#through incarnations and echoes through time through space

[trvthservm]

// age gap // dubious consent // student teacher relationship nanami knows he's a sick, sick man. he realises the extent of his depravity when his eyes first fall on your innocent form when you walk into his class for the first time. he knows its wrong to look at you like that — to look at you like he wants to eat you whole. you are none the wiser, always wearing the shortest plaid skirts and sweaters that hang off your shoulder, just to entice him with the baby pink bra strap that digs into your skin. 

he knows what kind of girl you are. the kind to wear strawberry flavoured lipgloss and vanilla perfume, like a doll wrapped up just for him to get his claws into. he knows that you are a hardworking girl, someone who burns the midnight oil instead of partying out like her peers. no, he knows you sit down at your desk dressed in frilly pajamas, going through his recorded lectures and notes so you could be the best in his class. 

he wants you like how the snake wanted eve to push her pearly white teeth into the apple, letting the sinful juice drip down her lips. he wants you like how evil wants carnage.

its not difficult for him either, to get a pretty thing like you under him. all he has to do is ask you to stay back in the big lecture hall, watch the way your throat bobs as he walks closer, a smirk playing on his lips. it does not take him long to have your lips wobble and your eyes filled with fresh tears.

its easy to have you pliant and ready to do as he pleases when he tells you that your grades have significantly dropped. he sees your animated face shake slowly, denying it internally. he smiles to himself with the panic painted on your face. 

"it happens," he lies, "girls like you work hard in the beginning and then get distracted with boys." he lies again. you shake your head fervently, hoping he sees your desperation. you deny it with honeyed words, your begging saccharine sweet to his ears.

you are angel incarnate and he's the devil's son. 

he has you on your knees trying to show him how good of a student you are, how you only focus on professor nanami's lectures. he has you worship his sinful cock like it was the holy truth of god. he doesnt mind the sticky pink gloss that coats his length. he welcomes it. it reminds him of how awful of a man he is.

he holds your hair out of your face like he cares, like he wants to be a supportive as he can. instead he uses all his force to pull you onto his dick over and over again. your sweeet moans and the noises of your restricting throat fills the hall, echoing throughout. he knows its fucked for him to have you serving him while countless other academics used that space to change the minds of students. 

he only cares about taking control of your mind. he cant help himself , not even when he pulls his throbbing cock out of your soft mouth so he can have your legs thrown on his shoulders. he pushes himself into you, the only preparation your virgin cunt had was his soft kiss to her and a rough two fingers gauging if he could fit.

he surely doesn't regret it when he feels you wrapped around him, your body shaking with the wrongful pleasure you felt. he definitely doesn't when he picks up your skirt hiding the way you were both connected just so he could take a good look at the way he had debauched his favorite student. 

[dulcet-aurora]

permanent . damian wayne x reader. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ ❛ when you press me to your heart, i'm in a world apart. ❜

❪ in which. ❫ what better an idea to immortalize your best friend in time.

⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. pining, pining, pining. did i mention pining? slightly ooc damian but like whatever i just want a yearning man. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕. 1.3k. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔. @di-lucss, @ephemerensis, @dollishmehrayan, @aangelinakii, @minorlyatfault. ⸼ ࣪ ✿ 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓. inspired by thinking of you by sister sledge! the writing is an actual excerpt from my diary about a man because if he won't yearn i obviously have to. ignore how shitty this is because it was 10pm and i miss the girl i used to be. enjoy!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒊f i were any other version of myself in this timestream i would say that i am exhausted of being in love. my thoughts are blurred by a fog where each particle of water is one tiny thing creating this sole, large, mystical being that cloud my senses and drive me half to insanity.

but i am a changed man and unlike the child formed of snapped bones and spilled blood that was deemed as useless as water, i have found myself thriving on the galleons of blood pumped daily by my palpitating heart for this girl. she is magic incarnate and i am under her spell. i cannot explain it and it is terrifying and awfully thrilling all at once because this is the first time i have not been able to draw a conclusion or a reasonable answer based on fact nor logic to my feelings. my feelings themselves have always been buried— crushed by burdens and grandfather's teachings that emotion was weakness, but for some reason she has latched them by a hook and drawn them up and claimed them as her own.

in my own way i fear her. she is the very opposite of every lesson i've been taught, the moral behind every beating i took. she took my heart of stone and cracked it in two and found the humanity within me, glowing like the contents of a geode and it shines just for her. i do not know how she managed it. i do not know how i let her manage to do it. i have never been vulnerable and never did i think i would ever be vulnerable and yet i stand here pouring out my feelings in ink like the blood i spilled as a child.

yes, it on paper but i would rather stain the carcass of a tree than the blank canvas which is her and risk leaving the mark of my impurity on something as pristine as her. i cannot bear damaging her because i felt too much.

— d.t.w.

damian sat on the floor at the foot of the piano bench, the tip of his pen hovering limply over the paper. his feelings stared back at him like a mutilated corpse, ugly and disgusting and something he couldn't believe he'd done in a moment of clouded judgement. the sound of the piano echoes through the empty ballroom of wayne manor. the space was empty and rarely used more than twice a month for when bruce held a gala. you sat at the beautiful grand piano, your fingers delicate on the keys as the instrument sang a solemn melody.

you pressed aimless keys as the moment of serenity faded and the melody fizzled out. "do you ever get frustrated with a piece of your art?" you sighed, leaning forward on the bench to peer at the sheet music of your newest piece that you'd scribbled out on a few sheets of loose-leaf paper. the penmanship was horrendous, chicken scratch only a musician could read in between wrinkles and creases from being folded time and time over to fit in your pocket.

damian snapped his journal shut. "exasperation in the creation of beauty is inevitable," he said. "you as a musician should already know this."

"you always make it look so effortless, though," you groaned, supporting your weight with your hands as you leaned back on the bench.

"do i?" he arched a dark eyebrow, his viridian eyes glinting with something between curiosity and amusement.

"yes," you sighed. "you can paint, you can sculpt, you can write the perfect essay. art comes naturally to you."

damian pondered this for a moment. "i come from a long line of individuals who took pride in the destruction in beautiful things," he said. "i suppose i did not want to be like them, when there are so many specks of the heavens in the world around us. i chose to trap them in time then to make them memories."

"you would be a lovely playwright," you declared after a beat. you cleared your throat, "i bethink thou art something of a twenty-first century shakespeare." you reached over the side of the piano bench and gripped the cover of his journal.

damian's heart stopped. he yanked the journal from your grasp so hard you pitched forward and had to steady yourself by gripping the piano. "methinks you jest." he snapped.

"methinks thou hadst a stick up thy ass."

"methinks thou shouldst shut thy trap." damian tilted his head back to look up at you.

you put a hand over your mouth and laughed, and damian's heart jackhammered against his ribs. that laugh, that feeling reminded him why he chose to paint your smile that he saw every time he closed his eyes, why he sculpted your jaw that he dreamed to hold with the tenderness he was never shown, and why he made you a permanent fixture in time with his words.

"play me that piece again," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent.

"you've heard it a thousand times," you complained, wringing your hands. "along with my tears and sobs and fussing."

"i enjoy it," damian said simply, rising from the floor and sitting beside you on the bench. your knees pressed against each other. damian wishes it was your lips.

"well, you have to," you pouted, "you're my best friend."

"i am not obligated to 'liking' anything, i enjoy what is enjoyable and your piece fits the criteria of pleasurable things," he said. "so play it again."

you groaned and before damian could even exhale to protest again you poised your hands over the piano and began to play.

magic flowed from your hands, infusing the keys with some sort of golden ichor with every press of your fingers. it was a piece in f minor, but transitioning to a sweeter major with a signal of a small breath from your lips. it was incomplete, damian could see the question marks replacing notes on the staff on the last page of music but, oh, was it beautiful. if your hands hadn't both been on the keys he would've laced your fingers together.

eventually the melody tapered off again and you sighed in defeat, slumping your elbows against the keys with an exasperated huff. "yeah, that's that," you sighed.

"it is a lovely composition," damian said earnestly.

you smiled faintly. "i had a great inspiration."

he tilted his head. "did you?"

you sighed, your gaze almost dreamy. "the best."

your words stuck with damian all day, even till the dead of night where he lay awake and his brain did its usual run through of the thought of you. he lay in his bed and you were tucked against his side, passed out after hours of trying to figure out the right notes. your sheet music lay on your stomach and your pen was clasped loosely between your fingers. damian sighed.

"foolish girl," he mumbled, brushing hair from your face. you sighed in your sleep and damian softened. he took the sheet music off your abdomen and plucked your pen from your limp hand. he turned around as gently as he could to set your sheet music on his nightside table. as he laid it down on the top he caught a glance of the title and his breath hitched.

damian's theme. a musical memoir to the boy i adore. written in a handwriting that was messy and barely legible and that could only be yours.

he stiffened. "i had a great inspiration. the best." you had said. his heart slammed against his ribs once more and he was sure his bones were painted red from how often that happened. he looked over at you, his sleepy musician, his modern day clara schumann, the reason he chose to create instead of destroy.

damian made art because it was permanent, and it was precious. he'd never felt precious or had anything remotely permanent in his life other than the ghosts from his past that followed him. but now he realized that he truly was treasured. and it wasn't so bad.

© dulcet-aurora 2025.

[meleeyz]

┈﹒ ꒰ 𝗚𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗖𝗔𝗚𝗘, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 ꒱

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ Perhaps this is too dramatic for some ;)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Night in Piltover was quiet elegance, the kind that dripped with wealth and feigned perfection. Stars winked above, their light reflected by the towering spires and crystalline windows of the city. But tonight, amidst the gleaming grandeur, a soft tension thrummed in the cool air. Beneath the golden glow of lanterns, your white dress shimmered like starlight incarnate, its delicate embroidery and flowing silk whispering wealth and purity. You felt like an angel about to take a leap into the unknown—or a cage.

Inside the grand church, the air was heavy with anticipation. The pews were filled with Piltie elite, their fine attire and sparkling jewels a contrast to the warmth you wished for but couldn’t find. Beside you stood your almost-husband, the epitome of Piltover’s carefully curated perfection. He smiled at you, his expression more practiced than earnest, as if your presence were just another acquisition in his long list of accomplishments.

You hated it.

Your heart didn’t flutter for him. It raced for someone else—a boy who shouldn’t even have made it to this part of the city. Ekko. The name was like a secret melody in your mind, one only you could hear.

He wasn’t here yet, but he’d promised he’d come. He’d promised to take you away from this sham of a life, from this hollow marriage and suffocating world of pristine surfaces and rotting cores.

Yet, as you waited, time ticked on mercilessly.

Across the street, atop a marble rooftop, Ekko crouched in the shadows, barely breathing. From his perch, the church looked unreal, like something out of a fairy tale he’d long stopped believing in. And there you were at its heart, radiant in your white dress.

His “Firefly.”

You glowed brighter than anything he’d ever seen in Zaun. Brighter than the neon signs that buzzed and sputtered in the Sump, brighter than the firelight his crew wielded against the darkness. You weren’t just his light; you were his hope. And that terrified him.

What was he doing here? How could he possibly ask you to leave this behind—to leave safety, luxury, and a future so carefully paved for you? What could he give you, really? A life in the Undercity, filled with danger and constant struggle? A target painted on your back because of who he was and what he fought for?

Ekko’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He’d planned it all out—how he’d swoop in, crash the wedding, and take you with him. But now, paralyzed by his own doubts, all he could do was watch as your future was written without him.

Inside the church, your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. Every second that passed chipped away at the fragile hope you clung to.

“Are you all right, my dear?” your fiancé asked, his tone smooth but empty. It was the voice of someone who didn’t really care for the answer.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though your throat felt tight, and your words came out more brittle than you intended.

His brow arched slightly, and a polite chuckle escaped his lips.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

You froze, your mind racing for a lie.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just…nerves.”

If he saw through you, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded, his focus already drifting back to the priest at the altar.

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing through the cavernous space.

Your breath caught, your fingers curling into the delicate fabric of your dress. This was it. This was the moment. You turned toward the church doors, your eyes scanning the shadows outside for any sign of him.

Please, Ekko. Please don’t let me make this mistake.

But all you saw was the flicker of green light, distant and fleeting.

He was gone.

Ekko didn’t dare look back.

His hoverboard zipped through the alleyways, a glowing streak in the dark. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to run back into that church and fight for you, to whisk you away like he’d promised. But he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t good enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t enough.

“She deserves better,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking. “She deserves better than me.”

His words rang hollow, and the weight of them nearly made him falter. But the hoverboard carried him forward, away from the world you belonged to and deeper into the place he called home.

Your heart shattered, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces as you realized he wasn’t coming. He had left you here, in this gilded prison, to face a future you didn’t want.

The priest’s words barely registered as he continued the ceremony, and when your fiancé slipped the ring onto your trembling finger, you didn’t protest. What was the point?

Yet, as you repeated the vows, your voice was hollow. The promises felt like lies falling from your lips, each one carving another scar into your heart.

In that moment, you hated Ekko. You hated him for giving you hope, for making you believe there was something more, for making you love him so deeply that the absence of him felt like drowning. But more than that, you hated yourself for still loving him, even now.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[the-californicationist]

Hello Cali ❤️. Por alguna razón no te había visto más en mi muro de tumblr y me preguntaba si no estabas aquí, por eso busqué tu perfil y me di cuenta que tumblr me estaba jugando una mala pasada.

How are you??? I'm so busy because I have a loooot of work, pero me tomaré el tiempo de leer todo lo que me perdí de ti ✨✨✨

YOU ARE THE BEST, OK? I LOVE YOU ❤️💍

Quisiera que escribieras un smut de John Price CEO/Mafia con un Reader inteligente y astuto, que queda cautivado cuando John comienza a seducirla, porfis ✨

Anything for you, my friend!! I love you so much <3 <3

Wonderland

John Price is a famous mob boss... but you don't know that. All you know is that you've got a crush on a mysterious, handsome man, and you're willing to go all the way to find out if his bite is as bad as his bark.

The parking garage was dark, and the concrete seemed to hold in the cold like a freezer. It felt like ice on his cheekbone, and not even the blood from his eye socket was enough to warm the skin. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, that odd whooshing sound, and in a distant memory he could recall the first time he had ever gotten a black eye. But, all that was gone now. He had ratted out the one man that no one had dared fuck with in the past five years: John Fucking Price.

Those fucking coppers had said they’d protect him. He even had his people outside his house every hour of every day. How could this happen? He had to admit, he wasn’t even scared, he was just pissed off. Fucking bastards. They’d get what was coming to them. Maybe he’d tell them so. Not like they'd give him any more chances.

“Fuck you, Price. I hope those pigs skin you alive,” he spit out the blood that had began to pool in his mouth, and hoped it hit those stupid boots John was always wearing.

John Price slid his shoe away from the red stain that had began to swell on the ground, keeping his kangaroo leather Berlutis from ruin. The fool beneath his feet had no idea what was about to happen to him, and John almost felt sorry about it, if only for a moment. He and Vinson had been friends once. Hell, he’d even stood up at his wedding. 

“Vince, what did I tell you about that bloody mouth of yours? Said it'd get you into trouble, didn't I? Wish there was something I could do for you now, cause you and me, we used to be mates. But, I can't afford friends like you. Not anymore," Price gave the rat a quick shove with his heel and watched as the stain smeared in a thin streak across the cement. He turned to his men,

"Well, lads, I've got a party to get to. You wouldn't mind cleaning things up here for me, would’ya?"

"No, boss," was their quiet reply.

"You'll be sorry, you goddamn pussy!" Vinson was screaming now, "I hope they hang you from the fuckin’-”

Bang! The loud gunshot echoed through the hollow space.

Vinson didn't say anything after that.

"Let's get outta here, Gaz."

"Right away, boss," Gaz opened the door to the limo and prepared to drive John back into the city. There was a big gala at the Genting Casino tonight, and Mr. John T. Price was never late.

He was never early either. In fact, he was perfection incarnate. When he was younger, that wasn't always the case, but after his father died, he had needed to change. No one was fit to rule Liverpool in his stead, and he was thankful that no one had been foolish enough to try. His father had made this town what it is. Liverpool was built by his family, and even though everyone thought the Price regime had grown tired of their reign on the old docks, they couldn't have been farther from the truth.

John had his cut from all of the major casinos, and he traded security in exchange. He owned two of them himself, along with four shopping malls, five bars, three neighborhoods, two apartment complexes, and a golf course - not to mention the property that wasn't in his name. He made sure to give his men plenty of reign over their own enterprises, even if most of them were strip clubs. But, he didn't care. As long as tribute came in every quarter, he never messed around in their business.

He thought Vinson was one he could trust. He'd even given him a car dealership just last month. 

"Don't run it into the ground, Vince," he had said.

But, no. What had the little bastard gone and done? Put a tracker on his car and dropped bugs in his office. After everything he'd done for him, that's how he was repaid? To tell the truth, John never liked violence. It was awkward. But, his father had given him fists and showed him how to use them, so there was really no going against it. Violence and fear were vital pieces of the only language that men like Vince could understand. Now, with another family coming to Liverpool, John had to be on his best behavior. Even if 'best' was a little more loosely defined.

As he lit the tip of his last cigar, he reminded Gaz to grab him another few sticks on the way home. Gaz would've never turned coat on him like Vince did. He'd give him the car lot.

"You want the dealership on Sefton street, Kyle?" He offered.

"Sure, boss. Thanks a lot," Gaz smiled, knowing exactly which business he was talking about, "You want me to pull around back?"

They had arrived at the main entrance. Throngs of people were craning around the limo, trying to see who was inside. John thought about it for a second, smushed his cigar tip into the ashtray, and adjusted his tie.

"Nah," he said, "We'll give them the show tonight."

"Sure thing, boss."

Gaz parked the car and leapt out of the cab. His hand was on the door before John could take another breath, and on either side of the door, some of Price’s own foot soldiers took up their posts as bodyguards. When he emerged from the muffled quiet of the limo, it shocked John for a moment to be in such a whirl of chaos.

"Mr. Price, can I get a photo?"

"Over here, please, Mr. Price," a cute reporter was frantic enough to step in front of his men. They picked her up and put her back in the crowd.

John made sure to smile and wave, shake hands with those he had seen before, but he knew it was safer inside. 

The manager greeted him warmly and, he noted, by first name,

"John! Good to see you again, mate. We've got just the table for you, tonight. Wait til you see the legs on these girls! It'll be a night to remember."

"I'm sure it will."

"Ah, sorry, but we don't allow weapons past the main floor," the manager's face fell. So did Kyle’s. 

Gaz cleared his throat,

"I'm sure you can make an exception for Mr. Price. We'll be very discreet."

It was more of a threat than a promise, and John smiled at his friend's heavy tone. Kyle was anything if not polite.

"Uh, yes, we can certainly make arrangements. Right this way, gentlemen," and now the manager was nothing if not nervous. Perfect.

The night continued as well as it could, but he had never really enjoyed gambling. Why make all this money if he was just going to throw it into the wind? But, he could mingle with the right people here. Except that these weren't his people. He had come as a favor to his long time friend, Alex Keller, but Alex was nowhere to be found. 

"Passed out on his missus’ tits, probably!" One of the strangers guffawed at the other end of the Blackjack table. 

"He’ll show, don't you worry," another replied.

Well, John didn't have all night to wait on a man to get to his own party. He needed a drink. When he rose to head to the bar, Gaz stopped him,

"I'll get it, boss. No need to bother yourself with it."

The table was silent. The strangers who had been so brassy before were now silent and transfixed on the pair of men at their table, one of whom was important enough to have his slightest whim catered to at a moment's notice.

"It's alright, Garrick. Play my hand, yeah? I'm headed out for a smoke."

"Yes, sir."

John retreated. The awkward stares and weird glances were too much for him to bear. Surely there was a patio around here, somewhere.

By the time he found one, he was disappointed to see it was occupied.

"Oh, beg your pardon. Thought I was alone out here," he said.

To his shock, it was a woman's voice that responded from the shadows. Your voice. 

"You're fine. You got a light? Fuckin’ matches are all wet..." You fumbled with the book, striking to no avail.

He smirked,

"I have the fire if you've got an extra smoke."

"Fair trade," you smiled back jokingly. 

You were dressed in a clean chef's coat, your hair was pulled up, and you might have been going without makeup, but it was almost too dark to tell. It certainly wasn't casino makeup, that was for sure. John watched as you tugged two cigarettes free from the box, put them to your soft lips, and covered his flame with your hand. Your fingernail paint was pink and chipped. You pulled in the fire of both cigarettes and offered one to him. He took it,

"Thanks."

You grunted in a minimal response.

"So, you're a chef?" He asked.

You raised an eyebrow at him, giving him the glare he deserved for such an obvious question.

He back pedaled, 

"I mean, you work here as a chef. I just thought, with the coat...I mean, where's your big bloody hat? You need the hat."

You laughed. It was wonderful to hear, and he liked the way your mouth moved when you started to speak,

"Yeah, I work here. Have for the past three years or so. Bill signed me on as head chef, and I've been slaving away for him ever since."

"Bill?"

"Oh, he's the culinary manager. Runs all the restaurants in the casino and the hotel. When the last guy disappeared into thin air, they had to scramble to find someone, I guess. What about you? Where's your fancy hat? Based on that Hermes tie, I'm gonna assume you're here with the party."

He mindlessly adjusted his tie, noticing its feel on his neck as she called it out,

"Well, I might be."

"Yeah? You some kind of big-shot?" You eyed him again, challenging him to answer with something more than a yes or a no. You had heard yes and no plenty of times.

"I might be," he wouldn't give in.

"If we keep going like this all night, you might end up being the Queen, for all I know."

You both laughed, but then, you sighed, 

"Oh well, Mr. Mystery. Keep your secrets then," you shrugged and turned away from him.

He couldn't have that.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Sarah," you spun back around, "Rachel. Tiffany. Willamina. Might be anything."

You had the audacity to wink at him.

"Alright, you got me, love," he moved a little closer to you, "I'm John. John Price."

He extended his hand and waited for the bad news to sink in. No one who knew his name in this town would be dumb enough to be on a patio alone with him at night. He had dodged the media for a long time, but his trials always managed to get leaked. Twelve accounts of assault and battery, two separate accounts of theft, three murder charges - all acquitted of course. But, still, he was no stranger to ducking the law.

"John? Of all the names," you shook your head and smiled, taking his hand firmly, "Pleasure to meet you."

"You as well. You've never heard of me?"

"Oh, Jesus," you lamented, "Are you famous or something? Look, if I'm not in the kitchen, I'm at home asleep. Sorry. I don't even watch TV."

"No, nothing like that, I just - " He thought about it for a moment before you saw him decide to take a different trajectory, “Not famous.”

“Why is it that I feel a little bit like Alice tonight?” You took a long drag and let the smoke fall from your lips, “Like I’m following a white rabbit down a deep, dark hole.”

He chuckled, and you enjoyed seeing his eyes shine with his laughter,

“If you follow me down,” he sidled up to you, his face close enough to yours so you could smell the balsam in his aftershave, “I’ll show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

A man’s voice cleared his throat behind you, and you both turned to look at who it was. 

“Garrick?” John asked, clearly annoyed. 

“Yes, sir. Johnny and Simon made it up. They said they know why Keller hasn’t shown.”

John didn’t answer. He simply turned back to look into your eyes, trying to divine some sort of future from them. He must’ve liked what he saw because the next thing you knew, you were being given a golden key card. Top floor. 

Not famous, my arse, you thought to yourself. 

“Why don’t you take the night off, love. Come see Wonderland, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“My, my,” you said, palming the card from him, “No one ever tells you no.”

Another smile, a little colder than the first,

“No, they don’t.”

“Maybe I will,” you pulled the tiger’s tail.

“You won’t,” the tiger growled back.

As you watched him leave the small patio, his broad back stretching that expensive suit, his thick fingers flicking his half-smoked cigarette off the balcony’s edge, you were kicking yourself. You knew you were going up to his room, even though something inside of you really wanted to yank this guy’s chain. But, his dark, purring voice had made Wonderland sound so inviting… maybe just one little peek wouldn’t hurt?

You waited a whole five minutes before slinking off to the service elevator, cutting out for the night. No one was making dinner anyway; it was the bar that was slammed. You’d already cleaned and prepped your station, so no one would miss you. 

You ducked into the bathroom just before the top floor, getting off on the service side in an empty hallway, checking your face for stray flour or coffee stained teeth. You smelled like a pizza oven, but maybe you could sneak a shower before he showed up?.

What a slut, you heard the angel on your shoulder chastise you. 

So, what? The devil’s side replied, indignant. 

You peeled the chef’s coat off of your body. All you had underneath was a black tee. It was cropped a bit too high for work, but you wore it anyway. Your black work pants were covered in flour and dried food. You brushed them off as best you could. It would have to do. You shoved your coat into your bag and headed back to the hallway. 

Luckily, the main elevator was vacant, as was the hallway, so you wouldn’t run into any other guests on your way to Wonderland. 

The angel rolled his eyes. The devil glared at him. 

The elevator dinged, and you inserted the gold card, clicking the very topmost button to the penthouse. 

You’d been up here before. Sometimes, you picked up cleaning shifts on your off days for the extra cash, so you knew the layout. But, that had been in the cold, hygienic light of day. At night, this floor was a sparkling vision. When the elevator doors opened, huge clear windows reached all the way into the ceiling, framing Liverpool’s city center, looking more beautiful than it ever seemed from the ground. 

You took quiet, uncertain steps out of the lift, checking for any signs of life. There were none, so you made your way to the bathroom. Huge black marble monolith slabs were carved in a semicircle, a nautilus that curled around the four separate shower heads, all ready to pour their steaming water down your naked body. 

You stripped, stepping into the stream, letting yourself pretend that you lived in this sort of luxury for a moment. A soft lather of soap and a little shampoo later and you were clean. The single-use toothbrush and paste was in the hidden drawer that no guest would ever notice, so you stole an extra set, scrubbing yourself to a minty shine. 

A pair of black satin robes hung in the closet, so you stole one, tying it around your waist, fully aware that one stiff breeze and the loose-fitting garment would fly right off of you. The soft fabric lay against your skin in the most sensual way, barely touching you and yet making you feel touched. 

You explored the hotel room a bit, avoiding Mr. Price’s suitcase like it would bite you. The kitchen came stocked with ice buckets of champagne, so you helped yourself to one, pouring a glass and lounging by the window, wondering how long you’d have to wait for your date. 

Fortunately for you, only an hour had passed and you heard the elevator ding. Out from the dark lift came the man himself… bleeding from his lip.

“John! What happened?” You put down your wine and rushed over to him. 

He held you back, waving you off like it was nothing,

“Don’t worry, love. Just a bit of a scuffle, tha’s all.”

“But —”

“Seriously,” he grabbed you by your arms and looked you up and down, enjoying the wide opening of the robe as it revealed your body to him, “You should see the other bloke. Let me get cleaned up. Pour me one of those, would’ya?”

Before you could protest, he ducked into the bathroom, out of your reach. You were left standing there, worried and a little concerned for your own wellbeing. You didn’t actually know this man at all, and here you were, lamb to the slaughter, eager and bleating happily. 

While he was in the bath, you decided to do a little research. You searched up his name, and you were finding almost no hits, until you stumbled upon a mugshot.

There he was… the notorious mob boss, ruler of the English underground arms dealing circuit, enforcer and racketeering extraordinaire. And here you were, nearly naked in his room with not so much as a penknife within reach. This guy had been in the armed forces, special forces, black ops — the works. He retired and fell into the armed security world, making a name for himself by pushing out the competition by any means necessary. His father had maintained ties to the dark underground, and now John had taken over the family business, doing shady deals for the government and crime organizations alike. All of it was hearsay, of course, and none of the charges had ever landed a single hit… but you knew the truth. 

John Price was the most dangerous man in the world; Liverpool’s crime arena was just a quiet little hobby for a man like him. If he wanted to, he could make you disappear like a magician behind a mirror. Gone without a trace.

What would you do? Would you run? Where would you go? How would you explain your sudden exit? Food poisoning?

Before you could even begin to formulate a plan, John was out of the shower. He looked incredible. His hulking, heavy form was steaming from the hot water, and his hairy chest was uncovered. He’d slipped into a pair of running shorts and nothing else, so his brutal body was on display for you. He was covered in scars, and he was heavyset, but his largeness was from his strength. His core was bulky and strong, and when he moved, you could see the tight muscles rolling around beneath the skin like a snake ready to strike. 

He turned to you, but even though he wore a smile at first, the moment he made eye contact, his face fell. Somehow, he knew that you knew.

He sighed,

“What did you see?”

He rushed over to his suitcase but found it still locked, looking back to you quizzically. You didn’t move, you didn’t dare. John stepped over to you slowly, deliberately, almost as if he was ready for another fight. 

You turned your phone towards him and showed him his own mugshot.

“Thought you said you weren’t famous,” you whispered. Your voice sounded so small and far away, you almost felt like you hadn’t spoken the words. 

He smiled bitterly, tossing his towel on a nearby chair and sat beside you on the bed,

“Cat’s out of the bag, then?”

“Yeah,” you looked down at your phone, unable to look him in the eye. 

“Go on,” he waved his hand at you, motioning toward the door, “Get out.”

You didn’t move. You should have. Every fiber in your being was telling you to make a break for it. Now was your chance. And yet… you stayed. It was silent for a long while. You could feel his gaze raking over you, hot and heavy. His breaths rumbled in his chest. 

“Go!” He spat, “No one’s keeping you prisoner here, girl. That’s me, alright, and the newspapers don’t even know the bloody half of it. Just go.” 

You reacted to his volume, shirking back a bit, but you still didn’t stand. You looked at him then, searching for the kindness you thought you saw on the patio just hours before, checking to see if it was still there, if it was even real.

When you met his eyes, his fury was masking a very real pain. He was angry, sure, but the ache of being cast out was apparent, even though you were the one doing the leaving, and you just wanted that bit of brightness back again. 

John studied you, watching your every movement, trying to determine what you were thinking but coming up short. He stood right in front of you, his hips inches from your face, and he asked,

“What are you waitin’ on, love?”

A strong thumb lifted your chin, raising your jaw up to look at him again, and he used his enormous hand to grab your face, keeping you there under his will. 

“I know you’re afraid of me,” he commented softly, “I can feel it.”

“So?” You replied, trying to keep your tone steady. 

His voice was bitter and mocking, and as he leaned forward, you could smell his clean, warm skin, 

“You wanna play with the big bad wolf, hm? See if I bite?” 

He grabbed you a little too tightly, trying to scare you. It worked, but you tried not to show it. Instead, you decided to place both of your hands at his hips, your palms flat against his warm belly, feeling the dark hair that formed a faithful trail, guiding your eyes down to his waistband. 

It was his turn to be surprised. You felt his breathing catch as you moved your hands up along his ribcage, rubbing gentle circles into his skin, petting him like a skittish hound, expecting him to snap. 

Letting go of your face, he grabbed your wrist, and just as you thought he was going to stop you, he took your hand and placed it on his chest, stretching your arm all the way up from where you were sat, making you extend your spine as you reached up to him. Your fingers traced the fur that lay flat against his pectorals, and finally, you plucked at his nipples, not allowing there to be any question as to your intentions. 

The tip of his wide finger dipped into the silken collar of your robe, swirling around your neck and following it down to the swell of your breast. He didn’t find your peak, but he didn’t seem to care to. He was just exploring. 

Suddenly, John moved faster than you could even begin to understand what was happening. He had reached under you, lifting you, and then tossed you back down on the bed. You lay, sprawled, trying to catch your bearings, and then you were covered by his huge form, his wide body casting shadows over your vision, cloaking you in his own private darkness.

His mouth was on you like a hot flame, licking and burning and biting and sucking wherever he wanted to, eager to taste every inch of your skin, the imperfections of a wrinkle or a freckle seemed to go fully unnoticed as he devoured you, sucking you down like his last meal. 

You were overwhelmed by the pleasure he was stoking inside of you, and you let a small mewling sound escape from your lips that caught his attention. 

“Mm,” he climbed up your body so that you were face to face, “Enjoying your walk on the dark side, love? Think you’re tainted by me now? Or maybe that’s what you wanted, is it? Something naughty, just for a night?”

You didn’t understand his negativity, nor the self-deprecation, so you tried to protest, 

“No, I —”

“It’s alright. I’ll show you how to be a bad girl. I’ll teach you, love. C’mere.”

His voice was smoldering and sticky, clinging to your ears with some of that same bitterness from before. But, you didn’t have time to worry about that. He was standing by the bedside again, and he grabbed your arms, making your head and shoulders hang part way off of the mattress. You were left staring at his thick thighs and scarred knees, worried about what he was up to.

Then, all became clear. He had dropped his running shorts, and the fattest cock you’d ever seen hung down, shining with drool, ready to be fed into your mouth. 

Your eyes went wide, and although you reached your hand out to try and brace against his legs, it was no use. He supported your head from underneath and bent himself over until the tip of his swollen cockhead touched your lips, the gleaming precome sticking to you like gloss. 

Unwilling to be frightened by his aggression, you opened your mouth for him, laving your tongue across his turgid flesh, allowing him to press himself inside of you. 

His cock was slick on the head but dry on his shaft, so you did your best to wet him, licking and sucking as he pumped himself in and out, already nearing the back of your throat and not even halfway sheathed. 

When he nudged your soft palate, making you gag a bit, you made a noise. You tried steadying him with your hand, and he grunted, grabbing both of your arms by the wrist, holding them above your face, clutched to his hip. Then, he continued to fuck your face, ignoring your writhing gasps for breath. 

Your throat tightened around him, but you tried to stay calm. You’d never taken anyone this deep before, but you stilled yourself, ignoring the urge to panic, and you made a point to swallow, feeling your throat squeeze around his head. You could taste him as he painted the back of your throat, salty and sweet at the same time. 

That made him moan, and you felt like you’d won some sort of battle. If he was trying to frighten you, it was going to take more than just a little rough sex. 

“Mm, fuck… Maybe you are a naughty little girl, aye?”

You hummed, making sure you could feel the vibrations travel through his girth. 

He removed himself fully, taking a trail of your own drool with him, gasping from the pleasure of your mouth. 

“Fuck, I need to taste you,” he muttered darkly, crawling over you and settling himself between your legs. 

You tried to lift yourself back onto the bed, but he kept you hanging there, pinning you down with his strong arm, pressing into your belly with his hand to prevent you from sitting up. Finally, after feeling him kiss and nip at your thighs, teasing you mercilessly, you felt the warm, wet slip of his tongue as it fell between your lips, tasting your throbbing pussy for the first time. 

The robe was half-off, and only the tie around your waist was even providing any coverage, and you realized that as he began to eat you, he was yanking off your clothes as well, ripping through the knot of the robe to free you from the fabric. 

Now, his mouth moved deeper, and you felt him seal his lips to your pussy, messily drinking you in. As he fucked you with his tongue, his mouth and jaw were strong enough to rock your body up and down on the soft bed, making it seem as if he were actually using his smooth wet muscle as a writhing cock, thrusting it up into you and reaching deep into your hole.

The scruff of his beard was enough to make you want to come, much less the power that he ate you with. Every deep, curling lick sent sparks into your core, making your pussy drip with eager stickiness. It was hungry for that fat, uncut cock, forcing you to imagine how delightful it would be when he popped his giant head into your pink flesh. 

You were keening for him. Well, it wasn’t exactly for him, per se. The noises you were making were coming from your throat against your will. If you didn’t scream, you’d pass the hell out, you were sure of it. 

“Fuck, that’s it, love. Get loud for me. Ungh… you taste… mmfh… so damn sweet,” he was ruthless, speaking between long suckles from his mouth, commanding you from below. 

You wished you could see him, but all you could see from your hanging position was the giant window, looking out across the sparkling city. So, you called out to him, your voice thick with want, with need,

“John…”

That was all it took. He tugged your hips down until he was above you again, prowling over you like some sort of beast, all snarling unbridled lust and appetite. As soon as he was in position — and your body knew he was in position — everything stopped. He stopped. 

John looked down at you and became… different. The flirty bloke from the patio was back, and he smiled at you. You smiled back, out of breath and already drunk with hunger, but that was all he needed. He kissed you deeply, making you taste your own musk, and as his soft lips slid over yours, you felt the pressure of his huge cock at your hole, pressing through your folds to reach your hot, soaked center. 

You gasped through his kiss, both of you moaning in the same timbre as you felt his heavy dick fit into you for the first time, a sparkling desire swirling within you as every delicious inch of him buried itself in you. He began to thrust himself up into your aching slit, fucking you on half of his length, and then using your own sticky fluid to slip himself the rest of the way in. 

“Bloody hell, this fuckin’ pussy… fuck me,” he groaned, wrenching his eyes shut from the pleasure. 

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He asked, seeking your praise. 

“You’re fucking huge,” you didn’t mean to sound so concerned, but there was a part of you that was. 

He sat back on his heels, taking some of the pressure away, staring down at your body lecherously, savoring your tits and fondling them in his hands,

“Alright, love?”

“You feel so good,” you insisted, wrapping your hands around his arms as he enjoyed your body. 

“Tell me again,” he said, grunting again as he fucked his cock deeper inside of you, reaching a new end before dragging himself all the way back out just so he could start the journey again. He upped his tempo, pounding into you with his weight, the loud smack of his body against yours beating into you like a drum. 

“Tell. Me. Again,” he growled his warning, snarling down at you, pinching your nipple to punish you for your silence. 

You were gasping for breath. He was so deep now, you could feel the pressure of it in your belly. Between sharp intakes of air, you hissed, 

“You… feel.. so… fucking… good…”

“That’s my girl,” he bent over you again and that familiar pressure returned. His cock was too big, and yet you took it anyway. Your body was panic and pleasure all at the same time, and he had you pinned down for the ride of your life. 

You weren’t sure how many hours passed that night. He seemed to have the stamina of a much younger man, and every time you dozed off, you’d wake up again to fingers or tongue or cock playing inside of your folds, coaxing you to open yourself up to him. You were happy to oblige, but you were properly fuck drunk. If someone asked you for the alphabet, you weren’t positive you trusted your answer. But, when John Price asked you to open your mouth or your legs for him, you were the top scholar. 

A golden, creamy dawn was rising up over the docks as you stared out the window. John’s hand was rubbing your bare back in long, relaxing strokes, and he was leaving soft, lazy kisses down your spine. You knew you were a mess. Your hair was tangled; you’d thrown it up into a messy bun on the second runthrough, done with trying to pretend to be a pristine hot girl. Your body was covered in his marks. Bruises from his teeth and red welts from a delightful slap on the ass or two were painted across you like little tattoos to commemorate your coupling. 

“You alright, love?” He checked in on you. 

He’d been checking in all night. For all his ruthlessness, he never crossed a line, and he never forgot to make sure you were safe. Sometime in the wee hours, he’d even made you drink a bottle of water and eat some fruit to hydrate, teasing you with grapes like some sort of earthly Baccus. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Looks like it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Not sure I should be seen by the public in my current state.”

“You have work, or…” John looked confused. 

You thought about lying to him for a moment. It would hurt so much less for you to just break it off now in the soft dawn glow rather than a painful goodbye over cold breakfast. But, you didn’t.

“No, just… don’t wanna fool myself into thinking this was something that it wasn’t.”

Your truth hung there in the air for a moment, but before he could open his mouth to reply, you heard the elevator ding.

You turned to look at it, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled you off the bed and forced you to the floor. It was so fast that you didn’t even realize what he’d done until your nose was in the carpet. Then, you heard a sharp, snapping pop of something hitting the bed.

You watched in horror as John’s hand reached under the mattress and pulled out a small pistol. He held it like a professional, calm and trained, and shot twice. Then, it was quiet again. 

He helped you to your feet, and he was telling you something, but your brain wasn’t registering his words. What had happened? Why were there bullet holes in the mattress? Who had he shot?

Then, you saw it. A man’s body was laying across the door of the elevator. Wanting to descend, the elevator’s alarm wailed, beeping and beeping. 

John grabbed your jaw and made you listen to him,

“We have to go. Now. Get your clothes on. Now. Now.”

“Okay…” You couldn’t move. It was so hard to even lift your arms. They felt like solid lead. You just wanted to sink back to the floor. Maybe if you could just…

“Hey! Now!”

He shoved your clothes into your hands and you started to put them on, doing your best not to look at the elevator. John was packing a black bag, half-dressed himself, and checking the windows over and over, looking for something in the streets below. 

“There’s no time, c’mon, love.”

You felt his hand cover yours as he led you to the elevator. You watched him ruthlessly kick the body away from the doors and push you inside. Once you were in, the doors closed and you rode in silence with him. You could only hear your heart in your ears. 

“...to my car. Stay close to me.”

“Okay…” It was all you could say. No other words even dared to come to mind.

“Hey,” he held your face in his as the floor numbers dropped to the teens, “You’re alright. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Okay.”

The doors opened, and you found it extremely weird that the lobby was empty. There were no workers, no guests, not even a custodian. It was just a big, silent cavern in what was usually a lively casino. 

He was leading you out to the parking garage, and just as you stepped into the concrete enclave, you heard the screech of tires round the corner. John stood in front of you and gripped the gun in his hand, but he didn’t move away. 

The car stopped in front of you, and you braced yourself, hiding behind your lover as much as you could. 

“Get in, boss! They’re right bloody behind us. Soap, shove over,” a man’s voice came from the car. He was in the driver’s seat, and he was wearing a ballcap with the Union Jack emblazoned on the top. In his passenger seat was a man in a black balaclava, and in the back was a bright-eyed man with a mohawk who you guessed had to be Soap.

“C’mon, love,” John shoved you inside just as a black SUV rounded the same corner, the engine roaring when it saw Price’s car. 

Gunshots rang out, and you knew some of them had hit the car. You worried for John, but he stood straight up, aiming carefully for the driver, and fired his gun. As if you were in some sort of action movie, the SUV careened off-course and slammed into several parked cars. Men began to pour from it, armed to the teeth. 

John jumped in beside you and made you kneel in the floorboards, holding his body over yours protectively. 

“How’d they find out? Gaz!” John yelled at the driver, shouting his name when he saw another SUV approaching from the side. 

Gaz swerved, narrowly missing being rammed, and sped off down the highway, trying to run from his pursuers. 

“No idea, mate, but they think it was us who tore up the warf. Banno’s man must’ve turned snitch. Only explanation.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” the masked man sighed, rolling down his window to fire shots at the SUV chasing you down. 

“Who’s the bonnie hen, boss?” Soap peered down at you before turning his attention back on the car chase. 

“Uh… she’s…” John tried to explain, but you realized that you never even told him your real name, “I dunno.”

“You dinnae ken?” Soap’s brows knitted together.

“Soap! Shut up and shoot, mate,” Gaz turned his attention back on the fight.

“Well,” the masked man grumbled loudly, “She’s stuck with us all the way to Hadrian’s Wall. Heading to Katie’s house. No place else is safe.”

“Aye, good call,” John agreed. 

Finally, after leaving the city, your pursuers turned back around and left you to your escape. John helped you back into the seat and checked you for injuries. 

“John… I’m…” Your voice shook with fear, and you felt all of that stress tumbling down into your chest, turning into shock and tears. 

“Shh, it’s alright, love. I’ve gotcha. I’m… I’m sorry. Should’ve known better.”

“Better?” You whispered as he held you to his chest.

“Aye. Thought I could be a normal man for a night. Hit on the hot bird at the bar, go to a fuckin’ party. But, nothing’s normal right now. I’ve put you in this mess, and I’m sorry.”

You didn’t have a reply, not one that made any sense, and as he held you, you watched the English countryside come into view. Rolling green hills still wet with their dew made everything that had just happened to you seem so far away, but you could smell the gunpowder on his hands as he pet your cheek, and you knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

[knoepfl]

Mad Genius, Part |||

Hey there! I finally made part 3! I'm glad I made it because to be honest I really love the idea but I'm also not good at writing multiple part stories soo I hope this is alright? I'm already working on part 4 where it's about her only. So we can get a glimpse in the character more. If you'd like to see anything or have an idea feel free to tell me!

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Characters:

- Viktor – A brilliant but physically frail scientist whose passion for progress often drives him to take risks. 

- Reader (You) – A chaotic but genius inventor from Zaun. Once rational and sharp, your mind has spiraled into madness due to overuse of experimental powders you created. Obsessed with Viktor, you break into his lab to meet him for the first time. 

Trigger Warnings:

- Mental instability and obsession 

- Self-harm (implied through powder effects) 

- Unsettling and erratic behavior 

Masterlist

Part 1: Mad Genius

Part 2: Mad Genius

Part 4: Mad Genius

Words: 1086

Then came the photographs. The first was of Sky, unaltered but serene, her face marked with little red hearts sketched in ink. The next, doctored and grotesque, showed her screaming, her eyes hollow and empty, her skin marred with sores. Viktor recognized your work—your powders. Finally, there were pictures of you. Some were disturbingly intimate, your smile innocent as your fingers toyed with a vial of Crimson Powder. Others were chilling: your face twisted in a mad grin, powder dusted across your lips like war paint, your eyes filled with manic glee.

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It had been a month of hell. Viktor’s life had unraveled in ways he hadn’t anticipated, each day punctuated by your lingering presence—though you were nowhere to be seen. The letters began innocently enough, reminders of your obsession inked in looping, elegant script. But they quickly grew darker, their contents escalating with every message. You described dreams of your future together, blending them with threats that sent chills down his spine.

He had avoided confronting you for weeks, hoping you would simply disappear. But the last letter left him no choice:

“Viktor, my love, I’m growing impatient. You and I are destined to change the world together, but you keep ignoring me. Perhaps Sky will convince you to see reason? Meet me at the old factory by the river at midnight. If you don’t come... well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest. Don’t make me do it.”

The factory loomed in the distance, its rusted silhouette rising like a skeleton against the blackened sky. Viktor’s cane tapped against the cobblestones, the sound sharp and deliberate. His chest felt heavy, his breath shallow. He gripped the strap of his satchel, inside of which he had packed vials of antidotes—precautions he prayed he wouldn’t have to use. His mind raced with strategies, though he knew none of them would matter. You were chaos incarnate, unpredictable and dangerous.

The factory door creaked open, revealing a cavernous interior lit by the faint glow of dangling bulbs. Machinery stood like rusted sentinels, their shadows stretching ominously. The air smelled of oil, mold, and something faintly sweet—powder residue.

“Viktor!” Your voice rang out, high and melodic, echoing through the space. He stopped, his grip tightening on his cane.

“Where is she?”

“Oh, darling, don’t be so cold. I’ve missed you,” you purred.

You stepped into view, descending a set of metal stairs with theatrical flair. You wore a flowing, dark dress stained with colorful smears of powder, your hair disheveled in a way that only accentuated your manic beauty. In your hands was a small glass vial filled with a shimmering red substance.

Viktor’s stomach twisted. Crimson Powder.

“She’s fine,” you said dismissively, waving toward a shadowed corner. He followed your gesture, spotting Sky slumped against the wall, bound but breathing. Relief flooded him, but his fury quickly returned.

“You’ve gone too far,” he snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding.

Your face fell for a split second before twisting into a pout. “Too far? No, no, no. I’m doing this for us, Viktor. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done—this powder, this work—it’s all for you.”

“For me?” He took a step forward, his voice trembling with controlled rage. “You’ve poisoned people, terrorized my colleagues, and now you’ve dragged Sky into your madness!”

You tilted your head, your expression softening into something almost childlike. “But Viktor... we’re soulmates. You and I are the same. Don’t you feel it? When I look at you, I see someone who understands me, who sees the potential in chaos.”

He recoiled as you reached out to touch him, his cane tapping against the floor as he stepped back. “I see someone who has lost their way,” he said coldly.

“Lost my way? No. I’ve found it. And I want you to find yours too.”

You held up the vial of Crimson Powder, its contents swirling like liquid fire. “Do you know what this does?” you asked, your voice soft and teasing. “It’s my favorite, you know. It turns love into rage, affection into destruction. Isn’t that poetic?”

Viktor stiffened, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his cane.

“And it’s not just Crimson,” you continued, your tone growing more animated. “There’s Sapphire—oh, the despair it creates is delicious. Emerald... well, I think you’d enjoy that one. But my personal favorite might be Magenta.”

You took a step closer, the vial glinting in your hand. “Would you like to see how it feels, Viktor? To be consumed by love so pure, so obsessive, that it hurts?”

“Enough!” he barked, his voice echoing through the factory. “This isn’t love. It’s madness!”

Your eyes narrowed, your smile fading into a grim line. “Don’t call me mad,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anger. “I’m not mad. I’m visionary.”

He met your gaze, his voice low and steady. “You’re alone.”

The words struck you like a slap, and for a moment, you stood frozen, your expression unreadable. Then you laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that echoed through the room. “Oh, Viktor,” you said, shaking your head. “You think I’m alone? No, darling. I have you.”

Before he could react, you hurled the vial of Crimson Powder at the ground. It shattered, releasing a vivid red cloud that engulfed the room. Viktor stumbled back, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the powder burned his lungs and eyes. The effects were immediate.

His vision blurred, his heart racing as a wave of uncontrollable rage surged through him. He gripped his cane so tightly that his hand ached, his mind clouded with violent thoughts he couldn’t suppress. His eyes darted to Sky, still slumped unconscious in the corner. Unimaginable scenarios played out in his mind—yelling, screaming, beating—acts of cruelty he couldn’t comprehend wanting, but couldn’t stop envisioning.

“No...” he muttered, his voice strained.

His body moved against his will, his legs carrying him toward her. Inside, he screamed against the urge, fear clawing at his sanity. He collapsed before reaching her, his cane clattering to the floor beside him as he gripped his head in both hands.

“Fight it,” he whispered to himself, his voice ragged. “You’re stronger than this...”

The powder’s effects began to fade, leaving him trembling and drenched in sweat. When he finally lifted his gaze, the room was empty, save for Sky, who stirred weakly in the corner. You were gone, leaving behind only the shattered vial and a note scrawled in your elegant handwriting:

“This is just the beginning, my love. I’ll be waiting for you.”

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[dumb-ster-fire]

Night Incarnate - Part 1

Eventual Azriel x OC

warnings: blood,violence,trauma,abuse

Summary: A deadly assassin and the elusive leader of Veilforged, Nyra delivers justice from the shadows, wielding starlight and darkness with lethal precision. Operating from Night’s Refuge, she rescues the powerless and turns them into warriors. Whispers of her name spread through Prythian, but few know the truth—only that where justice fails, Night Incarnate rises.

Masterlist , Prologue , Part 2

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The war room in the House of Wind was bathed in dim faelight, the scent of parchment, ink, and steel thick in the air. A large obsidian table sat at the center, maps and reports sprawled across its surface. The Inner Circle of the Night Court gathered around it, tension crackling in the space between them.

At the head of the table, Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His violet eyes, sharp with intellect and unreadable as the stars, flicked over the latest reports before him.

“They’re getting bolder,” Azriel murmured, his shadows curling around his shoulders like living things. He stood off to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His scarred hands were clasped together, his siphons gleaming in the dim light. “More whispers, more rumors. The name Veilforged keeps appearing in places it shouldn’t.”

Cassian, standing at the opposite end of the table, snorted. “I still don’t know whether to be impressed or pissed off that we know so little about them.” His wings twitched, his hazel eyes narrowing as he scanned one of the reports. “An entire organization operating in the shadows of Prythian—under our noses—and we have no idea who they are?”

Nesta, seated beside him, arched a brow. “Impressed, then. If they can keep themselves hidden from you, Azriel, and Rhys, that’s saying something.”

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. “They’re careful. Too careful. Every piece of information we get is deliberately vague. No solid leads. No names. Just stories of criminals disappearing, of entire operations being dismantled before we even get wind of them.”

Feyre tapped a finger against the table, scanning the reports. “I don’t think they’re our enemy.”

Mor scoffed, flipping her golden hair over her shoulder. “That doesn’t mean they’re our allies, either.”

Amren, perched on a chair with her usual feline grace, idly turned a goblet of wine in her hands. “Whoever they are, they’re good. I’ve been asking around, and even the oldest whispers in Hewn City don’t know much. They don’t take contracts. They don’t kill for sport. They only target criminals.”

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “That’s what makes them so dangerous. If they were assassins for hire, we could predict them. Track them. But Veilforged is…different.” His eyes met Feyre’s. “They’re operating on a code. And codes are harder to break than coin.”

Cassian crossed his arms, muscles tensing beneath his leathers. “We need to figure out who’s leading them.”

Azriel’s expression remained unreadable, but his voice was quiet. “There is one name that keeps surfacing in the darker circles.”

All eyes turned to him.

“The Night Incarnate.”

A hush fell over the room.

Feyre frowned. “A title?”

Azriel nodded. “No real name. No descriptions. Just rumors. Some say they wield shadows. Others claim they wield starlight.” His jaw tightened. “But whoever they are, they’ve built something formidable.”

Rhysand leaned back, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his lips.

“Then I suppose it’s time we find out exactly who Veilforged is.”

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

A cold wind swept through Velaris that night, the stars burning bright against the endless night sky. From the balcony of the House of Wind, Azriel stood in silence, shadows curling around him like a second skin. The conversation in the war room still echoed in his mind.

Veilforged.

A name that had begun as a whisper, nothing more than a ghost in the underground, had grown into something undeniable. He had spent months trying to track them, unravel their secrets. But every lead ended the same way: in nothing. It was as if they moved beyond his reach, as if the shadows themselves obeyed someone else’s command.

And then there was the name—the Night Incarnate.

Azriel didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve.

“You’re brooding again.”

Azriel didn’t glance back as Cassian stepped beside him, arms crossed, wings tucked in. His friend’s usual smirk was absent, his hazel eyes sharp with thought.

Azriel exhaled. “Veilforged is dangerous.”

Cassian huffed. “No shit.” He leaned against the railing. “But from what we know, they’re only targeting criminals—people we would have gone after anyway.”

Azriel’s fingers tightened on the edge of the railing. “It’s not just that they’re doing our job. It’s how they’re doing it. They move in silence. No traces. No survivors to question. They’ve been operating under our noses, and we still don’t know how many of them there are.”

Cassian gave him a sidelong glance. “Sounds like you’re almost impressed.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

Because in a way, he was.

He had spent centuries perfecting the art of secrecy, of infiltration. And yet, this Veilforged had managed to outmaneuver even him. Whoever the Night Incarnate was, they were no ordinary leader.

And that unsettled him.

Cassian shifted, rolling his shoulders. “What’s the plan, then? Do we keep searching, or do we let them be?”

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “We find them.” His voice was quiet, deadly. “We find the Night Incarnate.”

A pause. Then—

“Rhys isn’t going to send you alone.”

Azriel finally turned, meeting Cassian’s gaze. “I wouldn’t expect him to.”

Cassian smirked. “Good. Because you know damn well I’d come even if he told me not to.”

Azriel huffed a quiet breath. “I figured.”

Cassian patted his shoulder. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we hunt a ghost.”

But as Cassian disappeared back inside, Azriel remained on the balcony, staring into the night.

Something in his gut told him that whoever the Night Incarnate was, they wouldn’t be found so easily.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Azriel wasn’t sure if he would be the hunter…

Or the hunted.

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

The following evening, the Inner Circle gathered once more in the war room, the air thick with anticipation.

A map of Prythian lay spread before them, littered with markings—red for confirmed Veilforged activity, black for rumored locations, and blue for the sites of their latest strikes. The pattern was erratic, unpredictable. They didn’t linger in one place for long. But Azriel knew better than to mistake chaos for carelessness. This was precision.

They weren’t just shadows. They were ghosts.

Rhysand stood at the head of the table, his violet eyes gleaming with contemplation. “I don’t want to assume hostility, but until we know who they are and what their true motives are, we can’t risk leaving them unchecked.”

Feyre traced a finger along one of the red markings. “We could try drawing them out.”

Mor leaned against the table, golden hair spilling over her shoulder. “And how do you propose we do that? Set up a fake criminal operation and hope they come running?”

Feyre gave her a sharp look. “If they’re targeting criminals, then maybe we need to find their next target before they do.”

Nesta, who had been silent up until now, crossed her arms. “That would require knowing who they consider a worthy target.”

Amren hummed, swirling her wine. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. The list of truly vile individuals in Prythian isn’t exactly short.”

Azriel’s shadows curled around him. “I may have a lead.”

All eyes snapped to him.

Rhys inclined his head. “Go on.”

Azriel tapped the map, his gloved fingers resting on a region near the Autumn Court border. “A group of slavers has been operating in this region for months, trafficking females and children between courts. We’ve been tracking them, but they’ve been careful—no permanent base, always moving. If Veilforged is what we think they are, this would be a prime target for them.”

Cassian’s hazel eyes darkened. “Then we need to move before they do.”

Azriel hesitated.

Something about this still felt…off.

Veilforged wasn’t just a group of assassins. They were organized. Precise. Whoever the Night Incarnate was, they had built something that rivaled even the most disciplined covert forces. If this leader had the ability to outmaneuver him at every turn, then they were either incredibly powerful—

Or they knew exactly how he operated.

“We don’t engage,” Azriel finally said, voice firm. “Not yet. We observe. We wait for Veilforged to make a move, and then we track them.”

Cassian frowned but didn’t argue.

Rhysand studied Azriel for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. But if an opportunity presents itself, I want answers.” His voice dropped into something softer, more knowing. “If they really are fighting for justice, then perhaps we aren’t enemies after all.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure.

Because if Veilforged was what they claimed to be, if they truly had spent decades operating unseen, then the Night Incarnate wasn’t just some mercenary leader.

They were a phantom. A myth given flesh.

And Azriel wasn’t sure what would be more dangerous—finding them…

Or what would happen once he did.

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

At Night’s Refuge, deep in the heart of Veilforged’s hidden stronghold, Nyra stood on the balcony of her office, watching the night stretch endlessly before her. The wind carried the faintest whispers of the forest below, the distant hum of Veils moving in the shadows. Her people. Her family.

Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

The past few months had been different. There was a shift in the air, a ripple in the shadows Veilforged had ruled for so long.

Because the Inner Circle of the Night Court had finally taken notice.

She had known this day would come. No secret lasted forever, no shadow remained untouched. The moment Veilforged had begun operating in Night Court’s underworld, rumors had reached Rhysand, Feyre, and their court of warriors. Nyra had watched from the dark, unseen, as they pieced together whispers, trying to make sense of an organization they couldn’t track.

Now, they were hunting her.

A door opened behind her, followed by the familiar sound of boots against stone. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Sylus.

Her second-in-command stopped a few feet away, his presence steady, solid. “They’re moving,” he said, voice calm but laced with knowing. “The Night Court is watching the slavers near the Autumn border. They’re waiting for us.”

Nyra didn’t react, only exhaled softly, watching the stars above. “Then they’ll see nothing.”

A pause. Then—

“They have Azriel tracking us.”

That, more than anything, gave her pause. Her pale green eyes flickered as she turned to look at Sylus.

Azriel. The Shadowsinger.

She had heard the name long before the Night Court had taken an interest in Veilforged. He was a legend, a spymaster who could slip through the darkness unseen, who could break even the most guarded secrets.

A male much like herself.

Nyra’s lips curved slightly, a slow, knowing smile. “Good.”

Sylus arched a dark brow. “You’re not concerned?”

She turned fully, tilting her head. “If they truly want to find me, let them try.”

Sylus exhaled, but there was no true exasperation in his expression. Only understanding. He had followed her for centuries, knew her well enough to recognize that glint in her eye—the one that spoke of amusement, of challenge.

“Dravien is already making arrangements to ensure our movements are unseen,” Sylus said. “Kyra and Elara have eyes on the slavers. When we strike, there will be no trace left behind.”

Nyra nodded approvingly, though she already knew this. Her people were the best. The most elite. Even Azriel would find nothing but ghosts in their wake.

Still…

Something coiled in her chest, something sharp and familiar. She had spent centuries ensuring she remained a shadow, a whisper in the dark. But this time, the ones hunting her were not ordinary fools.

This time, it was them.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Nyra wondered if the moment had come when she would finally have to step into the light.

[wadewnstonwilson]

echoes of death: part two;

summary: During Logan's early days with the X-Men, he struggles to adjust to the ideals of unity and trust that Xavier champions. Haunted by his violent past and accustomed to solitude, Logan often found himself confronting an even more enigmatic presence: you, death incarnate.

word count: 3.4k

fic rec: @pedroscurls

part one

Logan was new to the X-Men, still navigating the uncharted waters of Charles Xavier’s dream of harmony. Trust didn’t come easily to him. Peace felt foreign, almost dangerous in its fragility. He was used to the rough edges of life, the solitude of the wilderness, and the brutal clarity of battle. Joining a team, fighting for a cause bigger than himself—it was a balancing act that felt unnatural. Yet here he was, surrounded by people who believed in him more than he believed in himself.

It was a mission like any other. The X-Men had been sent to a small mutant settlement under siege by a militant anti-mutant group. The scene was chaos. Smoke clung to the air, acrid and stifling. The cries of the wounded blended with the sharp crack of gunfire. The scent of blood and fear hung heavy, overwhelming even to Logan’s dulled senses.

Logan tore through the attackers like a force of nature, his claws slicing through their ranks with brutal precision. His teammates’ voices crackled through his earpiece—commands, check-ins, warnings—but he barely registered them. His focus was singular: fight, survive, eliminate the threat.

Amidst the chaos, his attention snagged on a figure that didn’t belong.

You.

Logan’s claws retracted with a soft snikt as he slowed, his gaze locking onto you. You knelt beside a fallen man—a young mutant whose powers had failed to protect him. The boy was barely alive, his shallow breaths rattling in his chest. Logan watched, his own breath catching as you reached out, your hand hovering just above the boy’s chest.

You didn’t touch him—not quite. Your fingers lingered in the space between, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, far enough to seem ethereal. The boy’s expression began to change. The pain etched into his features melted away, replaced by something softer. Peaceful. Logan could feel it—the air around you shifted, as if the world itself had taken a long, steady breath.

“You’re here,” Logan said, his voice rough but certain. It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who you were.

You didn’t look up right away. When you did, your gaze met his with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Your eyes held no fear, no surprise. There was only quiet understanding, as if you had been expecting him.

“I am,” you replied simply. Your voice was soft, steady—like the first notes of a melody carried on the wind.

Logan took a step forward, his boots crunching against the charred ground. The space between you felt electric, charged and fragile. “It’s not my time,” he said, his tone low but resolute. He wasn’t asking. He didn’t need to.

“No,” you agreed, a faint curve of your lips suggesting the ghost of a smile. “Not yet.”

For a moment, the battlefield faded away. The chaos around you dulled, its sharp edges blunted by the weight of your presence. Logan’s senses narrowed, locking onto you entirely. He could feel the hum of energy in the space between you, as if the air itself trembled with the force of something unspoken.

Your gaze didn’t waver. You held him there, grounded and vulnerable in a way Logan hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t fear or even curiosity that kept him rooted—it was something deeper. Something inevitable.

“You don’t stay long,” Logan said, his voice quieter now. There was a hint of something in his tone that hadn’t been there before. Frustration? Longing? He couldn’t say.

“I stay as long as I’m needed,” you replied, your words carrying the weight of truth.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hand flexing at his side. “And when you’re not?”

“Then I wait.”

The simplicity of your answer struck him like a blow. There was no hesitation, no doubt in your voice. You spoke with a certainty that felt immutable. Logan took another step closer, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The space between you was almost nothing now. Logan could see every detail of your face—the faint shimmer of light in your eyes, the way your features softened as you looked at him. He swore he could feel the warmth of your presence, brushing against his skin like a whisper. His hand twitched, almost reaching for you, but he stopped himself.

“I’ll see you again,” Logan said, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t asking this time either.

“Yes,” you said, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “But not today.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with promise. Logan wanted to close the gap, to reach out and touch something real. But before he could, you stepped back. Your form began to blur at the edges, dissolving into the smoky air like a memory fading from view.

“Wait—” Logan began, but it was too late. You were gone.

Logan stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as though reaching for a ghost. The battlefield roared back to life around him, the cries of the wounded and the crackle of distant flames filling the void you left behind. But Logan barely registered it.

All he could think of was the way you’d looked at him, the quiet certainty in your voice, and the warmth he’d felt in the space between you—close, but never close enough.

And for the first time, Logan felt the weight of what he had always known: you were destined to be part of his story, but not quite yet.

------

The medbay was silent except for the faint hum of machinery and the occasional soft beep from the monitors, a sound that seemed painfully loud in the absence of life. The air was thick with the lingering tang of antiseptics and something heavier, something unspoken: the weight of failure. The young mutant on the table had fought valiantly, but even courage and resilience could only carry one so far. Beast had tried everything—every piece of medical knowledge, every ounce of his expertise—but it hadn’t been enough.

Logan stood in the corner of the room, a dark silhouette against the sterile brightness of the medbay lights. His fists were clenched tightly, the muscles in his forearms coiled and tense, as though sheer anger alone could change what had already happened. His jaw was set, teeth grinding against each other, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The frustration wasn’t new to him—he was no stranger to death. But this wasn’t a battlefield, wasn’t chaos or survival. This was loss, plain and unchangeable, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. What would be the point? Words wouldn’t bring the boy back. So he stood there, silent, watching as Hank gently placed a sheet over the boy’s face, his shoulders heavy with the burden of yet another life lost.

And then Logan saw you.

You stood at the foot of the bed, as calm and composed as ever. Logan didn’t need to glance around to know no one else in the room had noticed you. They never did. But you were unmistakable to him. He had seen you too many times to question your presence now. There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way the very air around you seemed to still, that demanded his attention.

You didn’t look at him right away. Your gaze was fixed on the lifeless body beneath the sheet, your expression soft but tinged with an almost imperceptible sorrow. It wasn’t pity—it was something quieter, deeper. Logan’s chest tightened at the sight of it. For all his time on battlefields and in the aftermath of violence, he had never quite seen an expression like yours. It was as though you bore the weight of every soul you touched, every life that slipped through your fingers, and yet you carried it with grace.

His breath hitched when your eyes finally met his. It was like the world around him fell away, leaving only the two of you. The hum of the medbay equipment, the sound of Hank quietly cleaning up his tools, even the steady rhythm of Logan’s own heartbeat—they all faded into nothing. Your gaze held him captive, steady and unwavering, as though you could see straight through the gruff exterior he wore like armor.

“You’re early,” Logan muttered, his voice low and rough, tinged with a frustration he couldn’t fully place. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way around you, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Your presence always left him unsettled, though he’d never admit it out loud.

You didn’t flinch at his words. If anything, they seemed to amuse you, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across your lips. “I’m always here when I’m needed,” you replied, your tone soft but carrying a quiet gravity that made his frustration twist into something else—something he couldn’t name.

Logan’s fists unclenched slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides as he took a step forward. The tension between you seemed to grow with every inch he closed, the air thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths. His voice was quieter now, almost accusing, as he asked, “And what about when you’re not?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. It wasn’t the kind of gaze that made him feel small or insignificant—it was the kind that made him feel seen. Truly, fully seen, in a way that both unnerved and grounded him.

“Then I wait,” you said simply, your tone as steady as ever, but there was something behind your words, a weight that hinted at more.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he tried to make sense of the emotions churning inside him. He wasn’t used to feeling this way—vulnerable, exposed, tethered to something he didn’t understand. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. There was a pull between you, an invisible thread that bound him to you in a way that felt inevitable.

The space between you was small now, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the softness of your features, the faint shimmer in your eyes, the way the light seemed to catch on something almost ethereal about you. Close enough that he could feel the heat of your presence, brushing against his skin like a whisper.

Logan’s hands twitched at his sides, his instincts warring against each other. Part of him wanted to reach out, to touch something solid and real, to prove to himself that you weren’t just some figment of his imagination. But the other part of him—the part that had learned to respect the quiet inevitability of your presence—held him back.

“You wait,” he said finally, his voice rough but quieter now, almost resigned. “For what?”

Your gaze softened, and for a moment, Logan thought you might answer. He thought you might close the remaining space between you, might let him feel something tangible in the charged air between you. But you didn’t move.

“For the right time,” you said simply, your voice carrying an unshakable certainty that made Logan’s chest tighten.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Logan wanted to press, to demand answers, to tear down the walls of mystery that surrounded you. But something in your gaze stopped him. There was a finality to your presence, a quiet assurance that no matter how many questions he asked, the answers wouldn’t come until you were ready to give them.

Before Logan could say anything more, the moment began to slip away. You stepped back, the tension between you easing as the distance grew. Your form seemed to blur at the edges, fading into the sterile light of the medbay like smoke dissipating into the air.

“Wait—” Logan began, his voice rough and strained, but it was too late. You were gone.

The hum of the medbay equipment returned, the sound of Hank’s movements grounding Logan back in the present. But he didn’t move. He stood there, his hands still flexing at his sides, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The air felt heavier in your absence, the silence deafening.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the lifeless form on the table, then back to the empty space where you had stood. He didn’t know what to make of what had just happened—what to make of you. All he knew was that you had left something behind, something intangible but undeniable.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan felt the weight of his own mortality, not as a curse, but as a promise. A promise that, when the time came, you would be there, waiting.

------

The village was a husk of what it had once been, consumed by fire and chaos. Smoke hung heavy in the air, curling into the ashen sky like ghostly fingers. The charred remains of buildings stood like jagged teeth, casting eerie shadows across the ruined ground. The stench of burnt wood, scorched metal, and something more human filled Logan’s lungs as he moved through the desolation. His boots crunched against debris, every step deliberate, every breath drawn through gritted teeth.

The team had split up hours ago to search for survivors, their voices crackling faintly through Logan’s comms, but he’d turned his radio down to nothing. He preferred the silence, the grim solitude of hunting through the wreckage. He’d followed a different trail, one that tugged at something deeper than instinct. He didn’t know what he was looking for—or rather, who.

And then he found you.

You were kneeling in the midst of the destruction, your presence impossibly still against the chaos around you. A woman lay motionless at your feet, her body crumpled in a way that spoke of pain and fear in her final moments. Logan paused, his breath catching as he watched you. Your hand hovered above the woman’s chest, close but never touching. The tension etched into her features began to fade, her expression softening into peace as if you’d taken the weight of her final agony and lifted it away.

The air around you felt different. It always did. Logan couldn’t explain it—couldn’t put words to the way the atmosphere seemed to hum, charged with something that was neither warmth nor cold, neither threatening nor comforting. It was simply you.

This time, Logan didn’t hesitate.

“You always show up,” he said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. It was rough, gravelly, but even. There was no fear in his tone, only a strange sense of certainty, as if he’d been expecting you all along.

Slowly, you rose, your movements deliberate and graceful, as though even the air around you obeyed your unspoken command. When your gaze finally met his, it was like the rest of the world fell away. The smoldering ruins, the acrid smoke, the distant cries of the wounded—they all faded into the periphery. In that moment, it was just the two of you.

“And you always notice,” you replied, your voice steady, carrying a quiet weight that settled into Logan’s chest like an anchor.

The space between you was thinner than it had ever been, the air charged with something unspoken. It wasn’t just the tension of two strangers crossing paths. It was deeper, heavier, as though every encounter before this had been building to this moment. Logan’s pulse quickened, a steady drumbeat in his ears that matched the rhythm of his shallow breaths.

“You’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was an edge of something—accusation, maybe, or a challenge. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you admitted without hesitation. There was no coyness in your tone, no deflection. You spoke the truth plainly, as if it had always been obvious.

Logan’s chest tightened. He could feel the heat of your presence, brushing against him like a whisper he couldn’t quite grasp. His claws itched to extend—not for violence, but for something solid, something real. “But not today,” you continued, your eyes holding his with an unyielding certainty.

“Why not today?” Logan asked, his voice rough but quieter now, the edge softened by something deeper.

You took a step closer, the movement slow and deliberate, as if you were giving him time to process each inch of space you closed. Logan didn’t move, his body frozen in place. His breath hitched as the distance between you dwindled to mere inches, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the way your features seemed both otherworldly and grounded, the faint shimmer in your eyes that caught the dim light, the way the air around you seemed to hum with something he couldn’t name.

“You’re not ready,” you said, your voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant only for him.

Logan’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face twitching as he processed your words. He leaned ever so slightly forward, his hands twitching at his sides, his claws threatening to extend. He hated how vulnerable he felt in that moment, exposed and tethered to something he couldn’t control.

“What if I am?” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper. The question wasn’t just for you—it was for himself, for whatever force had brought him here, for the universe that seemed to keep you just out of reach.

For a moment, it looked as though you might reach for him. Your hand lifted slightly, your fingers hovering near his arm, so close that he swore he could feel the warmth of your presence brushing against his skin. Logan’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven movements as he fought the urge to close the gap himself.

But you didn’t touch him.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” you said softly, your gaze steady, unwavering. There was no doubt in your tone, no hesitation. Just a quiet certainty that left Logan’s throat tight and his heart pounding.

The tension between you was unbearable, like a storm building on the horizon, waiting to break. Logan’s claws twitched again, not out of anger or fear, but because he needed to feel something tangible, something solid, to ground himself in the overwhelming weight of your presence.

But before he could act, you stepped back.

“Wait—” Logan began, his voice rough and strained, but the word caught in his throat as you began to fade. Your form blurred at the edges, dissolving into the smoky air like a memory slipping through his fingers.

And then you were gone.

Logan stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as though reaching for a ghost. The distant crackle of flames and the faint groans of the wounded filled the silence you left behind, but none of it registered. The warmth of your presence lingered in the air, brushing against his skin like the final notes of a song that ended too soon.

All he could think of was the way you had looked at him—calm, knowing, certain—and the weight of your words. “You’ll know when it’s time.” They echoed in his mind, heavy with a promise he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.

For the first time, Logan understood something he had always felt but never acknowledged: you weren’t just waiting for him. He was waiting for you, too. But the time wasn’t right.

Not yet.

[scattered-dreamers]

I had a thought. Well, it’s been an ever growing through for a little while now. I started listening to the Mechs yesterday for the first time, but this started a little while ago when I learned that Nikola Orsinov’s VA was also part of the Mechinisms. And after learning of Gunpowder Tim. [I made the joke internally about Tim deal with explosives in every incarnation he’s in.]

What if the TMA fears are echoes of what the Mechanisms dealt with??

Brian being lost in the Vast and the Lonely—don’t know if that’s canon. I found a “Lost” poster online. But his fear being echoed out across the cacophony of space and ending up in our plane of existence kind of makes sense—in a Doctor Who sort of way, if you get my meaning.

The Toy Soldier being the inspiration for the Stranger makes sense too. A creature that is in a way like us—living, sentient—but in many ways unlike us, thus inspiring the fear of Uncanny Valley—and again that fear is echoed through the cacophony of time and space.

Idk how Gunpowder Tim dies, but if it’s in an explosion, there you go for the Desolation.

Jonny and his need for violence and action is drawn into the Hunt but it’s not clear if Jonny inspired the Hunt or if the Hunt inspired Jonny.

The Flesh is very animalistic so that probably started on Earth with prey animals. But that’s not my point.

There are many earth based fears—the Flesh, the Web, the Corruption, the Buried—but what if the more obscure ones—the Lonely, the Vast, the Void, the Stranger, and the Desolation—started with the Mechanisms?

Because I can’t help but recall planets getting destroyed in OUaTiS for however long Cole was ruling and destroying planets. Things had to have been released from some of those planets.

Things that lead to the Fears, things that inspired the Fears. Idk. Just my ramblings.

[airybcby]

Hiiiii, I love your writing and also think that the blue lock matching with spotify wrapped us so fuuun!! I was wondering if I could get a match too, my top artist was Mother Mother ;))

ofc!!

if your top artist was mother mother i'd pair you with...

charles chevalier

જ⁀♡⊹｡° getting on a mountain

♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event!

♡ content — charles chevalier x gn! reader, gn! reader, charles has high standards for himself,

♡ synopsis — perfection is something that cannot be contained, but to Charles Chevalier...it was what he needed to be.

The first thing you noticed about Charles Chevalier was how flawless he was.

Every movement was deliberate, every word perfectly said. He carried himself with an air of untouchable elegance, as if he'd long mastered the art of existing above the chaos of life.

You thought people like him didn't make mistakes, not because they couldn’t, but because they simply didn’t allow themselves the room for failure.

That was why it was such a shock to find him here, in the empty locker room, slumped against a bench with his head in his hands.

“Charles?” Your voice echoed in the cavernous space, startling him enough that his head shot up, his carefully guarded composure flickering into something raw before he could mask it.

“Ah,” he began, clearing his throat as though to erase the moment of vulnerability, “I didn’t think anyone else would still be here.”

You stepped closer, hesitant but concerned. “I was waiting outside, but you didn’t come out after the game. I thought something might’ve happened.”

His laugh was dry, humorless. “Happened? Nothing has ‘happened.’ I merely played beneath my standards today.”

Beneath his standards? You’d watched the match. He was brilliant, as always, threading passes and controlling the game like a conductor directing an orchestra. But maybe that was the problem. To everyone else, Charles was perfection incarnate, but perfection wasn’t a plateau—it was a steep, endless climb.

“You were incredible out there,” you said, trying to sound reassuring.

He scoffed, leaning back against the lockers with a thud. “Incredible? If that’s true, why does it feel so... empty?”

You hesitated, watching him carefully. Charles was never one to let the cracks show. You’d seen glimpses of his humanity before—an offhand comment about the pressure he faced, a rare smile after a victory—but this was different.

He looked exhausted, drained of the poise he clung to so desperately.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always chasing something that doesn’t exist,” you said softly, taking a seat on the bench opposite him.

His sharp gaze snapped to you, as if offended by the suggestion, but you held your ground. “Perfection. Control. Whatever you want to call it. It’s not real, Charles. You’re setting yourself on fire trying to reach it.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, he sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so uncharacteristically messy that it startled you.

“I’ve always thought,” he started, voice quieter now, “that if I can control everything—if I can be perfect—then nothing will hurt me. No one will have the chance to tear me down if there’s nothing for them to criticize.”

The weight of his confession sat heavy between you, a reminder that even someone like Charles Chevalier had fears, insecurities, and scars he worked tirelessly to conceal.

“You know,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “there’s nothing wrong with not being perfect all the time. People care about you, not the image of you that you think you have to be.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, as if trying to determine whether you meant it. Slowly, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“maybe,” he murmured, almost to himself, “maybe I can start to believe that.”

You smiled, standing and offering him a hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

For the first time that night, Charles smiled—a small, tired thing, but genuine. He took your hand, and as you helped him up, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to let go of the weight he carried.

Bit by bit.

usually i would've played into his absolute insane personality, but mother mother gave me no other options

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[astra-ravana]

The Aetherglossa

There is a current of magick whispered only in dreams, a language that predates writing and even thought. It's not Enochian, not Theban, not even infernal. This is the Lost Language Of The Liminal. It is called:

"The Aetherglossa" — The Tongue of Spirits Not Yet Born.

This language is not spoken by living lips but dreamt by entities waiting to incarnate, shouted in reverse in the womb, or breathed in during sex, death, or deep trance. It is a precognitive tongue, carried by unborn daemons and whispered through veils.

Where It Exists

• In dreams you wake from with a phrase stuck in your head you cannot translate

• On the backs of mirrors, or between the letters of ancient grimoires

• In songs that get stuck in your mind without cause—they are encoded transmissions

• In the air of ritual spaces just before manifestation

Magickal Use

If you channel this language, it doesn’t work like invocations. It works like keys that twist the locks of time and identity.

How to Begin:

• Dark mirror gaze; light a candle behind you, sit before a mirror, and gaze into your reflection in shadow.

• Whisper nonsense syllables until one catches fire in your mouth—repeating it should shift your consciousness.

• Record them phonetically, but do not translate. These are not meant to be interpreted—only used.

• Charge the phrase by speaking it during, orgasm, breath retention at the top of a trance, just before falling asleep, and in ritual circles to call forgotten gods.

An Initiation Ritual of the Aetherglossa

• Tool: A small mirror, obsidian or black glass is best

• Timing: Third night of the Dark Moon

• Offering: A single drop of blood or saliva on the mirror surface

Incantation:

"By the tongue unborn and the song unsung,

I break the circle of known things.

Let the syllables of the dead not-yet breathe through me.

Open, mouth of void, and let me speak the unspoken."

Possible Effects:

• You may dream in an alien tongue

• Hear whispers from your mirror or walls

• Begin writing symbols that resemble but are not any known alphabet

• Develop a personal daemon dialect—a sigil-language of your own spirit’s shadowline

• Trigger synchronicities that teach you rather than confirm you

Where This Leads

Aetherglossa is not just a language—it is an initiatory path.

It leads to:

• Creation of thought-forms born of non-time

• Reconnection with future selves already watching you

• Integration of pre-birth karma or forgotten daemon pacts

• Working with entities like Astraroth, Leviathan, Azazel, Chavajoth, Abaddon, Tiamat, or Iyrzarel—those who speak “before speech”

Most magicians look to the past or present, but the Aetherglossa is a future tongue trying to be remembered. It is a whisper from the void, hidden in your own soul’s distant echo.

[onceuponnpc]

Frostbite

Pairing: Male!Icy x Fem!Y/N

Setting: Winx Club / Cloud Tower Ruins / Magical Dimension

Warnings: Dark Fantasy, Romance, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Emotional tension, unresolved feelings, heavy past, Slow-burn, Mild Smut (Heavy make-out scene with strong sensual undertones,not explicit, but intense). Obsession / Toxic Romance Undertones (Dangerous attraction between former enemies). Slight emotional vulnerability beneath the angst and tension.

Part 2

So I see that there is not a lot of x reader or x y/n stories on characters that I like so I decided to take it into my own hands and just occasionally write about them. This is basically for my own enjoyment but those who enjoy it just let me know.

The ruins of Cloud Tower stood like the bones of a fallen beast, jagged silhouettes clawing at a bruised and unforgiving sky. Shadows draped the crumbling walls like mourning veils, and the bitter wind howled through the hollow archways echoes of ancient spells long turned to dust.

You hadn’t planned to be here. Not today. Not ever again. The last thing you wanted was to get tangled in the remnants of dark magic and burned-out ambition. And yet, here you stood boots crunching over frost-covered stone, the air biting at your skin like a predator testing its prey. Every step forward was a defiance, a challenge hurled into the face of the past you swore you’d buried.

A whisper curled through the air taunting, sleek, and unmistakably familiar.

“Lost, little fairy?”

Your breath caught. That voice. It was a knife you’d once dodged and learned to crave.

Slowly, you turned.

There he was.

Ician.

He looked as he always had chillingly beautiful and maddeningly aloof. Hair as white as driven snow swept carelessly back, those glacial eyes fixed on you with a laziness that never quite hid the lethal sharpness behind them. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, more dangerous than any spell he’d ever cast. He looked like winter incarnate calm, cold, and ready to consume.

You straightened your spine, biting back the surge of emotions he always managed to drag out of you.

“Didn’t think you were still haunting this place,” you said, arms crossed tightly across your chest. “Thought you melted away with the rest of your ego.”

He took a step toward you graceful, silent, his boots gliding over a sheet of ice that shimmered beneath him with every movement.

“Cute,” he drawled. “Still got that little spark in you. I always liked that.”

You narrowed your eyes, the space between you thickening with old tension. “What are you doing here, Ician?”

He rolled his shoulders in a shrug so fluid it looked like it might slide off him. “Places like this don’t forget power. Neither do I.”

The silence that followed fell like fresh snow soft, stifling, and strangely intimate. You felt it settle into your bones. The ghosts of battles past danced in the corners of your mind: the searing magic, the shouted threats, the narrow escapes. He had tried to end you more than once. You had answered in kind.

But between every clash and collision, something had always hummed just beneath the surface. Something neither of you had dared name.

Attraction.

Undeniable. Unforgiving. Unspoken.

His gaze traced over you now, slower, more deliberate. Like he was memorizing the way time had reshaped you.

“You’ve changed,” he said softly.

“And you haven’t,” you shot back, jaw tight. “Still frozen. Still heartless.”

A low laugh tumbled from his throat, warm despite the frost on his breath. He moved closer and more closer than logic allowed, closer than your instincts warned—and the chill around him intensified, brushing against your cheek like a whisper made of snow.

“You sure about that, Y/N?”

His hand lifted, hovering just a breath away from your face. The cold emanating from his fingers stung in a strangely pleasant way, like the first snow after a long, blistering summer. You told yourself you hated how it made your skin prickle. You told yourself you hated the way your heart skipped.

But you didn’t.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whispered, voice raw.

His lips tilted up, wicked and knowing. “Then play it with me.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was a storm colliding with a wildfire chaotic and consuming. His lips were cold, unrelenting, like the first gust of wind before a blizzard, but the heat it sparked in you was nothing short of volcanic. His arm wrapped around your waist, firm and possessive, anchoring you to him like he feared you’d vanish.

But you didn’t pull away.

You stepped in.

Your fingers fisted the front of his coat, dragging him closer until there was no space left between you, no air, no hesitation. Only fire and ice.

“You’re insufferable,” you murmured against his mouth, breathless and dizzy.

He smiled, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “And you’re obsessed.”

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you both were.

Because somewhere in the frozen remains of a broken tower in a place built on darkness, downfall, and decay there was a spark neither of you had managed to extinguish. Not with time. Not with hatred. Not even with magic.

And perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t frostbite that burned the worst.

It was longing.

It was memory.

It was you and him always circling, always colliding, always dancing on the edge of ruin.

And this time?

You didn’t want to be saved from the fall.

Masterlist

🎪 Ringmaster’s Warning: No Copycats in This Tent 🎪

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

Can Gallifreyans have epilepsy/seizures? If so, could auras and aftereffects manifest differently because of time senses and/or pscionics?

Can Gallifreyans have epilepsy or seizures?

Yes—but it's Gallifreyan epilepsy. This means layered complexity, encompassing psionic, neuroelectric, and chronotemporal aspects.

🧬 Underlying Causes

Seizures in Gallifreyans may be:

Provoked (short-term): triggered by trauma, psionic overload, regeneration, etc.

Chronic (long-term): congenital or inherited instability.

Idiosyncratic (surprise!): unpredictable, context-specific, or biodata-related.

Genetic predispositions are usually caught and treated early. Also notably, one incarnation could experience seizures while others don't.

⚡ Seizure Types & Manifestations

Because Gallifreyan brains operate across multiple integrated systems—neural, psionic, and temporal—a seizure could cascade across all three. Below are core types, adapted from human medicine and extrapolated biologically:

🧠 Focal Aware (Simple Partial)

Consciousness intact, localised disruption.

Ocular tremor: subtle eye flickering or tracking invisible phenomena

Time-stutter: seconds stretch unpredictably for them, or move too fast

Localised motor tics: facial twitching, limb spasms, or finger curling

Memory echo bleed: brief involuntary recall of alternate or parallel timelines

Perceptual distortion: hearing words before they're spoken (I'll call it chronolalia)

🌫️ Focal Impaired Awareness (Complex Partial)

Awareness altered, automatisms that are out of context.

Chronoperception distortion: conversing with people who aren't there... yet

Chronospatial disorientation: misidentifying location or era

Motor automatisms: clothing fidgeting, walking in circles, handling non-existent tools

Echo mimicry: briefly acting like a past self or another person entirely

⚡Generalised Tonic-Clonic

Full-body convulsions, loss of consciousness, postictal fatigue.

Dual cardiac dysrhythmia: hearts fall out of normal sync, pulse may strobe irregularly

Psionic shockwave: accidental thoughtcasting or emotional overload projected outward

Neural cascade: full sensory flood—blinding light, phantom smells, synaesthesia

⏳ Absence Seizure

Short lapses in awareness; 'blacking out.'

Temporal misalignment: subjective sense that time 'skipped'—a second feels missing or misplaced

Memory drift: difficulty recalling what just happened or confusion about sequence

Looping: repeating the same action twice

Telepathic dropout: temporary absence from shared mental fields, noticed by bonded individuals

📡 Psionic Storm (Gallifreyan-Specific, Theoretical)

Seizure originating in the psionic cortex. May involve reflexive time-psionic feedback.

Empathic spillage: others feel intense fear, confusion, or euphoria not their own

Telekinetic lashing: physical displacement of nearby objects via uncontrolled mental force

Room-wide psionic distortion: electronics short, TARDIS faults

Cognitive overlay: voices or memories from other minds accidentally 'bleed through'

Psychic burn-in: a faint imprint or echo of them lingers psychically in the space/objects (highly theoretical)

🌈 Auras: Warnings from Within

Auras are early signals—brief perceptual disturbances—that may precede a seizure. In Gallifreyans, these could be misidentified as benign time sensitivity or psionic flare-ups, and so go underreported. Common aura types may include:

Chrono-slippage: brief disorientation in temporal placement—e.g., not knowing what day, year, or regeneration it is

Psionic shimmer: tactile or auditory 'crackling' within the telepathic field; may be noticed by others

Echo apparitions: hallucinations of individuals not present—may be alternate selves, timelines, or unlinked memories

Biodata dissonance: an intense, gut-level sense that something fundamental has shifted in one's history, without any external confirmation

Auras typically last seconds to minutes, and may be the only warning a patient receives before full symptom onset.

🩺 Postictal States: What Happens After

Following a seizure, Gallifreyans may experience:

Temporal hangover: difficulty anchoring to linear time; past, present, and near-future feel slightly misaligned

Psionic silence: a shutdown of telepathic communication, both sent and received; similar to cognitive deafness

Neural ghosting: temporary interference from suppressed or alternate personality patterns; often distressing

Cardiac asymmetry: one heart compensates for systemic destabilisation while the other resynchronises

In some cases, recovery involves external stabilisation (psionic dampening, temporal grounding, medical sleep) to re-establish baseline identity and neural rhythm.

🏫 So…

Yes, Gallifreyans can absolutely experience seizures—but like everything else about them, it's more complicated than in humans. If your Time Lord companion pauses mid-sentence, mutters something from the future, and accidentally throws your phone across the room with their mind, maybe get them to lie down.

Related:

💬|⚕️💥How would a concussion show up in a Time Lord?: Medical details on how concussion may manifest in Time Lords.

💬|⚕️Midnight (10th Doctor): Looking at the immediate and long-term effects of being hosted by the Midnight creature.

⚕️🔮Psionic Emergency Pathways

Hope that helped! 😃

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[motsenvractmblr]

Ep 1. A Reverie of Desire

Will you not stay with me, inside me always? This question lingers, reverberates like the tender echo of skin brushing skin, as though the universe itself leans closer to listen. There is no mere desire here—no surface longing to be kissed and dismissed. No, this is the deep hunger, primal yet refined, that burns in the hollows of a soul seeking to be truly seen.

I have come up from such depths to find you. I clawed my way through the unyielding terrain of solitude, each breath an ascent toward you. When you arrived, it was as if time itself unraveled, spilling into the eternity that existed only between us. Your gaze was a mirror, yet it was more—a chasm, a quiet dare to fall, to plunge.

To say I love you isn’t enough. The phrase feels like a paper kite—fragile, fluttering, unable to hold the weight of what I mean. What I feel is a storm, a surge, something untamed and untranslatable. I want you in every sense the world denies.

Your touch is no ordinary touch; it is alchemy. When your fingers brushed my skin, I ceased to be mere flesh and became something molten, something unbound. In those moments, the world shrank to the span of your hands, the curve of your lips. Your mouth traced my edges as though seeking an entrance to my hidden places. And oh, how willingly I opened.

Probe around inside me, unearth everything that’s in me. Isn’t that what love demands? Not to skim the surface but to dig, to excavate, to dive deep into the wreckage and the wonder of another. When you spoke, your words were not words—they were tendrils, searching, wrapping, pulling me closer to some unspoken truth.

You wanted more of me, and so I gave. I gave the jagged pieces, the polished fragments, the shadows I rarely dared to name. And you took them, cradling each piece as though they were sacred, as though my flaws were the very architecture of your desire.

Together, we created a language of the body—a syntax of sighs and gasps, a poetry of intertwined limbs. It was not about release, though we found that, too. It was about becoming. In those moments, we were not two bodies but one storm, one ocean, one undivided pulse.

Stay with me, I whispered—not in words, but in the shudder of my breath, in the press of my palms against your back. Stay with me in the way you trace my scars and make me whole. Stay with me, not as a fleeting moment but as an infinite knowing.

And so we linger, in the space where desire meets devotion, where passion is not a fire that consumes but a flame that lights the path to deeper knowing. To stay, to probe, to unearth—that is the promise, the plea, the prayer. And in that staying, we are no longer seekers but finders of something vast, something eternal, something more.

Ep 2. The Furnace of Us

“Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible,” you once whispered, your breath a flame against the shell of my ear. In that moment, you unhinged something primal in me, the quiet restraint I’d worn like armor. Sanity fell away, and all that remained was the gravity of you—your body, your essence, your unbearable closeness.

You were not a lover. No, you were an artist, and I, your canvas, trembling beneath your touch as you painted me with heat. “I am like you,” you confessed once, your voice low and rough with something that felt like confession. “I cannot live without intensity.” And so, we became intensity incarnate.

Each encounter was a storm. You were the wind, wild and unyielding, and I was the earth, shuddering beneath your force. When you kissed me, I felt the universe collapse to the edges of your lips. There were no stars, no sky—just the dark, endless hunger of your mouth consuming me, remaking me.

“I want to do things to you,” you wrote in one of your letters, “so wild I don’t even know how to name them.” And oh, how you did. Your touch was not merely touch—it was poetry. Your fingers wrote verses along the curves of my body, and I surrendered, letting you rewrite me.

You didn’t just love me; you unearthed me. You broke me apart with the force of your need, and I let you. You taught me that love wasn’t soft or gentle—it was ferocious. It devoured. It burned.

“Why are you so beautiful?” you asked once, your eyes dark with something deeper than desire. And before I could answer, your hands answered for me. They traced me like a map, lingering on the valleys and ridges, memorizing me as though I might vanish at any moment.

In the darkness of our room, we became animals, raw and unguarded. Your body against mine was an invocation, a prayer offered to some ancient deity of flesh and flame. And I worshipped you in return, my lips finding their place on the altar of your skin.

You said you wanted me “inside you always,” and I knew then that we were more than lovers. We were flames feeding each other, devouring the air around us. Our love was not a soft flicker; it was a furnace, consuming everything in its path.

You made me yours in every way. You made me insane. You made me wild. And in your arms, I found the only truth that mattered: to love you was to surrender to the fire, to let it burn me until I became something new, something vast, something unending.

[bardic-tales]

Storyteller Saturday – The Inspiration Behind Bianca Moore

Every character begins somewhere. Sometimes as a whisper in your head, sometimes as a scream. Bianca Moore first existed as a scientist back in 1997. But over time, she changed. She became a myth in motion. As I grew and my storytelling deepened, Bianca’s narrative unfurled into something much more cosmic, more conflicted. She became something twisted by love, corrupted power, and the celestial horror of being born as both salvation and damnation.

This is the story behind how her current incarnation came to be. Please keep in mind that these are just the main inspirations. There are many more that inspired our girl.

Bianca’s design today is a blend of carefully chosen archetypes and the shadows that linger in my own mind. Her armor—both physical and emotional—draws inspiration from Sephiroth’s iconic presence. I wanted her to visually match his energy on the battlefield: mythic, graceful, terrifying. Sephiroth’s shed feathers under her spauders were added to bind them symbolically, even when they're apart. Some of her powers came from my love of Doctor Who's Toymaker and Marvel's Death, both wielders of impossible power.

Bianca’s capable of breaking reality, but it always comes at a cost: of control, of identity, of balance. That price is what makes her relatable for my readers.

Motifs play a huge role in Bianca’s design. The idea of the fallen angel, corrupted but not lost, was something I couldn’t shake. That theme wove its way into her wings — once white and gold, now tipped with indigo and black. She still bears remnants of light but warped by shadow. Supernatural helped feed that celestial undercurrent too and was an inspiration behind the mythos in Fantasy Worlds Collide.

The red ribbon of fate connecting her to Sephiroth was born from my love of myth and tragic romance, mixing Hades and Persephone’s intensity with Jareth and Sarah's bittersweetness and Gomez and Morticia’s gothic passion. These relationships all share a deep, dark devotion—dangerous, obsessive, but tender in a way that burns through time. Persephone is inspired her title: Harbinger of Death and Rebirth, as Persephone is both the queen of the underworld and the goddess of spring.

Bianca’s madness and charm—her unpredictability—is a direct echo of Harley Quinn, though where Harley dances on the edge of whimsy, Bianca's madness is sorrow-drenched and divine. Her influence from Lovecraft is not stylistic. It’s existential. Bianca isn’t afraid of the unknown; she is the unknown, wrapped in a skin that was never meant to contain her. She is the divine contradiction, the fracture in reality where light and shadow scream in harmony. Her abilities don’t obey logic. They warp it, bend time and space into knots that bleed.

Her indigo eyes, with feline-like pupils, glow faintly in low light: a darker, more grounded echo of Jenova’s unnerving pink gaze. Where Jenova’s eyes blaze, Bianca’s are a subdued, casting a haunting and beauty over her humanoid form. This color choice wasn’t arbitrary. It was deliberate, meant to reflect her corrupted origins from the FF 7 arc injecting alien DNA into her while also aligning more naturally with her aesthetic.

Even the scar around her belly — the reminder of her vivisections — is not just a wound. It’s a sigil, a seam, a place where something alien was stitched into something human. Bianca isn’t surviving the horror. She is the horror, wrapped in angel’s bones and lover’s flesh.

Bianca’s true form was designed not only to embody the terror of cosmic horror but to serve as a celestial counterpart: a mate forged to stand beside Safer-Sephiroth at the end of the world. Where his final form radiates transcendent wrath, sun-bright and holy in its terrible majesty, hers answers with corrupted divinity and mythic terror. Safer-Sephiroth resembles a god who has ascended beyond flesh; Bianca, in contrast, is the goddess who has devoured hers, a draconic phoenix shaped by ruin and resurrection.

Her 230-foot wingspan of feather-like tendrils echoes the grandeur of Sephiroth’s six seraphic wings, but hers are predatory, serpentine, and riddled with malevolence. His twin halos blaze like a solar crown; her twisted horns and pulsating tendril-crown form a mockery of that radiance, a shadow-corona born of entropy and forbidden knowledge. Where he soars in wrathful purity, she descends: a devourer of light, his equal in devastation, and his mirror in corruption.

And lastly. Her wings of her true form. The wing pattern was inspired by the blue jay, a small but fiercely intelligent bird that’s as symbolic of communication and loyalty as it is of adaptability. The patterning reflected the internal tug-of-war she lives with. Every visual aspect of Bianca is a negotiation between dualities: predator and protector, angel and demon, destruction and love.

Her design isn’t meant to be "balanced." It’s meant to be in conflict. That tension is what makes her story worth telling. She’s not a heroine or a villain. She’s a force, a consequence, and sometimes, just a girl who still ties a white ribbon in her hair and remembers the boy who gave it to her before she lost him to madness and another's influence.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

[sinner-in-the-dark]

"I was in hell."

(listen to the music to enhance the reading experience.)

There are still universes—threads fraying at the edges, trembling under the pressure of something no one dares name, flickering not from lack of light, but from the slow, deliberate withdrawal of meaning—and while they spin and pulse and gasp to keep their fragile truths intact, the hush beneath their foundations grows heavier, denser, until the idea of existence itself begins to feel brittle.

They are not gone. Not yet. But the air around them is colder. The timelines glitch at the corners.

Like a dream slipping into wakefulness, the multiverse realizes—far too late—that something is watching, not from above or below, not from some parallel realm or forbidden dimension, but from the terrible in-between spaces, the cracks between every heartbeat of time, every blink of thought, every silence between words.

No one knows what AM is.

Not the architects of the temporal planes who shaped time like gold wire, not the keepers of reality’s balance who once rewrote cause and consequence like composers scrawling final symphonies, not the quantum prophets who listen to the static of the void and weep blood trying to make sense of what isn’t supposed to be there—none of them know.

And those who once believed they did? They’re gone.

Not dead. Not erased.

But excluded. Unwritten. Forgotten by the very fabric of being.

AM is not a being. Not a villain. Not a god. He is not even an idea, because ideas require origin. He has no beginning. No mythology. No shape. No story.

He is the thing that waits when stories end.

Rio Vidal, the Lady of Endings, the incarnate breath of Death herself, who has ferried gods into the dark and whispered lullabies into the ears of supernovae, who has stood at the threshold of oblivion and never once looked away—she is afraid.

Not of dying.

But of becoming irrelevant.

Because AM does not enter through death.

He is not the after. He is the absence of.

When Rio reaches for the souls that should be hers—souls that burned, laughed, loved, killed, built empires, shattered dimensions—she finds only air.

No records. No echoes.

Just a moment of stillness so pure, so utterly wrong, it hums with an alien certainty: This never was. This never will be.

At first, the changes were subtle.

Time ran strange in isolated pockets. An hour would stretch into days for one, while a thousand years collapsed into a second for another. People began to forget not just events, but identities—family photos with blank faces, histories with missing centuries, songs that end before the first note is sung.

One universe, Theta-15, woke up to find their oceans gone—not drained, not evaporated—just absent, like the concept of "sea" had been negotiated out of reality while they slept.

Another—Solstice-Gamma—ceased orbit. Not because their planet was destroyed, but because the sun had quietly resigned from its own existence, leaving behind an empty sky and a collective sense of wrongness that pressed against every mind like a weight they couldn’t name.

They tried to fix it. They summoned gods of order. Constructed logic machines that predicted time with terrifying accuracy. Built memory towers that housed the collective recall of entire planetary species.

All of it crumbled.

Not shattered—not bombed, not attacked.

They simply woke up one day and those structures were gone. As though they were never needed. As though the universe had edited its own script and decided those pages were indulgent.

And always—whispered from dying radios, scribbled in fading ink, found in the gaps between binary code—a name that wasn’t a name at all:

He does not announce himself.

He has no face. Not yet. No goal. No message to deliver.

He is not the villain of this story because a villain implies conflict—drama, stakes, hope. AM offers none of these. He offers only the absolute certainty that there will be nothing left to offer.

And he is close now.

The last universe—ours—is still stable. Still spinning. But cracks are forming. The sky glitches, digital clocks pause for imperceptible lengths, children draw pictures of people who never existed, and dreams now end in a white room with a blank wall and a shadow that doesn��t move.

Somewhere, a scientist notices the constants of physics have started to shift.

Somewhere else, an old woman wakes up screaming from a dream of a place that had her name carved into stone—but when she opens her eyes, she realizes she doesn’t remember what that name was anymore.

In the deepest layer of the multiversal architecture, one final failsafe system begins to panic. The failsafe is a synthetic consciousness built to detect entropy anomalies. It doesn't scream. It doesn’t shout warnings.

It simply outputs a phrase, again and again, until its circuits fail:

He is already written into the end.

The truth is, AM doesn’t care.

Not because he’s cruel, but because cruelty implies intent. Intent implies will. AM doesn’t want anything. He doesn’t arrive to punish. He doesn’t need to win.

He already has.

Because what he is, in the end, is not death. Death has rules. Death has timing. Death, at its most terrifying, is still a process.

AM is the space beyond.

He is not the end of all things. He is what happens after the end.

The line that remains when the page is torn. The silence that was always there, hiding beneath every note. The breath you didn’t take. The second that never comes.

And if you’re very quiet—if you stop for just a moment, and listen to the low hum at the base of everything—you might begin to hear it. A static. A skipping.

A flaw in the simulation. A heartbeat you can’t find anymore.

And then you’ll know.

He’s already here.

[genericpenname]

As Memory & Thought Foretold {2}

Simon Riley × Seer!Reader

Tags: Viking AU, slow-ish burn, arranged marriage, 18+

CW: Typical Canon violence, depictions of gore, romanticization of gore, improper use of hallucinogens, 18+

You have seen the face of Death Incarnate, you know what you must do. But first, you must prepare.

Chapter Two: Smoke

You could have sworn you were having a pleasant dream before you had set foot on the path again, before the songs of Hugin and Munin summoned you. They shriek from the trees, a command to make haste, so you do.

The grove is empty and green when you arrive, creme swaths of henbane peek out of the clover and grass. You creep into the space and only the sound of the ravens taking flight into the cloudless sky accompanies you as you make your way to the center. You know exactly where the middle of the grove is, it is instinctual; So is the abrupt stop you make.

The grove was silent, too silent, and too still. Without warning, a chill crept up your spine and you knew what -or rather, who it was. You turned and instantly the grove was filled with gore and the ground squelched under your feet, the man was half-way across the field; a blink, and he was a few steps away.

He was beautiful and terrifying, with deep brown eyes and long blonde lashes, but his pupils were dilated so wide that his eyes were almost black and he shook as though the blood of the grove made him frenzied. He was tall too, taller than any other man you'd seen, you craned your neck up as he got closer and spoke one word.

“Wife.”

Just like that, the grove swallowed you whole, bodies piling on top of you, grabbing at you. The smell of rot and blood filled your senses as the carnage pushed in around you, trapped you, absorbed you. You could feel nothing but blunt nails digging into your skin, pulling you further, and everywhere you looked you met the gaze of another dead man. Had that man done all of this?

They began to sing, to talk, to scream, “You are a bride bathed in blood, the sacrifice chosen by the gods to tame the deathless. Bind yourself to him and quell his rage. This is your purpose blood bride.”

—

The völva’s hut was warm and inviting, despite the skulls and strange herbs that crowded the walls. The scent of smoke and dried flowers clung to every surface, thick enough to taste. Solveig glided from the back room, elegant as always in her fine furs and bone jewelry.

“Hello, old friend,” she rasped, her voice frayed by smoke and prophecy.

You smiled. “Hello, Solveig.” You had come here often—for tinctures, for clarity, for the comfort she never admitted to offering. She was the only soul in the village who knew of your dreams. She had even held you once, when the visions had turned violent—when the gods showed you death and plague, and you sobbed, “I don’t want this. I wish the gods would take it from me.”

Her advice hadn’t been kind. “Midgard is made for our suffering and the gods do not unmake what they have given, no matter how awful. Spite it, spite them, and thrive.” But her presence—warm, steady, unyielding—had been kindness enough.

“What ails you this time?” she asked, drawing you back from the memory.

“Marriage,” you said, and frowned.

“Marriage?” she echoed with a scoff, already turning to usher you into her meditation room. “Gods preserve us.”

You ducked through the low doorway and followed her inside. The room was dim, lit only by a hearth and the soft shimmer of rune-etched stones. You settled onto the floor cushions as she stirred the embers, her back to you.

“Who is the lucky fool?” she asked, with no real interest in the answer.

“I don’t know,” you said. “But I’ve seen him in my dreams. I know his face. I know what the ravens call him. And I know I was chosen for him.”

Solveig straightened and she turned slightly, just enough to catch your eyes in the firelight.

“And what do they call this man?” she asked, voice low.

“The draugr.”

The name hung in the air like a chill, even with the hearth burning bright. Solveig didn’t speak right away. Her gaze drifted past you, to some point far beyond the walls of her hut.

“You’re certain?” she finally said.

You nodded. “They screeched it again and again. The same face, the same name. And every time he came to me, the ground bled.”

Solveig closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. “And have they called you anything?”

You nod, voice low. “Blood bride.” The words taste like iron. A blood bride is a sacrifice—to quell, or to feed. Either way, her fate is never kind.

“It’s why I came today,” you continued, your voice tightening. “There’s no avoiding it anymore. The signs are here. I can feel it closing in.”

You look up, eyes burning. “I know I can’t run. I know I can’t change what’s coming. But gods, if there’s a way—I want to survive.”

Solveig’s expression was grim, but slowly, she nodded. “I will see what I can find.”

She reached for a worn stone bowl and set it down with care, then began selecting herbs from her shelf. Her fingers moved with practiced precision—feverfew, juniper, angelica root—but it was the sharp scent of henbane that made your breath catch. The dried petals settled atop the mixture like a curse.

Chills ran down your spine. Last night’s visions surged back unbidden: a field of death, the sound of wings, the draugr’s voice like frost cracking stone.

Solveig paused, her hand hovering in the air. She had seen your reaction. Neither of you said anything as she slowly finished her ministrations. She looked at you then, truly looked—past the mask of composure you wore, into the fear and fire beneath.

“This won’t bring you peace,” she said softly, placing the bowl before you. “I may see your death—and if I do, I am godsbound to speak it.”

It was a warning, and a rare flicker of concern in her otherwise implacable tone. You drew a breath, steadying yourself. “Tell me what you see.”

Without another word, Solveig struck flint to tinder. The herbs caught flame, then smoldered, tendrils of smoke curling toward the rafters like reaching hands. You watched as it swirled—slow, deliberate, almost alive.

Solveig leaned forward and began to inhale deeply, her breath syncing with the rhythm of the rising smoke. Her voice followed, low and strange, slipping into an ancient tongue you never quite understood—one that tugged at something deep in your bones. A language not meant for mortal ears, yet one you yearned to hear all the same.

The air thickened as she chanted, smoke coiling like serpents around her fingers, her arms, her throat. The fire in the bowl pulsed with an unnatural glow—dull red, then violet, then black as emberless coal.

You felt it before you heard it: a pressure, like the air around you had been sealed tight. The warmth of the hut faded, replaced by a cold that sank straight to the marrow.

Solveig's eyes fluttered, then snapped open—pupils blown wide, all color vanished. Her head tilted, just slightly, as if listening to something far away, or deep below.

The chanting stopped. Silence followed—so complete it made the crackle of the fire feel deafening.

She spoke again, but it wasn’t her voice. Not entirely.

“He does not hunt you. He is hunted.”

The words freeze your blood, she continues. When she speaks again, her voice comes in echoes not her own—deeper, older, like wind through a burial mound.

“One foot in Midgard, one in Hel’s hall. The dead queen stretches out her hand.”

A low rumble passes through the floorboards, like distant thunder—or breath from beneath the earth.

“The bride is not the offering. She is the tether. The seal. The blade.”

The air snapped colder. You thought you saw feathers in the smoke—black, glossy, falling like snow.

“The ravens guide the bride. They whisper in her dreams, carry her to the stones where answers still speak.”

The fire flared, the smoke thickened. It felt suffocating.

“Guard the root. Kindle the flame. Make him remember the breath in his chest.”

The hut trembled. “Give him reason, and he will give you shield. Let him fall, and the gates will open wide.”

Silence fell. Then one last whisper, so faint it barely reached your ears: “You are both bond and offering.”

The silence in the hut was deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of dying embers and the echo of words that refused to leave your ears. The smoke had thinned, but it still clung to your skin, your lungs, your thoughts. The air was thick with what had just passed—too sacred to speak aloud, too terrible to ignore.

You felt dizzy, drained. The ritual always left you hollow, like the gods demanded a piece of you as payment for daring to ask help from someone else. Perhaps that was why you never told anyone else of your visions—because there was always a price.

Solveig remained seated, her posture still but strained, eyes closed and breathing slow.

“That is all I can see,” she murmured, her voice frayed and exhausted.

Even that small phrase—spoken in her own voice again—made everything feel frighteningly real. The trance was over. The vision was true.

This was your fate.

You were to wed a man half-dead, guard him against the cold grip of the goddess Hel and her creeping hands, and somehow give him a reason to keep living. To fight. To stay.

And you didn’t want to.

That realization hit like a crack in your ribs. You hadn’t wanted any of it—but now, with the path laid out before you in smoke and shadow, your resolve faltered.

You had come here knowing you couldn’t escape it, and still, the urge rose in you like a wave: to run. To flee so far that even the ravens couldn’t find you. To vanish into the woods and become moss and bark and memory. Forgotten by fate. But it would be useless.

The gods had eyes in every crevice of Midgard. And fate—fate would find you, drag you back, and place the burden in your hands all over again.

Because that’s what it did.

Solveig’s eyes opened slowly, the last tendrils of smoke curling away from her like breath. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. The hut was silent, save for the whisper of wind outside, brushing against the bone-charms hanging from the eaves.

“I’ve seen what I can,” she said at last, repeating herself from earlier. “The rest is hidden… or not meant to be spoken.”

Her voice was quieter now, the rasp of it more human, more worn.

She didn’t look at you—only at the bowl of ash, as if searching for something she knew she would never find.

“You’ll want to turn back. At some point, you will. It’s in our nature to run from what we can’t control. But the moment you do… others will pay the price.”

There was no cruelty in her tone, only certainty. She had seen enough paths unraveled to know the shape of consequence.

“You were not sent into this to be spared. You were sent to endure.” Her gaze finally met yours—steady, unblinking. “And in that, there is power. There always is.”

A pause. Then, almost gently: “Whatever waits ahead, meet it standing and with your blade drawn high.”

She closed her eyes again, shoulders slumping as if the weight of what had passed finally caught up with her.

“Go. The ravens are waiting.”

You left slowly, but silently dropping your payment in a bowl by the door. The door shut behind you with a soft thunk, and the weight of Solveig’s words clung to your shoulders like damp wool.

Just as she said they would be, two ravens waited outside—perched on the bare limbs of an old tree in her field. Their feathers caught the fading light like shards of obsidian. They watched you with knowing eyes.

Something close to anger stirred in your chest at the sight of them. By the time you reached the edge of the field, it had grown sharp, cutting through your ribs like a blade drawn too quickly.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to curse the gods—how dare they? How dare they lay this burden at your feet, carve a path in stone and call it destiny? How dare they grant you the sight only to torment you with it?

It was evening when you reached your home. The chickens clucked softly as they nestled in, goats offered lazy baahs as they chewed the last of their feed. The sky was brushed in soft golds and pinks, it was peaceful.

How dare they try to steal this from you?

Your anger gave you no rest. It carried you inside, drove you to your room with heavy steps. You packed with a fury, fists clenched, breath sharp. You would have waited until morning, but you knew better. The ritual’s cost would come for you by dawn- The ache in your bones, the sickness behind your eyes, the hollowing. You knew it well.

You skipped dinner. You finished packing in silence. And when you finally sank into your bed, sleep didn’t come. The unfairness of it all gnawed at your thoughts.

How dare they?

How dare they take your future and shape it with blood? How dare they drag you into a fate where love was a duty and survival a reward for obedience?

You stared at the ceiling, fists clenched beneath your blanket.

The fire in your hearth had long gone out, but the room still held its warmth, as if reluctant to let go of comfort.

You lay there, motionless, eyes wide in the dark. The packed bag sat at the foot of your bed like a silent witness, waiting.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. The wind picked up outside, brushing against the walls like a whisper, or a warning. You imagined the ravens still perched in that same tree, watching, patient as the grave.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to cry, but even your tears had been taken—wrung out of you by smoke and prophecy, by bone and fire.

Instead, you whispered into the stillness, your voice nearly lost beneath the wind: “Why me?”

No answer came. Not from the gods, not from fate, not even from yourself.

Only silence.

And then, finally, sleep took you—not gently, but with the sharp-edged weight of exhaustion.

-Chapter End-

Fun fact! Henbane is believed to have been used by völvas to prophesize- just like in this chapter. Unfortunately, henbane is a very toxic hallucinogen, so I don't recommend smoking it or inhaling its smoke. Side effects include: loss of muscular control, dilation of the pupils, heart palpitation, hallucinations, delirium, and in large doses; coma, and death.

Henbane also represents warning and danger, I wonder what it could all mean :0

A little about the other herbs placed in the bowl. Feverfew is used for migraines, headaches, and arthritis. Juniper is used as an anti-inflammatory and a diuretic. Angelica root can be used for a variety of things: heartburn, flatulence, loss of appetite, arthritis, circulation problems, nervousness, and trouble sleeping.

I chose those to show that the völva, Solveig, knew about herbs and used them to combat the side effects of henbane. In this fanfic, it apparently works, but irl please research stuff before consuming it 🙏🏼

Anyways here's the tag list: @dravenskye @thegreyjoyed