusion of an inner group convinced of its rightness and purity: the fanaticism of seeking purity in the spirit or in art that inevitably collapses into messy and tragic farce.

Schrader’s film plays this out on screen: Mishima played it out in his life and art. It’s not that Mishima didn’t produced great works of literature. He did. But the extremes that literature permits us to explore belong to art, to cinema, to writing…

De Sade belonged in jail. Genet was happy to end up in jail. Mishima was happy to die as he did. Their literature permits us to go to imaginative extremes, to liberate ourselves of concepts that stop us being internally free; to face up to the dark side of the psyche, to the fascination with the scatological.

Bataille kept his excesses to the literary and the consensual for which it’s possible to have far more respect. Baudelaire, too, to some degree. As a writer who regards commitment to literature and the political to be crucial to life, I can’t help but mention Samuel Beckett. Beckett didn’t shirk his responsibilities to the political world: he risked his life in the French Resistance against the Nazis. At the same time, he had a total commitment to literature.

How much saner, or for me more enviable, is Beckett’s approach than that of Mishima, or De Sade, or Genet? ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.’

Bataille says that ‘Nobody, unless he is totally deaf to it, can finish Les Cent Vingt Journées de Sodome without feeling sick.’ There were moments in writing this essay where I felt something similar in confronting Mishima’s outlook and embracing Schrader’s interpretation of his life. No doubt, the subject touches something terrifying in the darkness of my own psyche.

At a physical level, Mishima’s choice to die at forty-five when at the peak of one’s power is ridiculous: there is so much more living to do. It’s easier to understand Hemingway’s decision at the age of sixty-two. With mind and body passing sixty, there is a sense of fearing death less than facing mental and physical deterioration and incapacity.

In 2016, I lost my brother to early onset Alzheimer’s Disease. Even without such a tragic and heartbreaking illness, at the moment, I’m aware that my physical and mental capacities must inevitably diminish. Having witnessed in another, so close to me by blood, and more, the ravages of such a debilitating illness, the engagement with Yukio Mishima’s writing and Paul Schrader’s film of his life, makes this essay a direct confrontation of my own fears of old age, sickness and death. No matter how much the idea of death as less frightening than physical and mental deterioration, I take solace in Nietzsche’s understanding of our constant becoming as an irrepressible expression of the creative will, aware that there is a part of me, no matter how deep the moments of desperation, that still insists on its expression in life.

#yukio mishima #de sade #georges bataille #jean genet #samurai #japanese literature #paul schrader #nietzsche

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