#whether it's just their hair being long or a veil or something

[atherix]

With the pantheon, how do they effect the culture? Like how certain religions have certain standards/ beliefs/morales. Qnd how with the fae one, they keep their hair longer.

(I'm bad at phrasing questions so I hope that makes sense)

Ohohohoho I only have like ten minutes to answer this but here we go!

I lied, I saved it as a draft in the middle of answering this. I rambled so much-

Of course the Fae Pantheon has the hair thing, but the hair thing actually stems from something else- head coverings. Long hair is viewed as a "natural headcover," and elves with short hair actually wear headcovers/scarves! Not all elves are comfortable with long hair (whether their job/role in society is just not good for long hair or if they just in general don't like having long hair/feel physical or mental discomfort with it) and will opt for a headcover of some kind. It's viewed as being honorable/respectful, and is 100% a cultural thing and not at all related to their magic. There are followers of the Pantheon who opt out of this completely (for example, Tubbo has short hair and doesn't wear a headcover despite being part of the Pantheon) but yeah. Just a fun fact. But other than that, their teachings are big on things like honor and respect and family and community and responsibility; self sacrifice (for the right reasons) is something to be honored and respected (by other people) but is not something to be done lightly.

The Death Pantheon is extremely respectful, in general, to all living things and especially honors the dead- thus why Vampires are considered such an insult to the goddess, having denied themselves an honorable death and funeral in line with the beliefs of the Pantheon (generally, followers of Death would have funeral pyres, where their body is burned in the hopes that the smoke would guide their souls. Of course Vampires turn to dust when they die so can't have a funeral pyre). Zombies and Skeletons do not get the same rep, as more often than not they did not ask to be infected/cursed. (Hi, this fact should in fact give you a hint to something I cannot explain) Death is closely related to Destruction and can be self-harming as well as extremely harmful to others, so those who are part of the Death Pantheon and have Death magic are expected to hold themselves to high standards and learn self restraint. L'Manburg is a perfect example of what happens when someone with Death magic loses self restraint and control. ( :) ) They are also taught a bit of a symbiotic family-group type relationship; the strongest is meant to protect and care for those weaker than them, and in return the weaker among them swear loyalty to the protector. This is why they group up- Vampires into Covens and Angels/Lower Deities into Flocks and (sentient/hybrid) Zombies and Skeletons into Hordes. It's a very "we take care of our own" family-group type culture. The Illagers are a favored group of Naturals who follow Death, and even they fall into this family-group take-care-of-our-own mindset.

The Old Pantheon is, if you remember from Midnight Alley, a very, very exclusive Pantheon not because you have to be born into it but because it denies all other Pantheons (it was The First of the modern age, when people first started picking up the pieces again) and is very Humans Are The Chosen People (Hybrids came about during the Ancient period (they started as mobs/animals with human level intelligence and started taking on human characteristics, and eventually humans started taking on animal/mob characteristics as well) but unfortunately small vocal groups of people can be awful, thus why many hybrids would hide out or live in places that didn't have humans). Which makes situations like Tubbo, a Hybrid's bio parents followers of this Pantheon rather ironic and extremely sad. The Old Pantheon was good for one reason; it gave people hope for the future and guided them to rebuilding, but in the modern age of Hybrids and Magic and the Supernatural it just isn't a Pantheon that appeals to people anymore, and only a few (well, less than a thousand) people still follow. The good parts of this Pantheon focuses on community and loyalty, which unfortunately fostered a lot of Othering feelings.

The Moon's Pantheon is wild. The Moon god's favored being were wolves, who would sing to her every night. As the Moon is very wolf-centric for this reason, packs and families and "it takes a village" style parenting are at the forefront of the Pantheon, and loyalty and pride is serious- namely, on the pride front, having pride but not letting it consume you. Not all followers of this Pantheon are Werewolves (as there ARE Natural followers of each Pantheon as well). Of course, most Werewolves live in their own villages where they function at night, under the moon, and the Natural followers of the Moon also tend to live nocturnally. That being said, Naturals are not welcome in Werewolf villages unless they come with the intention of joining and becoming a Werewolf. (This is where you should be side eyeing Ren and Martyn.)

The Sun's Pantheon is quiet and low-key. Its followers wake up early to welcome the rising sun but they don't communicate with their god or anything like that. No, they kinda like... literally just worship the sun. They don't even know if there's a god attached to it, all they know is they wake up and the sun rises and brings them warmth and light and chases away the monsters of the night. The only thing a follower of the Sun is expected to do is greet the sun in the morning and bid it farewell in the evening, that's it. Nothing on morality or values or how they live, just greet the giant ball of fire and gas that gives us light, as if if they don't it won't rise again.

The Watchers you have to be brought in by a trusted member. It's very exclusive. I can't actually... explain a lot about the Watchers and their values/morals because it will be important later, and what they actually do I can't explain because it would be hella spoilers, but the tenets are very "community/chosen family" oriented; "Find your people." They're meant to protect their own and be loyal and faithful to those they choose to be "their people," which as we know wasn't always the case and still isn't in some communities.

Listeners are extensions of the Watchers, a special group who can sense/communicate with them, even when they're not physically there. (Again, you need to be side-eyeing Ren and Martyn here.) If the stars are the Watchers' eyes, the Listeners are their ears. They are meant to be loyal to the Watchers and are often meant to be silent, so they can serve their purpose without distraction. Listeners are a class of Observant, but they are very much so a servant-type class, their natural ability to connect the Watchers in [redacted] to the Natural world being desired and necessary. They're expected to travel the world so the Watchers can learn and, well... watch over everything.

Creation... well, Creation is just that. The First after Fate. The one who created the Natural world (or what we would call the Overworld in-game). No one follows this Pantheon anymore as all information about it was lost over the tens of thousands of years of known history (and however long it was before that), but there's still a sense of respect for it as everything around them, their entire lives, are all thanks to this long lost Pantheon. It was based in honor and respect for all things, whether living or not.

Destruction, well, I really can't explain that one right now. That one will be explained in-story, because there is a complicated-as-fuck situation going on here.

The Nether god created the Nether as an attempt at finding a peaceful place away from the Warden's wrath. Unfortunately, the Nether god was only a child of Creation and was, specifically, a volcanic god... so it could only create something volcanic. Thus came a world of magma and volcanic rock. It was utterly inhospitable for humans, which led humans to fear and revile it, until it was a forgotten piece of their history. Creatures found their way there and adapted, though, and Piglins evolved from the common pig and built societies, which pleased the Nether god. Unfortunately, some of the creatures that found their way there weren't so peaceful and honorable and wanted to find a way back... :)

What created the End? No one knows. Humans discovered it so long ago and explored it at the height of their technological advancements. Some never left. Strangely enough, prior to humans finding their way to the End, there were no Endermen in the Natural world... That being said, Endermen worship something. No one really knows what. It could be some kind of Creation god or it could be the Void that surrounds it all, it could be the Dragon they've bound at the heart of the dimension. Eye contact is disrespectful among Endermen and Enderman-related Hybrids, and generally non-Endermen (who will naturally avoid eye contact with each other) would wear a mask or veil to keep from accidentally making eye contact.

The Void... well, it's a defunct Pantheon now, but it was about community and loyalty, as many Pantheons are. Its followers would bring offerings- often bundles of food, sometimes things like precious stones and metals- to places that claimed to have access to the Void itself. Its people were generally hardy and faithful, with a strong work ethic. Of course, though, it had its... groups. Worship was generally held in small community houses or around a shrine... if you saw a giant temple dedicated to the Void, it was best to avoid it lest you become the offering.

Fate is Fate. Fate controls the fate of all things, and is one of the hardest things to defy. There's arguments on whether you CAN defy it, if you even have free will to stray from the path it sets out. There's debate on whether or not Fate maps out everything or just key points- if the journey to get to the end point even matters. No one knows Fate. Everyone is bound to it. Even the gods. Fate came into being when there was nothing at all, and set the wheels in motion for everything that came after. No one can even agree on if Fate is actually a god or just a concept. Many people don't even believe in Fate. Certainly, with a god out there who plans out all the paths and every turn the world can take- surely a god like that would never allow the Warden to come to be. Well, one thing's for certain among those who do believe in Fate; it doesn't like to be challenged.

I spent way too long on this :o I hope this answered... anything at all honestly, I had fun rambling about them~

[felassan]

John Epler in the BioWare Discord (August 7th) -

John: "You can disable/enable helmets for cutscenes or at all times." --- User: "Will we be able to collect codex entries again?" John: "Absolutely. Codex entries are part of the series' DNA - plus, they're really fun to write." --- User: "Are there long curly hair options?" John: "There are!" --- User: "Are sub-classes locked to the faction you’re in?" John: "No. They're themed towards factions, but you can choose a specialization from a separate faction than your own." --- User: "Will subtitles from companions be on screen with their icons lit up like in Inquisition?" John: "Subtitles will appear center-screen and have the speaker name attached. So you'll see who's saying what." --- User: "Regarding the cutscenes findable in the game, will a gallery be available for re-watch?" John: "Not at present, no. Since our cutscenes are (almost all) real-time in-engine, this would be nearly impossible with our tech."

[character limit text break!]

User: "What are the chances for a third World of Thedas volume after The Veilguard's release?" John: "I can't comment on specific plans, but World of Thedas is close to my heart and I'd love to do more in general with our ancillary books and products, once we're able to come up for air from the game." --- User: "Can we edit our race during character creator freely or are we locked in by choosing race first like in inquisition?" John: "Lineage informs a number of options after that choice - you can always go back in CC and change it, but it's the first decision you will make and changing it will reset the following decisions." --- User: "I did have a follow-up on lineage - do the other lineages/races also have background choices the way elves do with city/dalish? CAN we play a qunari raised within the Qun?" John: "So a couple of things, just to be super clear on this. There is no 'city elf/dalish elf' switch (for example) that you can pick in character creator. Each lineage can be each faction, though, and that will provide a baseline for your character you can further refine through role playing. For Elves, as an example - Veil Jumper elves tend to be more 'Dalish' to reflect that background, while Shadow Dragon elves tend to have a background that reflects being an Elf in Minrathous. Other factions have their own nuance. Importantly, those things tend to be more focused on how you relate to that faction, while leaving more general 'Elf' topics as something you have more freedom with. Or, TLDR - while choices at CC define some baselines around your character, we like to give you the opportunity to build your character's background and beliefs through in-game RP. Hopefully all that makes sense." User: "That does, and is right in line with what Corinne said during the Q&A! I was asking whether we would see the same background variety in the non-elven lineages." John: "Yes! Sorry, that's what I was trying to answer - there will be plenty of opportunities to RP who you are/were as the other lineages as well."

[character limit text break!]

User: "are there companions gifts again" John: "Isn't the gift of your presence enough? More seriously, though - you very well might find things in the world that certain companions would appreciate!" --- John: "Rook is generally assumed to be anywhere from late 20s to late 40s, but ultimately we don't give Rook a specific age. You can RP them to be however old you want." --- User: "will conversations be zoomed in like a cutscene type or zoomed out like in DAI?" John: "While we do have some 'lighter' conversations for specific types of content, they use a more traditional over-the-shoulder cinematic camera. I created the simple conversation system in DAI and while it did what we needed it to do, we heard the feedback on the camera loud and clear." --- User: "The darkspawn look fairly different in veilguard. Is ot a simple redisgn like the demons or is it due to them being enhanced by red lyrium?" John: "I'm not going to tell you WHAT it is that's making them look different, since that's a spoiler, but it's more than just a visual redesign." --- John: "Need and inspiration, mostly. We can't bring in every single animal out there, especially since we want the ones we DO put in the game to be at the right level of quality. So we pick the ones that we know make sense in the spaces we're building, and also it's based on what the team wants to do. If someone is incredibly passionate about bringing in a specific creature, it's something we want to give opportunities to pursue wherever possible. As to the general ecology of Thedas - there are absolutely similarities, but it's not 1:1. A world where megafauna still exist as apex predators (dragons) is going to have some pretty significant impact on what else exists." --- User: "does the lighthouse have a kitchen, can we eat and drink? what sort interactables are there at the home base" John: "Not going to get into specifics on interactables, but there is more to do in the Lighthouse than conversations with companions. The Lighthouse does have a kitchen, and your companions acknowledge it/use it both narratively and ambiently. Some maybe better than others." John: "A little more expansion on this - we want the Lighthouse to feel like a 'real space' as much as possible. That means making it a space that makes sense and, eventually, feels like home to you and your team. It also means spending a little extra time on how the companions (and Rook) use and exist in the space. At this point we've made a LOT of personal hub spaces in DA and ME, and we've learned a lot from doing so." --- John: "It wouldn't be a DA game if we didn't have some returning characters. We've shown some of the more obvious ones, and hinted at others, but we want to keep some surprises for launch."

[source: the official BioWare Discord]

[lovelettersfromluna]

After Dark

Summary: It’s a universal rule that every ghost face at a Halloween party is hot underneath. Let’s test that theory, shall we?

an: AHHH OKAY! Lemme explain. I made a post about participating in kinktober, and while a lot of you wanted me to, I feel like it’s too late for me to properly participate. HOWEVER, I still want to give you something to kick off the weekend! Something spooky AND smutty for all my ghouls out there. I hope you’re all having a good Halloweekend! Pls stay safe and have lots of fun, I’m sure you all have the cutest costumes planned! Also, I took a different approach to reader, so let me know how you guys like her!! 🖤🖤 p.s I was drunk when I wrote this :p

Warnings: SMUT!!! 18+, MDNI, porn with no plot, strap-on sex, mentions of the word “cock”, mask kink, alcohol usage, mentions of latex, riding, cliche house party trope, slight sugar mommy!ellie if you squint??, lmk if I missed anything!

Out of all of three hundred and sixty five days of the year, today was your favorite.

Today was the one day within the year that there weren’t really any rules. You could wear anything, be whoever you wanted, and it was socially acceptable to get drunk while doing so, and there was no way in hell you would ever pass up on that.

No matter the circumstances, you were invited to a Halloween party. Whether it was some cheesy bash that was being thrown at a friend of a friends house, or a more upscale party, you were going out.

And you always looked damn good doing so.

You were always praised on your costumes, every year it was expected of you to top what you did the last, so there was no doubt in the fact that you were putting in maximum effort year after year.

This year? You stuck with one of the classics of course. The devil.

You were dripping in skin tight latex, the black corset you wore that pushed your boobs out perfectly, your soft skin nearly spilling out of the tight top, the tight booty shorts that hugged the globes of your ass, your cheeks peeking out, the gloves that hugged your arms, and the thigh high socks that shined under the moonlight, everything you wore was that delicious shiny material that made you look almost unreal.

And underneath it all? You had painted your entire body red, paired with fake red horns peeking out of your pretty hair.

So yeah, you were almost always crowned as the queen of Halloween.

This year was no different, halloweekend had been kicked off with quite the everything shower, making sure your body was in perfect condition for everything you’d be attending. You had gotten ready with your friends at your apartment, getting a few shots in before making it to the biggest party of the year. Everyone looked forward to it, putting together their best costumes for the party at the house that almost everyone died to get into.

Walking down the streets of the city on Halloween was like Christmas, various characters from movies and cartoons cheering, dancing, all social barriers that were put up every other day of the year were down, the veil being lifted for one night that allowed anything to be game.

The amount of whistles you and your friends received on your way there was almost appalling, not to mention the amount of people who told you they’d let you torture them any day. You thought that was cute.

Soon enough, the sounds of the party were near, and you could see the red lights spilling out of the big house in the middle of the block, and you knew it was time.

Eyes were on you immediately, and it made you giggle as you scoped out the food group that was there tonight. Of course you knew they’d stare, drool over you with their mouths open, begging for just a moment of your time.

But you were a very picky girl.

Ignoring their advances was like second nature, all you had to do, was shake your ass, drink some free liquor, and wait for the perfect person to take up your time for the night.

And as always, that never took long for you.

Your hips swayed to the music, eyes closed as you enjoyed one of the best parts of parties. The alcohol you drank made your body warm up in the best way, made every touch on your body feel so much more intense, all while numbing out everything else. It made you feel alive, it made you raise your arms above your head and simply let the music move you.

It was only a moment, your eyes drifting open to make sure your friend was still in front of you, and you’re sure if you hadn’t, you would’ve missed it.

Across the room, stood a tall figure. She wore a loose black t shirt, baggy black jeans, black boots….

And a ghost face mask.

The figure was turned towards you, leaning against the wall with a red solo cup clasped between a hand, a pretty tattoo bleeding into it. Anyone else would have seen it, and thought that whoever it was, was extremely fucking creepy. Everyone knew that ghost face was one of the creepiest people you could choose to be for Halloween ever.

But it just so happened, that you’ve always had a thing for masked killers.

Although you couldn’t see the eyes of the person behind the mask, you could feel them, and it made you burn from the inside. You bit your bottom lip softly, throwing back the rest of the alcohol in your cup before you turned your body more towards them, giving them a good view of your body. You began dancing, putting on a show for them, your glove glad hands running up and down your body, your neck, your boobs, your waist, practically having sex on the dance floor with yourself, all for this stranger who was most definitely watching you.

You feel like you have x-ray vision, because although you can’t see her face, you can see the way she grips her cup tighter whenever you sway your hips, turning around to give her a nice view of your ass. You see the way she shifts her weight onto her other foot whenever your hand runs over the curve of your tits. When you really know you’ve got her, is when you rest your hands on your friends hips, and pull her into your crotch, your eyes never leaving the ghost face mask. You know you’ve got her because she sets her cup down, raises her long, skinny fingers, and silently calls you over before she makes her way down one of the hallways in the house.

And suddenly, a game of cat and mouse begins.

You almost never chase anyone at a party, you’re always the one that’s being chased. However, there’s something about this ghost face. There’s an aura radiating off of her, one that’s dripping of lust, screaming at you, telling you she’s got exactly what you need, exactly what you’re looking for during these stupid Halloween parties.

So you break your little streak, and as soon as she calls you, you’re following her.

The house is lit up with all different colors, the kitchen was purple, the living room was pink, everywhere you turned was another tinted space that fit the Halloween vibe perfectly.

As you look around for your ghost face, you can’t help but huff softly. It almost feels as if she’s disappeared into thin air, as if the alcohol in your system made you hallucinate the entire thing. You begin to question yourself, a soft pout on your lips as you make your way down the final place to look for her.

But of course, you finally find her leaned up against one of the hallways, and of course it’s completely lit up red.

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth as you smile, making you way towards her. Once you’re standing in front of her, you expect her to take off the mask, show her who it is that’s hiding behind that silly mask.

But she doesn’t

You giggle softly, your hand toying with the hem of her shirt as you stare up at her with big doe eyes.

“You gonna show me the pretty face you’re hiding under that mask?” You purr out, and the ghost face simply shakes her head. It makes you pout, tugging at her shirt gently as you lean into her a bit, but still keeping your body a ways away from hers.

“But…how am I supposed to talk to you if I can’t see you” you whine, hoping that this little pouty act will get you what you want. It usually does, but this ghost face seems far too stubborn for that. She simply cocks her head to the side, as if clicking her tongue and mocking your pout.

It makes your pussy flutter with need.

She hasn’t even said anything to you, but you’re already squeezing your legs together, eager for some kind of friction to soothe the ache between your legs, your lips rubbing together with the arousal that grew with each passing second.

You hum softly, your latex clad fingers running down her arm, reaching her tattoo and tracing the pattern gently.

Hm…you don’t recall that one.

She gives you her arm with ease, allowing you to see her tattoo, that makes you smile softly.

“This is pretty…” you hum before you look back up at her, biting your plush bottom lip softly. “Are there anymore for me to find?” You question, giving her a playful smile. This one gets her, because you can hear the way her breath shudders, see the way her chest rises and falls for a moment.

She’s right where you want her.

You hum softly, your hand slowly coming up to the mask, eyeing her closely as you gently begin pushing it up, eager to see her face. You flinch when she grabs your wrist, stopping you from lifting it up any further. You pout again, it’s genuine this time, not like before. A soft huff leaves your lips before you open your mouth to complain, tell the girl that if she doesn’t want to show you her face, you’ll leave to find someone else who will.

But before you can, you’re being tugged into a random bedroom.

Upon entering, you can see why this place is the spot was so popular for parties. The rooms are clean, and the host went as far as to decorate them accordingly, the same red lights from the hallway lighting up the place. If you weren’t so hellbent on getting fucked by the ghost face, you’d most certainly be gushing over what a wonderful party host this was.

Your thoughts are completely cut off by strong arms wrapping around your waist, and pulling you into an even stronger chest. It makes you moan softly, your head falling back against her chest. You feel her strong hands running up and down your latex clad body, squeezing your hips, your boobs, running along your thighs. You can hear her breathing behind you, and you can almost hear the sweet tone of her voice through it.

You let out a small whine, one of your hands coming down to lay over hers, keeping her close to you. “Wanna play with you…” you hum softly, it makes your ghost face groan, her hands squeezing your plush body before she turns you around, and pushes you onto the soft bed.

It makes you giggle softly, your hands running along the soft sheets as you watch her. She looks like a god above you, standing so tall, the ghostly mask almost haunting as she eats you up with her eyes, head cocked to the side as you lazily smile up at her.

You move to prop yourself up onto your hands, palms pressing into the bed, your legs spreading for her. “So…you’re leaving the mask on, huh? Does that make me the helpless victim?” You pout out, holding back a giggle as you recite the lines from the movie the mask came from. It earns a slow nod from your ghost face, and you have to hold back a moan.

“Well…please play with me ghost face…I wanna be yours tonight” you purr out, your body sitting up as you reach forward, your fingers snagging around the belt loop of her jeans and pulling her closer.

You hear a soft sigh from behind the mask, and it almost sounds like she’s suffering, like she’s torturing herself just as much as she’s torturing you by not touching you yet. Her strong hand slowly comes up, cupping your chin gently and angling your head up, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip. You moan softly, kissing her finger gently, it makes her groan again.

She slowly moves down, bending down until her hands are pushed against the bed, caging you in. It makes you crawl backwards, a soft whimper leaving your lips. When she’s this close, backing you up onto the bed, you can catch a glimmer of her eyes beneath the mesh material of the eyes of the ghost. You can see her long lashes, and big green eyes. It makes your pussy throb desperately.

Because fuck, you’ve never seen eyes that pretty before.

You almost done catch her hands reaching down between you, pushing into the tight material of your latex shorts, fingers pressing against your soaked core. You’re so desperate for her, that the small act makes you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut as you grind your hips against her fingers. You can tell she’s skilled just by the way she fingers your clit and rubs you slowly, the right fabric of your shorts making it an even tighter fit.

“Fuck…” you hear softly from behind the mask, and it’s the first time you’ve properly heard her voice, it makes you feel like you can cum right then and there.

You blink softly as you stare into her eyes, watching her as she slowly toys with your pussy, making you whine and moan for her from the small motions of her fingers.

“Mmpph…feels…fuck…your fingers…” you moan softly, feeling yourself growing close just from the way she rubbed your throbbing clit. Your hand goes down to her tattooed arm, grabbing it as she begins to speed up. You whine loudly, your back arching as you grind in tow with her movements, and fuck…you’re so close, you feel like you’re going to explode just from a stranger finger fucking you.

And suddenly, her fingers are gone.

“W-what? Why’d you…why’d you stop” you whimper softly while trying to catch your breath, watching as your ghost face began to tug your shorts off. You whine softly with embarrassment, watching as she silently tugged your shorts off, a string of your arousal connecting you to your shorts. You can’t remember the last time you were this wet.

Your ghost face groans softly, mumbling something under her breath that you don’t quite catch. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re quickly being tugged up into her arms as she lays down on the bed.

Now you’re straddling her lap, your bare core dragging along her jeans as her strong hands massage your thighs. You whine softly, because you can feel the prominent bulge pressing against you through her pants. Her hands go to your hips, forcing you to grind your soaking wet pussy against her crotch, your arousal staining her black jeans, making you burn from the inside out.

You moan loudly, your hands pressing against her lower stomach as you watch the way she slowly grinds you down on her as she pleases. You’re eager, so you’re already undoing her belt and unbuttoning her jeans. You almost expect her to stop you, but she doesn’t, and you’re pulling out her pink strap, the length of it making your mouth water.

If you weren’t so fucking horny, the color would’ve made you giggle, but there’s no time for that. You tug her jeans down a bit more, to which she lifts her hips up to help you, and you begin to crawl up her body slightly until you’re hovering over her length, her hand grabbing the shaft as she runs it along your lips, getting it wet with your arousal before she helps you sink down on it.

The moan you both let out is past pornography, the weight of you pushing down her strap rubs against her clit perfectly, and she’s sure she’s never experienced someone riding her so fucking well. The sound of her pretty voice makes you want to cry, because she’s been teasing you so much that you’ll take just about anything she gives you. You begin to bounce on her length slowly, adjusting to her size, your hands pressed against her chest to act as leverage.

“Oh my…fucking god….mmmhhh…a-ah!” You moan out, eyes fluttering shut as you ride her, back arching as your hands go up into your hair, tugging on it, needing somewhat of an outlet to release the pleasure you were feeling. Your senses were on overload, and you weren’t sure if it was the build up of not knowing who the hell you were fucking, or if it was truly that good, but you’re sure you’ve never had a fuck this good in your entire life.

“Fuck…that’s a good fucking girl…bouncing on my cock so well…yeah…that’s it” the voice makes you moan loudly, your eyes opening immediately. She sounds perfect, her voice low and smooth, strong hands gripping your thighs for a moment before they come down on your ass, spanking you hard and making you moan even louder.

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice when she speaks, her voice dripping with lust as you fuck your self down onto her cock. “Haven’t even seen my face and you’re doing all of this for me…treating me special, pretty girl?” She hums out before moaning loudly with you. You can’t help but nod, slowly feeling yourself becoming dumb on her cock.

“S’good…feels so good…I’ll do anything for you” you moan out almost incoherently, saying just about anything that comes to mind in that moment.

As you continue bouncing on her cock, the motions of it all makes her mask come up a bit, and you catch a glimpse of her plush pink lips tugged beneath her pretty teeth. It makes you whine softly, and you realize you can’t fucking do this anymore.

You reach forward, your hand going to the edge of the mask, and you tug it off of her head.

You feel like you’ll lose your breath, keel over and die at that very moment when you see her, because she’s so fucking pretty. Her brown hair is so messy, soft fringe splayed across her face, prettiest freckles littering her red cheeks, those same green eyes staring into yours, pretty lips tugging into a smirk when she sees the way your eyebrows furrow with pleasure, knowing that it was her face that made you feel that way.

“Just couldn’t wait, could you?” She smirks softly, her words followed by a soft groan, hands traveling up your body and gripping your boobs that were nearly completely spilled out of your top.

“Want you to cum for me, princess…can you do that? Cum all over my cock?” She urges on, her words cut off by various moans as you continue fucking yourself down on her. You want to speak, but you can’t, so all you do is nod eagerly and give her a loud moan, feeling the familiar warmth building up in the pit of your stomach, electricity traveling through your body.

Ellie moans with you, her eyes never leaving yours as she gives you an encouraging nod. “That’s it baby…such a pretty fucking girl…been watching you all night…knew I needed to…fuck…have you…come on baby…cum for me” she commands, and you feel like you’ll turn into jelly just from the way she tells you to do it, so stern, your legs felt like they could no longer hold you up, shaking as your back arched almost painfully, and your orgasm raked through your body.

It was electrifying, the feeling of her cock sliding so deep into you, your walls fluttering around it as you came, her hands gripping your hips tightly as she pushed even deeper into you, her own orgasm visibly washing over her as she pushed her head further into the bed, eyes squeezing shut, curse words flying from her pretty lips.

You both sat there for a moment, Ellie sitting up and pressing her face against your chest as she held you close, hands rubbing against your thighs, soft kisses against your boobs, giving both you and herself a moment to collect yourselves after the intense session you’d just had.

After a few moments passed, you pouted softly as you looked down at the bed and noticed some of the red body paint had smeared onto the bed.

“Fuck…you don’t think the host will be mad about that…do you?” You mumbled softly, trying to avoid the embarrassment you felt at the fact that your fucking costume had ended up screwing you over.

Ellie chuckled softly as she looked down at the bed, humming softly as she pressed another kiss to your chest before she pulled you down to lay down with her, having every intention of keeping you there until enough people left, and you could both go for a shower.

“Nah…I don’t mind” she smirked softly, knowing she’d most definitely be making sure the sheets were changed for you both in the morning.

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter three )

18+ 7.3k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, assault (not perpetrated by HL), violence, smol murder, manipulation/gaslighting, hurt/comfort. nebulously takes place post s1. part 3/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander will do whatever it takes to convince you that he's the hero you need.

It’s shortly after one o’clock when Homelander knocks a whimsical melody against your office door, deciding he shouldn’t be precisely on time, lest he look as eager as he feels. He can already smell your perfume wafting through the doorway–the same scent he feverishly pumped his cock to the night before–as a teaser of what’s to come.

“Come in,” you call from the other side.

Homelander takes in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He screws his eyes shut, pinching his expression in a tight squeeze before he replaces it with a flashy grin, squaring away his anticipation in favor of his showman persona.

“Goooooood afternoon,” he drawls, strolling in with the same feigned level of confidence he’s entered every other moment of your life since stumbling across you, whether you knew it or not. He’s taken aback almost immediately, slowing in how he closes the door behind him.

You look nicer than usual. Your hair is styled with more conscious effort, and he’s been in show business long enough to recognize the makeup on your face. The shine of your blouse is a quality silk blend, and he can’t hear the scrape of cheap cotton underneath it anymore. No, you’re wearing something nice below, too. His lips slowly spread into a self-satisfied smile. 

You dressed up for him. 

Homelander takes the seat set across from you, sweeping his cape to the side with a flourish. He watches you tuck an empty container–your lunch, presumably–into a side drawer of your desk. His eyes closely track the way you lift your thumb to the corner of your mouth and swipe residue from it, sucking the mess from your digit. A distinct pang of arousal hits him just watching your cheeks hollow.

Imagine what she could do with that mouth.

“And good afternoon to you, Homelander,” you respond, straightening up in your seat. His gaze briefly dips to the swell of your breasts as you adjust yourself, casually dusting away any remnants of your lunch. Saliva gathers on his tongue at the instant memory of you scantily clad in your sleep wear, nothing but a thin sheet of worn fabric between you and his hunger. His eyes snap back up before you can take notice of how they wandered.

Lucky for him, you’re busy splaying out the folder he brought you the day before, scanning over the list of bullet points he’d slapped together for the sake of having enough talking points.

“I wanted to start with your concerns regarding the marketing for your upcoming miniseries,” you say, glancing up at him.

He clicks his tongue. “Wow, alright. Straight to business then,” he says, absently rolling his palms over the ends of the armrests on either side of him.

“I’m very bad at small talk,” you say. Probably to diffuse any notion that you were being rude on purpose.

“Ch’yeah, I’ll say,” he says, smiling thinly. “Lucky that you’re good at your job.”

“Shockingly, I was actually a personality hire. I don’t know what any of this means,” you say, matching his thinly veiled snark while gesturing to the spread of documents in front of you. He snorts softly. You have a knack for using that sharp wit to diffuse, but he doesn’t feel manipulated. You actually are funny. “I was hoping you’d explain your concerns.”

Smooth segue, he thinks, his eyes narrowing appraisingly. He’s worked enough interviews to know when he’s being led, but he takes the bait anyways, widening his smile.

“Sounds great.”

Homelander knows that you’re sharp, good at your job, but he needs to needle you into giving him what he wants. He wants to understand you, and the stack of his films he found hidden in your apartment. What he gets in the meantime is ample taste of your silver tongue, parrying his every jab with an equally sharp counter.

He can’t keep the smile from his face.

Gradually a level of familiarity slips into the air between you. He can see some of that tension in your shoulders easing. He’s steadily wearing down the walls you’ve managed to construct.

“I still think audiences will be confused,” he says, feigning a profound concern, stretching out the time of your little appointment.

“Well, audiences are a lot like celebrities,” you say, the hard candied shell of your professional exterior thinning with every back and forth, poised to crack at any second.  “They’re smarter than we think they are.”

“Oohh, ouch,” he purrs. “Nice backhand you got there.”

A twitch at the corner of your mouth. He knows you’re fighting a smile of your own, and pride blooms warmly in his chest. He likes sparring with you, but he likes pleasing you even more.

“I disagree about market confusion. Your diehard audience will already be up to speed, your broader target audience will show up for anything with your face on it, and anyone more casual than that likely won’t have seen the miniseries anyways, so there’s nothing to confuse it with,” you say, scanning down through one of the pages of the document he gave you.

Perfect opening.

“And which audience is it you fall into, exactly?” He asks, cocking his head a degree. “I mean, given your position, I have to imagine you’ve seen my range of film and television.”

“I’ve done my due diligence,” you say vaguely. You’re good at answering without answering. Normally it would irritate him, but your forced aloofness combined with your closely guarded–and inexplicably secret–veneration of him makes it into tantalizing bait begging for the sharp sink of his teeth.

“So you’ve seen all my movies, then?” He extrapolates, setting a line of his own.

You chuckle, gaze flickering to him before back down to the pages. Too brief a glance to even come close to satisfying his hunger. “I didn’t say that.”

He scoffs lightly. “But you’re a fan of mine?”

“I definitely didn’t say that.” He can sense he’s hit a vein, and like any good predator would, he’s eager to bite into it.

“C’mon. Don’t tell me you’re shy,” he continues to prod, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

You inhale a breath that you barely prevent from sounding too obviously irritated. His grin remains untarnished by the scrutiny of your unwavering stare. There it is, that’s what he wants. The weight of your gaze upon him, evaluating, taking him in fully. He doesn’t care how he gets it, he just knows he wants it.

“You are shy,” he accuses, knowing you aren’t.

“I’m not shy, I’m a professional,” you say curtly, the scratch of your pen scathing while you write notations on the document.

Good, he thinks. More likely to slip up now.

“Jeeze,” he laughs. “You’re wound up tighter than my fictional manager in Darkest Day.”

“You didn’t have a manager in Darkest Day, that was Origins,” you correct. After a beat, your hand stills.

Homelander’s gaze slowly slides to meet yours. He watches your face fall and clicks his tongue. He positively relishes how your mask of indifference slips into subtle dismay at your misstep. Such a simple bit of trivia, and yet it spoke volumes.

Got’cha.

“You do watch my movies,” he said, tone dropping to a near whisper. He revels in the quiet way you groan, leaning back in your chair. 

“Only the ones I was paid to,” you say, straightening up in your chair, but he can hear the defeat in your voice.

“Liar,” he says through his perpetual grin. “Don’t be embarrassed. How long have you been a fan?”

“Stop,” you say, burying your face in your hands. Oh, this is good. Was he your first crush? Your favorite hero? He must be still, judging by the flush of heat moving through you. All that pretense, all that haughty glowering, and beneath it all you’re a fan girl. He almost laughs at the thought of the face you’d make if he called you that. 

“Which was your favorite?” He asks, burying the knife deeper, eager to cut through flesh and muscle and bone to get to the heart of truth beneath. “Bright World? Rise of a Hero? Justice Dawning?”

“I despise you,” you say melodramatically, digging your thumbs into your temples. “Also, Justice Dawning was cheesy, I’m offended you’d even offer it.” You try not to smile, but it happens anyway, and as soon as that secret little smile sneaks onto your lips it brightens Homelander’s eyes, reflecting your amusement back to you. Not just that, but amplifying it.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he tells you with confidence. You drop your hands, looking at him with subtle surprise. He holds your gaze. The earnestness of his words seems to dispel your mortification and replaces it with something more difficult to define, but he likes the shine it brings to your eyes.

The taste of your defeat is sumptuous. He’d prefer licking it straight from your tongue, but he’ll settle for this for the time being. An easiness settles into the air between you, deeper even than before your hackles rose with the lurking reality of your hidden opinion of him. It’s like a bubble has popped, dissipating uncomfortable tension, replacing it with something warmer.

He has every intention of turning up the heat even further.

The meeting moves forward. You work your way through his folder, and during a natural lull in conversation, he finally broaches the topic that’s been plaguing him since he stepped into your office.

“So,” he begins, interlacing his gloved fingers in his lap. “Gonna tell me what you’re all dressed up for?” He asks, wearing the same smile and speaking in the same tone he had when he baited you into admitting your secret love affair with his cinema.

He wants to hear you say that it’s for him, but he’ll settle for a flustered deflection. They’re as good as the same.

“Oh,” you huff with an airy little laugh, the sound like silver bells chiming. “I have a date tonight.”

You say something else, but Homelander doesn’t hear it over the tidal-like rush in his ears. He watches your pretty lips form words that he can’t understand. Everything falls out of focus as he tightly reins in the white hot rush of furious jealousy that floods his gut and erupts up the back of his throat like bile. He swallows the burn of it, jaw tight, and manages a tense smile.

“Great,” he barks, not realizing–or perhaps not caring–that he interrupted you. “First date?”

“First date,” you confirm, your tone less conversational than it had been a beat ago. The walls are going back up, but he’s too fixated on what feels like a stabbing betrayal.

“Exciting,” he says, adjusting his tone and mannerisms until they once more resemble something genuine. Something civil, despite the hostility in his gut. “Someone you know? Going anywhere special?”

“No, and not really,” you say evasively. He loathes how withdrawn you’ve become. You should be pleased he’s put off. Gloating even. It’s proof he cares, isn’t it? “It was his suggestion.” His. The leather of Homelander’s glove creaks subtly in the fist he makes. “I forget the name of the place,” you say, avoiding his gaze.

His right cheek tics. Liar, liar, pants on fire. People always underestimate his ability to read them.

You’ll learn not to lie to him.

“But you have an out if you need it, don’t you? Someone to bail you out in case he turns out to be some kind of freak,” he says, huffing the word with a lick of venom. It takes significant effort to keep the disdain from his face to imagine you as you are now sitting across from some nobody schmuck, lit by candlelight and smiling sweetly for them instead of for him.

“I always do,” you say, smiling thinly. He curates his own tone often enough to hear it in yours, and it pierces his ears like a thistle. He taps his fingers on his thigh, scrounging for something, anything else to needle you for, but your responses don’t give him much to work with.

“Well. If you did need someone–”

“I’m a big girl,” you interrupt, surprising him. He’s rarely interrupted. “I can take care of myself.”

At that, a thought strikes him. The slack line of his lips curls into a thin smile, and his hands relax on the armrests of the chair.

“I’m sure you can.”

Shaking off the aftermath of your one-on-one with Homelander proves to be more difficult than you’d anticipated. You replay it nearly moment for moment in your mind while freshening up after work. 

Homelander has an uncanny knack for moving through demeanors as though he’s trying hats, determining which one best suits the situation. One moment he’s a slick carnivore licking his chops in anticipation of his meal to come, and the next he’s every ounce the hero they market him as. He’d been relentlessly charming during the meeting, his charismatic smile becoming one you’d wanted to earn again and again. 

Then came the news of your date, and all at once Homelander possessed the ominous calm of a sentient statue. The moment still sends an eerie chill down your spine, even in recollection. How radically his appearance can change with mood or thought alone. You’d hate to ever see him truly angry.

“Get a hold of yourself,” you say to the bathroom mirror. You have a date tonight, and the last thing you need is to bring this kind of nervous energy to it. Powers or not, the commonality of man is easy to rely on, and you’ve developed the tactical mindset of an aloof cat. Never beg for what can be given freely. Never give more than you get. Never settle. “Be the cat,” you tell yourself affirmatively. 

A directive which, unfortunately, winds up being exceedingly easy to follow through the course of your date. James, bless his heart, struggles to wring more than the occasional piteous chuckle from you. Conversation with him is akin to drinking seltzer water–he is neither offensive nor particularly exciting, being only a step above plain water.

Perhaps James’ blandness isn’t entirely his own fault, but rather the basis of comparison he is subjected to. Throughout the night, you find yourself critical of the way he looks at you–or rather, the way he fails to look at you. Your thoughts keep drifting back to your meeting with Homelander and the way he looks at you. The intense ocean-blue caress of his eyes summons a blush to your cheeks even in hindsight.

He looks at you in a way that no one else does. It's as if he's trying to memorize the smallest details in your skin, to uncover every secret trapped behind your guarded gaze. He has a stare determined to lay you entirely bare to him.

James’ wine dulled ogling could hardly hold a candle to that. Looking into his eyes, you see only the planning for whatever dullard comment he was going to make next.

Still, it’s not until the end of your date–an exceptionally long two and a half hours thanks to a mishap with your order–that James displays a behavior unsavory enough to elicit a truly unpleasant feeling in you. He’s quite clingy after a few too many glasses of wine. He walks you out of the restaurant with an arm around your waist, and more than once you have to bat his hand away from the seam where your blouse is tucked into your skirt.

“You in the parking garage or the back lot?” He asks, smiling in a way he must mean to be salacious, eyes half-lidded like he’s lost control of them.

“The back lot.” Parking was a nightmare with how late you arrived after work. “Is that where you are?” You ask, hoping it isn’t.

“No, no, I actually took an Uber in,” he says, and you know immediately by the way he starts tapping your hip with his index finger why he chose to do that.

“Want me to wait for you here until your Uber arrives, then?” You ask, turning out of his grasp to stand face to face with him outside of the restaurant. It’s late enough now that the streets have calmed some, at least by New York’s standards.

James’ expression falters, but he tries for a recovery with a hopeful smile. “Well, you know, I was sort of hoping we might continue this elsewhere,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets. Is he trying to look suave?

“Oh, no,” you say, putting forth your very best sympathetic head tilt, matched with a well placed brow furrow. “No thank you.”

This time his expression doesn’t recover. His hands lift from his pocket and he makes a helpless gesture with them, very nearly pleading. “Really? I thought we were having a nice time.”

“And I’m so glad for that,” you say, and even you can hear the corporate edge sliding into your tone, which doesn’t seem to soothe him any. “But it’s for the best that we part ways here, James. Thanks for your time.”

“But–” Your inarguable dismissal staggers him. He gropes for recourse. “I paid,” he blurts out, which proves to be his final mistake.

Your polite facade drops. “For what?“ His booze addled panic shifts into confusion. “F…For dinner, but I didn’t mean–”

“And that entitles you to fuck me?” No sense in mincing words now.

His expression morphs again, this time into mortification. “No! No, but–”

“You thought this would be a transaction? God, and here I was thinking your gravest flaw would be how mind-numbingly boring you are. But to be boring and stupid?” You scoff, waving a dismissive hand. “Goodnight, James,” you say, the kindest dismissal you can muster. You turn on your heel before he can sour the evening any further, and luckily for him, he doesn’t pursue you further.

Unbelievable. As if you hadn’t offered to split the check. As if he expected it to be a transaction that he cashed in your bed. As if the cost of dinner was worth anything more than a polite smile from you. As if.

New York doesn’t sleep, but it does grow very, very dark. You’re on a narrow street, not an alley exactly, but not a main road, either. Still riled up, you bring up the parking app on your phone as you walk, swiping through to get ready to pay for your crummy back lot space. A clatter brings your attention up, and that’s when you see them—two men. One wearing a black leather jacket, the other with a kerchief slung around his throat. 

You stop walking, caught between turning around, which would mean putting your back to the men up ahead, or continuing forward, which would mean passing within arm’s reach. They haven’t noticed you yet, or at least they’re pretending not to, but now they look right at you and smile.

The men don’t look dangerous, not like they do in the movies, but you know that means nothing—plenty of the worst people in the world looked safe. Yet the longer you stay put, the more you sense the ill intent wafting off of them like cheap cologne. “Hey, baby,” says one of them, moving toward you. “You lost?”

“No,” you say curtly, taking a step back. “Not lost. Excuse me.”

“You sure? We’re real good with directions,” says the second man, leering. Your eyes snap between them, phone clutched tight in your hand. “Y’look like you could use some.”

“No,” you say again, louder. How loud would you need to be for anyone to hear you over the sounds of the streets? Panic swells in your throat.

You don’t know how they got so close so quickly, but as you turn to run, a hand catches your collar. The guy in the leather jacket wrenches you back against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your phone clatters to the ground. 

“Hey now, what’s the rush?” He asks, yanking you backwards. “Get off me,” you snarl, but he’s squeezing you tightly across the chest, making it hard to think, let alone breathe. You struggle until you feel something hard dig into your hip. A knife? No. You realize coldly that it’s a gun, the handle of it jutting out from his waistband and digging into you. In a desperate bid, you twist in his grip, trying to grab it.

“Careful,” says the other one, moving in front of you, closing in. “She’s got spirit.”

You kick out at the other guy but he jumps back, laughing at you. They’re both laughing, relishing in your fear. Your fingers skim the gun, but you can’t quite get it.

The first man’s breath is hot and sour on your cheek. “Come on, now, let’s have some fun.” You slam your head back into his nose—or try to, but you only manage to clip his chin. Still, you hit bone, hear the crack of a tooth, and just like that you’re free, stumbling to your hands and knees as the man reels. You hit the ground hard, the shock of landing lancing pain through your arms and legs. The gun tumbles from his waistband. Without thinking twice you lunge for it, fingers successfully closing around the grip right before one of the men grabs your ankle and pulls.

The street bites into your elbows and scrapes your knee bloody as you twist around and raise the gun, barrel leveled at the man’s heart. “LET GO!” You scream, heart hammering against your chest. “Oh shit,” says the man in the kerchief, eyes wide at seeing you armed, but the other one sneers at you, blood spilling from his mouth. There’s fury in his eyes, and the unmistakable intent to hurt you. “You ever held a gun that big, baby?”

“Let go,” you say again, voice firmer than the tremble of your hands. Your finger flexes on the trigger.

“You even know how to use it?” He asks, using his grip on your ankle to pull himself over you, his other hand falling to your thigh. He gives a pointed squeeze as he lifts himself up to tower above you. He reaches to take hold of you again, but you won’t let him. Can’t let him.

“Yes.” You squeeze the trigger as you say it, bracing for the recoil, the bang. It’s always so loud in the movies.

Nothing happens. You panic, looking at the weapon in your hands in dull shock. The safety isn’t on. You pull the trigger again, but the chamber rings hollow. It isn’t loaded. You look up at the man as his shadow falls over you. He bares his teeth at you, painted an ugly dark red with the blood spilling from his mouth. The man laughs, a short barking sound, and knocks the gun from your hands with a harsh slap. It goes skidding away.

“Stupid bitch,” he says, raising his boot as if you were an oversized bug, something to crush. You close your eyes and scream as he brings it down hard.

Or at least, he started to, but his leg locks up halfway, and then he topples, a single horrifying sound leaking from his clenched teeth. Your eyes open just in time to see his body hit the ground, a smoldering wound smoking from his chest. An instant later, the second man falls. This time you see the flash of crimson light that drops him.

Homelander’s cape billows in the wind with all the majesty of the flag it’s designed after as he descends from the sky. He lands in front of you, backlit by the distant street lights that give him an artificial glow. He’s beautiful, a perfectly manufactured angel delivered straight from some market tested Heaven.

“Hey, you hurt?” He asks, reaching for you.

Awestruck, all you can do is stare at his outstretched hand. Tears well in your eyes. Shock is setting in the aftermath of all that adrenaline in your veins crashing your system. Through the blur of your tears, Homelander’s expression shifts from concern to that of determination.

“It’s alright, I’m here now. They can’t hurt you,” he says, bringing your arm around his neck while he slips his own around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the ground. Before your gaze can drift to the corpses–whose burning flesh you can smell mingling with the acrid city air–Homelander rotates, taking them from your line of sight. 

With a flourish, he unhitches his cape from his shoulders and swings the fabric over yours. It settles on you heavier than you expected it to be, and impossibly warm. Moving back in, Homelader readily takes you back into his arms. He cradles you in his embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other drawing lines up and down your back.

You try to choke out a sound, to ask him, how? How did he find you? How did he know you needed him? But none of the noises you make form any actual words. Your throat is too tight, and your tongue feels too big for your mouth, gnarled silent by panic. Everything is just too much. Your breaths only grow sharper as tears burn hot streaks down your face.

“Sssshhhhhhh,” he shushes by your ear, lifting you just enough to keep you on your feet, but take the weight of your body from you. His hold is compressive, but not oppressive. It takes everything you have left to lift your other arm around his neck while the sobs overtake you. He continues to hush you, whispering a menagerie of honeyed assurances in your ear, the core sentiment always the same.

I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.

You cry harder, coiling your arms tighter around his neck. He lets you cling to him, lets you sob away your makeup and soak the collar of his suit with the mess of it.

You don’t know how much time passes in your addled state of panic, but eventually your breaths begin to even out, though your heart continues to thunder. Your body isn’t convinced that the danger has vanished yet, eager to turn to flight now that your fight has gone.

“That’s it, just like that,” Homelander praises. “Breathe. Breathe. Good… Light as a feather now, okay? Like you can fly,” he tells you. The weightlessness you feel in his arms helps the idea, helps you to feel like you aren’t being crushed by the terrible weight of such a moment of horror. That’s all it had been, a moment–two at most–and yet the torment of it had felt hours long. Exhaustion falls over you in the wake of adrenaline, and you’re glad for Homelander’s arms around you. You doubt you’d be standing without them.

“Home,” you manage to croak. “Please.” You can still smell the man’s sour breath, the memory even more powerful than the stench of reality.

“I can take you home,” he coos, maintaining that same soothing tone of comfort. “Is that what you want?”

You nod, focusing instead on the vetiver fresh smell of him. You’ve never been near enough to him before to notice it, but now you fixate on it. Anything to drown out the stink of the alley. He smells so much cleaner, like fresh linen drying over green grass in the summer sun.

His arms flex around you before he adjusts them, lifting you smoothly into his arms. Your stomach flips the way it does when you go down a hill in the backseat of a car, gravity loosening its hold on you. You can feel the motion all around you, the wind ghosting over you, but Homelander himself feels motionless against you.

Flying. He’s flying. And so are you.

His cape shields you from the night air bite, pulled snug around you and secured where your bodies are pressed together. You haven’t felt like this since you were a child, cradled with such care and strength that feels beyond your comprehension. Homelander serves as both place and person–somewhere safe, someone kind–and you tuck yourself closer into the sanctuary of his arms, hands fisted in the protective fabric of his cape.

“I’ve got’cha,” he assures you, voice warm in your ear. 

Without a shadow of a doubt, you believe him.

Homelander doesn’t need to ask where you live. It’s an easy detail to brush off if you question him. He doubts you will with the way you’re clinging to him, though. You feel good in his arms, settling so naturally against the contours of them he might convince himself you belong here. He doesn’t mind your weeping when it comes with your arms around him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck.

A small shiver rolls down his spine.

Of all the ways Homelander expected the evening to unfold, he hadn’t properly anticipated you. While he cradles you, he replays again and again the moment you were snatched. You fought without hesitation. You wrenched the gun free. The fierceness in your eyes as you aimed it had been exquisite. The resolve in your gaze as you fired it even more so.

He’d known you were confident, but that kind of clawing survival can only be learned of a person in action. He’s known many supposedly strong people–supe and human alike–who walk as stone giants, but shatter like glass when faced with any real danger.

You couldn’t have known that you weren’t in any real danger. You couldn’t have known that he’d told those thugs to scare you, but not hurt you. You couldn’t have known he’d ensured the gun wasn’t loaded. You fought as though it was for your life, and it enthralled him.

He hadn’t planned on killing them in front of you. They would have been loose ends to tie up after his heroic rescue, but somewhere along the line that stupid bastard lost the thread. He hurt you, bloodied those pretty knees of yours, and he moved to strike you. To grind you beneath his heel as if you were the vermin instead of him. For that–and for so flagrantly going against Homelander’s own direct order–you witnessed his downfall.

As far as he’s concerned now, everything happened precisely as it needed to. You’re in his arms now, and he’s still half hard from witnessing you choose fight when your instincts kicked in. You’re too fragile to choose it so readily. Your bones feel bird-like compared to the scope of his strength. Hollow and brittle. You would make for a hell of a supe, though.

Still, he won’t break you. He’s spent his entire life learning what it takes to snap bones like party favors, and more crucially, what it takes not to. Yours are safe from him. In fact, you’re the safest person in the whole world now.

Homelander glides down to a soft landing on your driveway. Your car will be an issue for another time. For now, he walks you to your front door before gently placing you on your feet.

“Believe this is you, young lady,” he says, leaving space for plausible deniability. If it occurs to you to interrogate him about it, it doesn’t show on your face. With hands still softly trembling, you fish your keys out of your purse. He watches you fumble with them for only a moment before he steps in behind you, one hand gripping your upper arm to steady and pause you while the other covers your shaking hand, helping you to slide the key into the lock and turn it.

Your hand fits nicely in his.

“Thanks,” you whisper. It’s the first thing you’ve said since asking him to take you home. He takes the liberty of opening the door for you while he’s at it, swinging it wide to allow you in. You grab his forearm, and he thinks you’re only balancing yourself, but when you don’t let go he steps with you, letting you lean on him as you guide him into your home. He closes the door behind the two of you, smiling to himself.

He may not need an invitation to enter, but it’s charming to have one.

Your movements are stiff, a slight limp to your gait. You fell hard, and the delicate flesh of your knee had ripped apart against the concrete when you were dragged. You hesitate at the stairs, but Homelander doesn’t. You inhale sharply  when he scoops you back up into his arms with ease and starts up the stairs. He keeps his gaze ahead, but he can feel yours on him.

“Thanks,” you say again, the word barely more than a hiccup, adjusting his cape over yourself like a blanket.

“It’s what heroes are for.” He smiles. It’s a party line, one he’s said a hundred thousand times before, but you make him mean it. This is what heroes are for. To be worshiped and loved, understood deeper than pop stars and false idols like them. There’s a reverence in your stare that transcends the vapid starstruck way most people look at him. You understand now. You know how much more he is.

He brings you to your bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed, adjusting his cape back up over your shoulders. You’ve scarcely let go of it since he wrapped you in it. Will you sleep with it tonight? He bets you will. The thought sends a pleasant tingle through him. 

“Alright, let’s get a look at those knees,” he says, crouching in front of you. There’s blood running down your left shin. He lifts the edge of your skirt hem just enough to catch a glimpse of shredded skin. It looks rough, dirty and embedded with bits of debris. He blows out a breath. “Got a first aid kit?”

You nod numbly. “Under the bathroom sink.”

It’s odd to see you so subdued. He forgets sometimes that you humans can be as emotionally fragile as you are physically. Surely the death of two measly thugs isn’t enough to break you.

Rising, he moves to your bathroom. He feels slightly unbalanced without the sway of his cape behind him, the garment as integral to his physicality as any limb. He rummages through until his hand lands on a bright red fabric pack with a zipper. He gives it a little toss and catches it, bringing it back to you, alongside a wetted towel. He gives the pack a victorious little shake.

“H’okay, down to business.” Homelander kneels before you, splaying open the kit and placing it on your lap. He’s never used one of these before, but he’s pretended to do it on set. How different can it be? He cups your leg, thumb absently smoothing back and forth on your skin while he uses the towel to gently wipe up the blood, dirt and debris from your shin and knee.

You flinch, tense a moment before you relax. “Homelander, you really don’t have to–”

“Am I doing a bad job?” He asks, glancing up at you through his lashes. There’s a playful lilt to his voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, the smallest hint of exasperation in your voice. He’s pleased to hear it. Perhaps you’re less wilted from the encounter than he thought. “I just mean that I can–”

“I know you can,” he says, and this time he definitely sees a flare of annoyance. You don’t like being interrupted any more than he does, but you don’t protest further. He smiles, triumphant, and focuses back on the task at hand, petting you the same way one might soothe a wild animal.

There’s a novelty in doing this for real that he hadn’t anticipated. It’s entirely unlike wiping away congealed red corn syrup from an actor. Your skin is sweeter, softer. He suddenly resents his gloves for the barrier they provide, despite his usual reliance for that very thing. He’s meticulous in flicking out the little stones embedded in your skin, spotting each one with ease.

Next, he tears open the alcohol wipes with his teeth and uses them to disinfect, rubbing at the sores. You flinch, sucking in a loud breath through your teeth. “Oopsy-daisy,” he says, switching to gently patting. He has no real concept of what you’re feeling right now. He’s never had a scraped knee before. The scientists at Vought had to get much more creative in order to gauge his capacity for healing.

He imagines they were disappointed to realize that, once damaged, he healed as slowly as a human.

“How’d you find me?” You ask, snapping him out of his unpleasant reminiscence. Your shock seems to have worn off entirely. You look more present, alert to his every move.

“Heard you scream,” he answers simply, unraveling a roll of gauze. That much is true.

“But how? How did you know where I was?” You push, watching him wind the white material around your knee.

“I didn’t,” he lies smoothly. He’s followed enough scripts in his life to do so very well. “If I’d known exactly where you were, I would have been there sooner. I was minding my business on 5th Avenue when I heard you. Familiar voices can…” He makes a vague gesture. “Cut through the din. Voices I want to hear.” 

He thinks he catches you flush at that. Just a touch. He bites back a smirk, pleased with himself. Does it matter if it’s true when it makes you look at him like that?

“I didn’t know your hearing worked like that,” you say, fidgeting with the hem of his cape.

His gaze flickers up every so often to watch your finger pick at the seam, inexplicably charmed by it. “Well, there’s some things not even a super fan can glean,” he teases, securing the gauze with tape. He expects to see a familiar indignation in your expression, but when he looks up, he’s caught off guard by the unmistakable fondness in your eyes.

“I was over the moon when I got my job at Vought,” you say quietly, like you’re whispering in a confessional. “I always wanted to work with heroes.”

“With me?” He pushes, lifting his brows.

Very slightly, you smile. “Yeah. With you.”

“Busted,” he says, his own voice equally soft.

You give him a little nudge with your foot. “Gauze won’t stay by itself. Need to use a roll of self-adhesive wrap,” you say, plucking the beige roll from the kit. He likes the shy warmth in your voice. He would have done much worse to see this side of you. Have the intimacy of your pain, fear and relief all to himself. This glowing affection you’re so full of. He feels drunk on the cocktail of it all.

“Right, obviously,” he says, taking the wrapping from you. “I knew that.”

“Probably should have put a gauze pad under it, too,” you continue, eyes heavily lidded, expression soft.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he laments, affixing the textured bandage around the gauze. You laugh, and the sound of it feels like a space he could belong in.

He checks your other knee, your elbows and your palms, but nowhere else on you calls for anything more than some antiseptic and a few bandaids. With the wrappings secure, he shuffles the mess of supplies haphazardly back into the kit, zipping it up much more bulging and misshapen a state than he found it in. He pushes it under the bed with the towel atop it, standing.

“Good as new. Or close to it,” he says, making a small show of dusting off his hands for a job well done. 

You stand, letting his cape slide off of your shoulders for the first time since he put it on you, the fabric pooling on the bed. You step forward, and of all the things he expects in this moment, you blow them out of the water by suddenly wrapping your arms around him, the soft curves of your body slotting against his in a way that trips something primal and needy in him. He puts his arms around you the second the shock wears off, holding you with the barest fraction of his strength.

Tension drains from your body. Were you nervous he wouldn’t reciprocate? It’s an endearing thought. He gives a deeper, brief squeeze. He can’t remember the last time someone held him.

“Thank you,” you say after a long beat, drawing back. He reluctantly loosens his grip, but not by much. He’s loath to relinquish you so soon after he’s gotten hold of you. “It’s not enough, but I don’t know what could ever be.”

I could make a few suggestions, he thinks, but he doesn’t give voice to the lewd thoughts that follow.

“I’ll never forget what you did for me tonight,” you say. Your face is so near to his, it makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the curve of your lips as you speak.

Instead of responding, Homelander leans in, eyes falling shut.

“Oh,” you say sharply, your soft body suddenly going tense in his arms, stopping him in his tracks. Both of your hands are braced against his chest now, creating a distance that feels craterous. 

He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?” 

“I’m really tired,” you say, tone shifting to mild diffusion. It reminds him of the way you spoke to James, and his ego stings with both the rejection and the comparison. He’d laughed listening to you reject that pathetic, simpering man. It seems less funny now. 

He scoffs an incredulous little huff. But I saved you, he thinks, indignant panic flaring in his chest. To his dismay, however, the thought doesn’t sound like his own voice. It sounds like James’.

But I paid!

Repulsed, Homelander swallows the thought like bile. If the comparison comes so readily to his own mind, there’s no way you won’t make the connection yourself. He feels his skin prickle like there are fire ants crawling beneath his suit. The memory of James’ pathetic begging is the only thing that keeps his composure together.

“Of course you are,” he says tightly. His smile is forced, slightly too wide. “You should sleep. Rest up. Take the day off tomorrow,” he says stiffly, rattling off lines like they’re pre-recorded. Only then does he surrender his hold on you, hands moving to his hips instead. You take a step back, and he stands straighter to disguise the sting of rejection.

“Thank you,” you say, tone indecipherable. It’s full to the brim with something, but nothing Homelander can parse in his current state. “I–”

“No need,” he dismisses, jumping on the opportunity to end the conversation on his terms. “Really. Just doing my job,” he says, tossing you a little two-finger salute off of his brow, already moving towards your balcony door. You don’t move, watching him from the foot of your bed, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Catch you at the office,” he says. He knows he’s speaking too quickly, but it’s all he can do to keep himself in check. Anger and misery broil in him like vinegar and baking soda, the caustic brew threatening to erupt.

“Okay,” you say, which isn’t particularly what he wants to hear. He turns his back to you, and his smile drops, his ego violently stung. With a force that billows wind through your bedroom, he takes off into the night sky.

You just weren’t ready, he tells himself, gritting his teeth. It’s easier to be angry than embarrassed. He wants to make as much distance between himself and your rejection, flying higher and higher until frost begins collecting on his lashes. He flies until there’s no sound, no oxygen, no life but his own. He flies until gravity releases him and he can finally relax, suspended by cold, vast space.

The earth glows beneath him, reflecting the light of the sun where it illuminates a distant portion of the globe.

Closing his eyes, he tips his head back.

He’ll fix this.

( chapter four )

[kissatoru]

𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

content · NSFW MDNI, bratty sub!satoru, afab!satoru, amab!gn!reader, dom!reader, d/s dynamics, restraints, pussyjob, that good old praise-degradation combo, thigh-fucking, pet names (doll, darling, sweetheart), fingering, squirting, oral (f! receiving), overstimuation

wc · 2.4k

Satoru loves punishments.

Overstimulation, edging, spanking... they all wear the same thin veil of the word ‘punishment’ but to Satoru they are anything but. He knows that he shouldn’t be trying to get punished on purpose, but who can blame him when your punishments are always so sweet? You always give him what he wants in the end, which is what you both want, really. That’s why he’s never worried when you threaten to ‘teach him a lesson’ or other such things, because the truth is they never taught him anything except that he loves punishments.

Well, until now, that is.

Because now he’s on his back, wrists secured to the headboard by handcuffs and legs bent all the way up his torso. His head thrashes in different directions, unable to decide whether to look down at the cock sliding between his folds, hoping that he might be able to will it inside of him with his quivering lip and puppy dog eyes or sheer force of will, or squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the sight of you being so close yet so purposely far from where you wants you.

“Ohh my god, please,” Satoru whines, yanking on the cuffs and trying to move his hips up. “Please, just– fuck, just put it in!”

You scoff and dig your nails into the pale flesh of his thighs. “Don’t forget what got you here in the first place, slut,” you snarl. “You’re only getting as much as I want you to get and nothing more.”

Satoru flops his head back, milky white hair sticking in sweat-slick swirls on his forehead. “I know, I’m sorry! I really am, okay?” he mumbles, kneading his pink lips together to fight back a moan, or maybe a sob. “I promise I won’t do it again, just–” A sharp inhale, followed by a soft keen. “Just please put it in. I need it... so bad.”

“You should have thought about that before letting that fan flirt with you,” you say, almost laughing. “Honestly, you’re so fucking shameless sometimes, ‘Toru. You think I don’t know you do that shit on purpose? You really think I believe you when you say you won’t do it again?”

He smirks, as if your questions are a challenge, and opens his mouth to answer — he really doesn’t know when to quit, you think, or maybe he does, and he just enjoys pushing you that bit further anyway — but you let go of one of his legs and seal his lips shut behind your palm before he can speak.

“I know you don’t. I know you just think I’ll play along with your little games as long as you keep giving me the same boring apology and a few pretty crocodile tears.” You lean in close to him, at the same time, pushing your hips forward and grazing Satoru’s clit, making him moan into your hand. “But I’m not in the mood to play anymore, Satoru.” You watch as his expression morphs from dazed to alert, how it falters and his eyes tremble like ripples through water at your dark tone. “I want to make you mean your promises and sorry’s,” you say quietly, your hand sliding down his jaw to rest around his neck as a warning, “I want to give you something to really cry about.”

And then you’re shutting the gap between you with a hard kiss, full of tongue and desperation, so passionate and addictive that it’s nothing short of evil how you break it in mere seconds, leaving behind a breathless, pouty Satoru. You just smile at him and drive your hips slowly forward, the movement smooth and easy with Satoru’s slick.

You set a pace that’s just enough to tilt him in the general direction of pleasure, but never quite bring him there. The head of your cock bumps against the underside of Satoru’s clit on almost every thrust and all he can do is cry out, his back arching weakly and his arms pulling taut in the air against the handcuffs that bind him, at the fleeting spark of euphoria that zaps through him. It’s good yet not nearly enough to get him any closer to coming, and bucking his hips up in search of that spark is not only useless, but surely pathetic, if the way your cruel gaze glints is any indication.

His thighs can only twitch in your grasp like a scared animal; inward, outward, like they can’t decide whether they want to close or spread wider for you. You don’t really give him a choice though; you just bend both of those long legs of his further back, so he’s gently angled toward the ceiling, and each tantalising slide of your cock through his rosy, wet lips causes the head to catch against his entrance. A few times, it even nudges inside for a single blissful second, and Satoru chokes, but never manages to let out anything more before that second is over and that brief feeling of his walls stretching around you vanishes, like a too-good-to-be-true mirage in a neverending desert.

Satoru’s mind and body go numb with the endlessness of it all. He begs and wails for a while, but those moments of fruitless pleading have long passed. Now, he is all quiet pants and throaty moans that grow louder with every small wave of flickering ecstasy. Damp stains paint the pillows a darker shade on either side of Satoru’s face, where he’s been tucking away his drool and tear-soaked face. He feels like a toy, an object for your pleasure, and he’d love it if it wasn’t for the fact that he isn’t getting anything from it.

Suddenly, you grab his knees and hoist them over your shoulder, which abruptly snaps your pliant boyfriend out of his trance. His head turns to look at you, the haze clearing up, now replaced with hope and an eager desire twinkling in his owlish blue eyes.

“Don’t get too excited now, sweetheart,” you say, smirking and patting the side of his ass. “Squeeze your thighs together, alright? Nice and tight.”

And despite everything, despite all you’ve put him through already, Satoru still manages to find the courage, the audacity to grin right then, toothy and daring and insufferable. “And if I do, will you finally put that cock to some use and fuck–”

You pinch his clit and immediately, his words melt into nonsense and his thighs clamp shut around your hand.

“There you go.” You hum and push your cock through a small gap between his full thighs, which is easy enough with how drenched both you and him are. “Good boy. Keep them together for me, just like that, that’s perfect.”

Satoru lets out a breathy whimper as you start to fuck his thighs. He grows delirious with every thrust, the way your length rubs across his swollen clit ever so slightly. He’s so pent up at this point that it might be enough to make him come, he thinks, but as you keep going, increasing your pace and the grip around his legs, he only ever gets as far as halfway. He’s wet and hot and shaking but by the time you’re coming, Satoru is closer to tears than he is to an orgasm.

Your hands tighten around Satoru’s legs for a moment, as your high seizes your body and the last of your cum sputters across his belly, before finally loosening and letting go. His legs drop and fall open, giving you a perfect view of Satoru’s messy pussy and the little puddle on the sheets under it. Beneath your heavy gaze, it seems to pulse and blush, and Satoru’s legs attempt to shut and hide it, but with a single push they’re falling back down and staying there, likely too weak to try again. It almost makes you hard again.

“Should’ve been inside,” Satoru grumbles.

You roll your eyes. “Could have, ‘Toru. Not should, could,” you correct. “I could have fucked you and came inside, had you not been such a fucking brat.” You emphasise your words with a light, playful flick to his inner thigh.

Satoru ignores you and pouts, not meeting your eyes. “You’re mean,” he says under his breath, but the blush spilling from his cheeks to his neck says that he might not be complaining.

You chuckle and lean over him, running your hands up his thighs. “Only when you’re bad, darling,” you whisper, trailing kisses up his ribs and nuzzling the soft skin. For a moment, you don’t say anything else. Just lay there, listening to Satoru’s still rabbit-fast heartbeat.

“Though I suppose,” you say, one hand sliding up to his chest, “you’ve been quite good at taking your punishment...”

Electricity runs down to Satoru’s core and his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t dare to say anything, in case you change your mind.

You sit up, and your eyes are on him as you drag your fingers through the ropes of cum painted on his abdomen, collecting it and leaving satoru’s muscles trembling in suspense. He watches you pull away your fingers while your other hand tugs on his folds. The cool air on his warm cunt makes it twitch. You languidly wipe your cum on it and spread it, down to his hole. The movement and its implications are enough to have Satoru’s breathing stutter and his legs jump.

His head tosses back when you finally slip a finger inside him. You start pumping quickly after and he moans in time with your steady pace. A second digit soon joins the first, and Satoru begins to aid your motions with his own, rolling his hips down, gasping, desperate, frantic.

“Slow down, baby,” you coo, but Satoru doesn’t listen, too lost in the throes of his pleasure, and only bucks his hips more violently. Your other hand grabs and presses it into the mattress, but when that doesn’t stop him, you pull your fingers out entirely.

“Nooo, no, no,” Satoru cries. “I was close, please, hurry! Put them back in, please–”

“Just because I’m being nice, doesn’t mean you can ignore me,” you interrupt. “It would be a shame if after all this, you didn’t get to come, don’t you think, ‘Toru?”

The realisation seems to materialise in his eyes and he rushes to nod his head.

You hum. “Then be good and listen.” And with that, your fingers are sliding back into him. He keens when you move them, trembling from head to toe with the effort of staying still. It’s slow, at first, but increasing in pace. It doesn’t take long at all for satoru to return to where he was, that teetering edge, the one weakness, the one thing that can break the strongest sorcerer in the world.

His pale skin and even paler hair both shimmer with sweat like moonlight while his feathery white lashes sit on his flushed cheeks like freshly fallen snow. Lips the same shade as his cheeks part around melodic notes that flow as if in an endless song.

“So pretty,” you whisper in awe, but Satoru doesn’t process the praise, too focused on wanting to come.

“I’m close, I’m close! Please, don’t stop, please!” he begs, his voice all high and strained. He’s always been loud in bed, but he’s most vocal in moments like this one, where he’s finally given what he’s been starved of and wanting since the beginning.

You smile and curl your fingers, bullying that tender spot inside him with short, harsh rubs, in rapid succession of every pump. The cuffs jingle and clink. Your arched fingertips squelch in his pussy while your thumb massages his clit. One, two, a few more harsh circles later and he’s squirting all over your hand. His body tenses like a bow string and shakes with the force of his orgasm. A few last spurts of fluid gush out his pussy before he finally collapses on the bed, panting and boneless.

While he floats down from his high, you keep yourself occupied with his pussy, sliding your drenched fingers in and out of his abused hole and watching how it clenches around the digits, like it’s still hungry for more.

The heel of Satoru’s foot finds your chest, digging into it, albeit not very strongly. “Ngh, st– stop... it’s too much,” he mumbles.

“Yeah but you like it when it’s too much, don’t you?” you tease, pressing down on that puffy bump inside him and making his weak leg spasm in the air for a moment before falling on top of your shoulder.

A sinister idea flares up in your mind.

You raise him up by his knees and throw his legs over your shoulders, his body almost vertical.

Satoru blinks and frowns at you sluggishly. “What are you–”

He gasps, so suddenly that you’d think he had the wind knocked out of him — because your lips are latching onto him and your tongue is lapping up all of his and what’s left of your juices. His ankles lock around the back of your head and his moans wobble like they can barely make it out of his chest in one piece.

“Ahh, fuck, wait, wait– please, it’s– ahh, stop, stop, I can’t–”

When you don’t hear the word, the one that would actually stop all this, should he really want it, you continue to eat him out like a man starved. You weave your tongue through his folds, over his throbbing clit, dipping into his still-oozing hole. Satoru ruts against your mouth as best he can in this position, completely betraying his own pleas. He doesn’t even realise he’s crying from the pleasure-pain until your voice is vibrating through him — a slurred, “Eyes on me, doll,” — and all he sees when he opens his eyes is a wavering blur and a silhouette that sharpens and reveals more of your features the more he blinks.

He comes almost instantly after your dark gaze comes into focus, slightly less violently than before, but still enough that he goes limp and completely motionless, save for the involuntary spasms that pass through him every so often. You set him down tenderly. His chest rises and falls and as you’re unlocking the cuffs around his wrists, he’s smiling to himself with all the energy he has left, because despite how hard you try to change it, to ‘teach him a lesson’...

Satoru still loves his punishments.

[cho-aaacho]

I love you, truly. There's no doubt in my mind.

Masterlist

Characters : Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi, and Choso.

Gojo Satoru (Childhood Friend)

"Ah, isn't it cute?" 

"Yeah."

You simply nodded as Gojo Satoru, your childhood friend, invited you on an aquarium date. It had been a while since you had spent time with him, cherishing these small moments together.

You couldn't recall exactly how long you had known Satoru. As far back as you could remember, you had been his best friend a long time ago, sharing the same blue sky, laughing, lovingly touching each other's hands, playfully giggling, and embracing both his joys, sadness, and happiness.

Some describe him as nonchalant, others as arrogant and annoying, yet to you, he is just like a petite star in the veil of the night sky. So bright yet teasingly distant, just beyond your grasp.

You're acutely aware that being his priority or even dancing in his thoughts is beyond reach. It's clear to you that his actions toward you are merely as friends. 

Since high school, your heart has been sealed within him, keeping it concealed within the recesses of your mind.

...why does God plant the seeds of love in your heart only for them to remain unwatered and untouched by Gojo Satoru?

He chuckled upon noticing your prolonged gaze, a soft smile forming on his lips, causing warmth to spread to your cheeks.

"Do you remember when we were kids and you told me you wanted to be a teacher? Well, now I've stolen that dream, and I'm the one who became a teacher," he remarked. "And remember when you said you wanted to become a skilled baker? Well, I stole that dream too!"

You rolled your eyes, feeling a tingle of irritation. "Yeah, you've stolen every dream I have, and I ended up as a pathetic office worker. But... what exactly are you trying to say?"

His attention shifted to the aquarium, snapping a few photos before continuing. "Hmm... what if I were to say I stole your start? How does that sound?"

"What do you mean, Satoru-kun?"

"Yuuji... he mentioned something about this before we set off on our little date. He mentioned that you had planned on something. I don't think he meant to spill the tea because it was supposed to be a secret. But you know how bad Yuuji is at keeping secrets, so, well, he let it slip."

He paused, then added, "The thing you want to say this day is... Satoru-kun, as unbelievable as it may sound, I'm absolutely head over heels for you. I love you."

He giggled. "And since I stole your start, it means, like, you know what I mean, right?" 

Now your mind is full of cherry blossoms...

A smile curled on his lips. As he gets closer, your shoulder touches his, making your heart beat so fast. How could he know this so fast? Did he know that you loved him for a very long time?

He shook his head and removed his sunglasses, perching them atop his silver hair. He stared at you with a soft smile. "I love you. Will you be mine?"

Geto Suguru (Boss/Employee Relationship)

"I wish I could see you not only today but every day. Please stay by my side," Geto expressed lovingly.

The memory of Geto's heartwarming words lingered in your mind. It's so endearing, isn't it? How could he leave you with this feeling? Did he even try to find out or ask you after this? 

You still remember that time. It was a nice morning during spring, and you both indulged in green tea and sakuramochi on the terrace. Talking about sakura and kakigori. You found yourself just nodding and smiling, unable to find the words to respond.

Perhaps... you're too shy to face him, or it was the shock of his unexpected confession, considering your interaction with him is always in a formal atmosphere.

His words were consistently warm, polite, and kind towards everyone, but sometimes they left you confused about whether they were sincere or merely of his inherent kindness. 

But you knew too well; it's just a part of Geto's natural charm. Despite occasional rudeness towards non-jujutsu-shi, everyone adored him for his personality, a trait you've always loved in your deepest heart.

This time, Geto invited you to the planetarium. He expressed being in a good mood to take you out, releasing his desire to spend quality time together, and affirming that you're the only one who fits with him on this date.

Despite the comments from everyone that the date was so childish and corny, you eagerly accepted the invitation. You loved this idea.

He said he has always loved stars and planets since he was a little kid, and this kind of date would refresh his sweet childhood memory. 

That morning, when he came out of his room, it was the first time you saw Geto dressed casually instead of in his priestly attire. You couldn't help but notice how effortlessly appealing he looked, hinting at his charm, his pretty face, and his warm eyes. Everything about him is indeed beautiful.

"Shall we?" he said, extending his hand. You felt the warmth and gentleness of his palm as you squeezed it, eliciting a chuckle from him.

His large palm brought a sense of protection and security as it touched your skin, making you happy. It was the first time you felt such intensity from touching Geto Suguru, sparking curiosity about whether he had done this with anyone else.

"Are you happy?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Of course, Geto-san. How could I say no to an invitation from someone like you? I'm grateful for your company."

He nodded and smiled, then paused. "So... would you mind if we did this again in the future? Perhaps... for something more romantic and intimate?"

You blushed. "Um..."

"Oh, sorry if I confused you. What I meant is," he leaned in closer, gently touching your hair, then traced your jawline with a smile. 

"I understand if you don't see it as romantic, but, well, I'd like to ask if you want to meet my friend next week. She's a talented designer and has crafted some beautiful wedding dresses."

"What do you mean?"

He chuckled. "I was thinking of having you try on her wedding dress. I know she has one that would look stunning on you. I envision you wearing it, sitting by my side, like a good couple, because... I want to marry you."

Nanami Kento (Secret Admirer)

"Oh, flowers?" 

Haibara teased, peeking over from his desk with a mischievous grin. It's been a month now since you started receiving these surprises. Adorned at your desk whenever you come to the office in the morning.

At first, it was just a card, but then the next week came flowers, followed by your favorite cake, coffee, and even a keychain featuring your beloved mascot. Yet, each gift arrives without a sender's name, leaving you intrigued.

You attempt to inquire with your coworkers, hoping to find alternatives and answers from them. Unfortunately, they seem unaware of the sender's identity, giving a hint that they can't help you with this. 

"Aren't you happy that you have a secret admirer? I can see it in your eyes," Nanami says, his gaze fixed on the computer screen as his fingers dance across the keyboard.

"I'm just wondering why they're hiding all these gifts and remaining anonymous. I'm not a teenager anymore; this kind of thing only makes me anxious, you know."

He pauses briefly, shifting his attention from the computer to you, who is engrossed in checking documents at your desk. 

"I wouldn't consider the sender creepy or anything, because whoever it is seems to have a deep understanding of me. Like, when I mentioned to Haibara-kun that I had a migraine, the next day I received migraine medicine."

Paused, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Or when I mentioned I wanted to eat chocolate truffles, the next day they appeared on my desk. None of this feels coincidental, I must admit."

You stroke your chin thoughtfully. "I suppose... I appreciate it when someone shows they care about me, but it'd mean even more if I knew who they were. You see, I've always been alone since I was a child, so when someone shows me their kindness, I'll love them sincerely."

"So, what are you going to do with this?" Nanami's voice was tinged with anxiety.

"Maybe I'll bake a cake or something for them as my gratitude. My grandma gave me a recipe for baking a cake, and she called it Cake For Someone Special." 

You force a smile and gaze at him. "But, I'll probably say goodbye to them if I have met them, and... thank you?

Nanami's voice changed, sounding anxious. "Eh... why?"

You chuckled. "The manager transferred me to another office. It's a new office for what I know, and they needed a new staff."

After hearing this, a burning sensation stirred within Nanami. He attempted to quell it by conjuring thoughts in his mind. But a question flooded his thoughts: How could this happen to me? Should I reveal the truth? That I—

"Nanami-san..." You began taking on a mysterious tone. "You know... everyone has unique handwriting. Do you believe that each person's handwriting is unique?"

He frowned but remained silent.

"I've been observing all my coworkers and noticed that each of them has a different handwriting. Well, some share similarities, but there are still noticeable differences."

You glanced at him. "And your handwriting, Nanami-san, is truly remarkable. It seems to reflect your personality—kind, caring, and observant."

You continued, "Some believe that handwriting can reveal a person's personality. I don't claim to be an expert, but I've noticed similarities between your handwriting and our little anonymous. So, are you—"

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his words trailing into the air.

"Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous and weird. I was the one who sent you gifts, cards, and everything. I know I may sound creepy or cheesy, but... I just want to share my feelings with you. Sorry if I'm not gentle enough with all of this, but please... don't leave me. I'll send the gifts once again, with my name on them, as long as you remain by my side."

It felt a bit odd hearing Nanami speak those words in front of you at the office. Yet, deep down, there was a sense of joy upon hearing them. Something inside you is blooming like a flower. Beautiful.

You chuckled softly and whispered, "Who said I'm going to leave you? I simply mentioned that our manager might transfer me, but I'm not necessarily agreeing with it. So how about we grab lunch after this? And we can talk about this later, right, Nanami-san?"

Oh... Lord, how smoothly Haibara's plan was working on Nanami. It was quite satisfying... 

"And, again, Nanami-san. I'll never leave you." 

Fushiguro Megumi (cuteness)

He adores flowers. Everything about them always makes his heart float like a delicate feather. He can't recall exactly when his love for flowers began, but it's likely influenced by his sister.

As one of the florists in town, Megumi loves to visit you to admire the flowers and buy some for his sister.

It's quite uncommon to find a man with such a sweet appreciation for flowers. He explained that it stemmed from his sister's passion, and he loves cherishing and feeling happiness from them.

For you, it's delightful to connect with someone who shares similar interests, and you hold this bond with Megumi.

Megumi has also taken the time to learn Hanakotoba, and he happily shares his knowledge with anyone, including you.

Whenever he talks about flowers, you can see the kindness in his eyes and the warmth of his compassionate smile, sometimes leaving you feeling a bit bashful.

One day, when he visits you, there's an air of gloom and sadness surrounding him. 

Though you're unsure of what has transpired, you detect a hint of sorrow in his demeanor. 

He may be reluctant to divulge the details, or perhaps he's attempting to shield his sadness, but it's clear that he needs someone to confide in or share his sorrow.

"Are you alright? You seem rather down," you remark, your gaze drifting to the orchids nearby.

"I... I'm not sure if I am. It's just... you know, a little problem."

You couldn't help but chuckle at the fleeting glimpse of upset in his eyes. Still wondering how to cheer him up? Perhaps you could try a bouquet for free or a comforting cup of hot chocolate for your dear friend.

It's so rare to see him this gloomy; usually, he's always seen with a warm smile around you, signaling his comfort in your presence. 

But this time... feels different.

"I can help you, Megumi-kun."

He is gazing at you, falling into stillness while brushing back his hair. "I want to give my friend a gift, but I don't know her favorite."

Oh... her?

So... it's because of a woman? What kind of woman is changing Megumi's mood all of a sudden?

There's nothing wrong with that, but why does it feel uneasy to you?

You halt your thoughts and shake your head, knowing it's best not to jump to conclusions. 

You tease him and giggle to lighten the mood. "Oh, who is she? Your new girlfriend?"

A hint of blush renders his cheeks, and despite Megumi trying to hide his shyness, you can still see it. Oh... so cute. Cute.

"N-no, it's not quite like that. She's a good friend, someone truly special. She's always there for me, supporting me, showing me love, and I want to express my gratitude somehow."

Deep down... you're aware that his feelings for this woman go beyond friendship. It's evident in Megumi's eyes and the way he proudly talks about her. 

"I see..."

Well, he may be in love.

"How about you give her gerberas?"

He frowned. "Why?"

"Well, red gerberas represent unconscious love or being fully immersed in love. It looks like your feelings for her are more than just friendship. But I'm sorry, Megumi-kun. I don't have gerberas."

He smiled softly and nodded. You felt content seeing Megumi's mood shift to warmth, gentleness, and softness, especially when you noticed the sparkle in his eyes when you mentioned gerberas.

"Why do I forget about that one? Thank you for reminding me."

The last thing you remember is that Megumi ran through the entrance, leaving you standing alone in the shop. A sigh escaped from your lips, and a strange emptiness enveloped you, wrapping you alone in the corner.

As you returned home from work, the moments of the day almost faded from your mind until you spotted Megumi standing in front of your apartment. 

You have no idea how long he's been there. But it was a beautiful afternoon when the sun went down and was replaced by hues of twilight. All you can see is him grabbing something that looks like a bouquet from afar, but you aren't sure.

"Megumi-kun, what are you doing here?"

Now, as you gazed at him, he stood there, tenderly holding a bouquet in his hand.

"There's something I need to discuss about our relationship, something I need to confirm with you. It might seem trivial, but... I feel it's important to say," he began, his smile warm and genuine.

As he handed you the bouquet, you noticed a bouquet of gerberas nestled within, elegantly wrapped alongside a beautiful envelope. It's simply beautiful, just like him, Fushiguro Megumi. It was perhaps the most exquisite bouquet you'd ever laid eyes on.

Caught between reality and a daydream, you found yourself stuck by Megumi's smile. How could all of this be happening to you? Was it truly meant for you—the flower, the letter, his confession, everything?

"You're simply beautiful, and I love you," he whispered softly. "I want you to be with me."

Choso (First Kiss)

"The rain doesn't seem to be letting up. How are we going to get home?"

"I'm not sure, but stuck in the classroom isn't a good idea. I should hurry home, or my brothers will worry about me."

"Heh, you're such a good big brother."

Rain falling to the ground creates a calming atmosphere. The aroma of moist soil is in your nose. It always leaves a pleasant, romantic impression.

A peculiar feeling began to invade your mind, pleading for assistance in escaping these situations. It was dark and cold, and you hate them. All you could sense were raindrops, Choso's humming, and the ticking of the clock. It leaves a blue atmosphere for you, to be honest.

His eyes gazed at you with a smile on his lips. "Yeah, maybe we could use an umbrella, but I think you'd hate it if we used that ugly one."

You joking. "An umbrella? Well, maybe it would be nice if we used it. You know, it sounds... romantic."

A warm feeling began to invade your system as you said that. You weren't sure if he could notice or sense the tease, but your rosy cheeks gave it away.

"Oh, you want to try it?"

A smile waltzed across Choso's lips. He studied your face before nodding. His gaze, as warm as the sun, locked onto yours, desperately vying for your attention.

He sidled closer. "You know, just trying... it won't hurt you."

He shared his laughter with you, a symphony of joy that danced through the air. 

He reached for his umbrella in his bag. "I'm not lying," he said. "I always brought an umbrella from home; so shall we?"

Your gaze swept over him, scanning what the umbrella looked like. Well, it doesn't seem bad, like he said earlier, despite how tiny it was. It could fit both of you. Choso is a tall man, but you're sure that the umbrella will fit both of you. And you think it will be good if you're close to him.

"What do you think?" His words hung in the air like a playful challenge. "Would you like to try it?"

You nodded in agreement and, without thinking. Now that your attention is drawn to the outside, the raindrop is still falling but not as heavy as before.

You can't seem to remember everything clearly; it all happened so fast. From what you recall, you're both already outside with Choso under the same umbrella. The atmosphere is cold and freezing. It's been a long time since you've shared an umbrella with someone, let alone been this close.

You try to calm yourself by closing your eyes, but in reality, you are unable to move an inch of your very fingers. It's so weird, to be honest.

"Are you okay?" Choso's voice brought you back to reality. You gazed at him and noticed that your face and his were close, almost touching his nose.

...at this rate, he'll be...

"N-no, I'm okay..."

"Come closer," he whispered. "I don't want you to get wet by the rain, or you'll be sick." He continued. "You don't want me to be closer?"

"No, it's not, Choso-kun. I just..."

He leaned in, closing the gap between you and him. Making your face even blushier than before. "You know Nobara says when you're this close with someone, you should kiss them. Do you want to try it too? Well, this is my first time kissing someone; I just want to try."

"Oh... Choso—"

But before you could respond to him, his lips had already met yours, sealing you with a warm and gentle kiss, leaving you breathless, vulnerable, and willing to surrender.

For someone who claims it was his first time, his kiss was actually good—not rushed or forced, just a tender and soft kiss from someone you love dearly.

He whispered between the kisses. "Promise me you'll stay like this..."

[boundinparchment]

STILL WATERS RUN DEEP - PART I

“You must never look upon his face,” the Dreammaster implored. “For he has looked upon Xipe’s true form. Trust in the Harmony to reveal order upon your union and on Penacony.” No one has ever looked upon the face of the head of the Oak Family. Not even you, his future wife. A promise must be kept. But you were never one to settle. [An attempt at a (loose) Eros and Psyche re-telling in three parts. Will converge with canon. Current wordcount: 5,381 Can be found on AO3 here. Rating is Explicit; MINORS DNI] Reblogs, comments, and kudos appreciated.

You met your husband precisely once before your wedding.

It was an otherwise rather uneventful day in the Dreamscape, one you spent weaving promise after promise, shifting a pathway here, pushing a set of stairs elsewhere.  Dawn always lurked over your shoulder as you pushed the edges of unknown memoria away and carved out something new.  You were good at it, a quick study.

But such was expected of you.  You came from a long lineage within the Nightingale Family and your parents did everything in their power to ensure you knew how to manipulate the Dreamscape as soon as you learned to walk.  You were a Level V on the Scale Degree and your peers considered you doomed; you were far too successful a Dreamweaver to remain among them forever and you would never be properly satisfied by those around you.  Some whispered daggers behind your back that you were nothing but leverage to your family, the subsidiary all but slaughtered into compliance when they did not agree to Gopher Wood’s offer.

After all, plenty of other branches tried and failed to make a connection, court you.  None met whatever arbitrary standards were set.

And as you stepped into Dewlight Pavilion, still dressed in your neat suit and finding your bearings after standing upside-down for several hours adjusting window frames, you finally understood why .

Your parents were already seated across from a figure you instantly knew as the Oak Family head, with a purple raven perched on the back of his sofa.  The young man’s face was entirely hidden by a beautiful veil the color of a starless night; it hung from his halo by an extra ring that moved only enough to allow access to his mouth as needed.

The fabric must have been translucent enough for him to see through, for he moved without issue, and always focused his attention right where it needed to be.  You could not make out the shape of his features.

Was he ugly, hideously deformed?  Did he lack a face entirely?  Rumors swirled about the Oak Family’s recent change due to Gopher Wood’s sacrifice that left him with only a metaphysical attachment to the world.  No one knew what Sunday of the Oak Family looked like, except for his hair and wing color.  His sister, Robin, once kept her visage a secret, too.  However, she renounced her official position as Chordmaster when she began her career as an interstellar singer; many speculated whether she and Sunday had the same eyes.  In fact, last you heard, there was good money in such debates.

The raven, you surmised, was Wood himself.  The one and only Dreammaster.  He spoke politely but it was Sunday who did most of the praise and admiration of your work, noting your potential for higher ranks, and your dedication to Xipe. After confirming your candidacy, Wood suggested leaving the two of you to speak privately, guiding your parents out towards the foyer lined with statues.  They were too enamored at the prospect of being with the Oak Family privately to care.

Around you, the silence seemed to only grow more deafening.   A knot formed in your sinking stomach as you realized this was not just a moment of recognition and appreciation.

As if sensing your unease, Sunday reached up and adjusted the contraption attached to his halo, revealing his lips and jaw to you.  You had never noticed the little bow in his upper lip before.  PIctures and videos of him speaking with his mouth showing never quite captured that detail.  His wings did not relax as much as they gave the appearance they were.

Neither of you expected this.

“I am glad for the progress at Dream’s Edge, and that it’s been stable thus far,” Sunday said, his voice soft.  “The Grand Theater’s renovations mean we must rely on other ways of providing new areas of the Dream to our visitors.  The amount of resources necessary, cognitively and otherwise, are not lost on me.”

Better to be scaling rooftops and shifting buildings than in a Dream Factory.  Nightingale and Iris members were relied upon for the structure and the small details of Penacony’s culture and arts, respectively.  So many of your coworkers began their career in the Factories and it showed, their imaginations simultaneously rigid and methodical and yet so uninspired.

“It is work I do gladly, sir,” you replied.  “But that’s not why I’m here, is it?”

Sunday conceded with a small chuckle and a nod, his smile easing a little as his wings shifted near the edge of his veil, attentive.  

“No, it is not.  Please, walk with me.”

He gestured to the rest of the grand hall, insignias of the five Branches emblazoned on the walls.  You descended without much thought earlier, wishing only to get this meeting over with, but now it was impossible to ignore just how the light trickled through, brilliant and well-positioned to highlight everything.  You rose and followed Sunday away from the sitting area and approached a model replica of Penacony.  At a glance, you guessed most of it was roughly eight hundred times smaller than the real Dreamscape, for it didn’t look all that dissimilar from the models used in planning committees and project teams.

You walked the perimeter of the sand pit model at a slow amble.

“I will be candid and admit the Dreammaster’s abrupt departure was not expected.  And judging from your general demeanor, you are unaware of your parents’ petition to put forward your hand for consideration as a marriage candidate.”

The idea of an arranged marriage was familiar, another expectation you balanced with everything else.  You had little time for love and romance on your own outside of the various suitors who dared come knocking.  But the startling realization that no one was good enough because no one else was the Bronze Melodia, Head of the Oak Family, the highest position one could achieve beneath the Dreammaster himself, felt like a slap in the face you should have seen coming from a mile away.

Surely, the distant relatives of the Nightingale Branch were rolling in their graves.  A great betrayal of all they fought and died for.

You brushed your fingers against the edge of the sandpit to ground yourself.  The room spun a little and you were more shocked that you were, in fact, surprised to begin with.  You were almost into your third decade by now; anyone else in your position would have been left to their work or pushed to settle as dreams collapsed.

“Forgive me for putting you in an awkward position,” you said.

Sunday held up a hand, palm facing you for the briefest of moments.  

“Actually, your lack of awareness of the matter is quite refreshing.  You are modest regarding your skills and achievements but it is a mark of true humility, not one burying themselves in an attempt to hide eagerness.  I do not want a spouse, my equal in all things, who seeks to put themselves above the Harmony in such a way.  You know what you are capable of and you have found your niche within the Family to put it to good use.”

Warmth crept up your neck and settled in your cheeks.  Most found it uncanny to talk to someone who kept their face and expressions hidden.  For you, it was no different than a mere voice call, where you could not see the other party.  He asked not about your other talents but about you and for lack of a better approach, you told a story from your childhood that made his laugh ring off of the walls, full and genuine, melodic in its joy. 

Your heart sang.

Sunday spoke again as you took what was likely your fifth turn around the table.  Maybe sixth.  Time in the Dream was difficult to gauge when you were not keeping your hands busy.

“It is important to me that my wife is capable of bearing the burden of the Oak Family.  We are shepherds in service of Xipe and the Dreammaster.  As the Bronze Melodia, it is my duty to listen and to guide.  I believe you are more than perfectly suited to the role and I…well, it has been a long time since I laughed wholeheartedly.”

He stopped, pausing in his musings to look entirely at the model.  You approximated where his eyeline might be but you had no idea what his focus truly was.  Hands behind his back, he was the picture of perfection that you knew too well.

“But how would you remain dedicated to the wellbeing of all of the souls under the Family’s care?” he asked.

A question no one ever posed to you before.  You had no way to gauge whether this was asked because you’d been doing well.  Regardless, you felt the room grow colder.  So many considered Sunday to merely be Wood’s mouthpiece rather than an individual in his own right.  Such ideations of the head of the Family were not further from the truth; even without seeing his full expression, his earnestness rolled off of him in waves and it was clear enough to you that he held his own ideals separate from those of his adopted father.

You felt a soft haziness, the kind that came with the sun on a warm spring day and what you were always enveloped in when Xipe watched over you.  Trust in the Harmony.

“Truthfully, I don’t have an answer that would not come off as contrived or as though I’m trying too hard,” you admitted.  “I can only say that I have dutifully served the Family with the hopes that I can pass on the generosity and kindness shown to me by my parents.  Xipe’s blessing is one full of grace and a sense of belonging.  I want others to know what it means to be loved and to belong.” You gestured with a wide arm to the sandpit. “That’s why I weave the Dreamscape.”

Sunday was quiet, your only indication that he heard you a series of slow nods.

“Then we are of the same mind.  I want the union I choose to reflect happiness in service to Xipe.”  Sunday turned to you, head first and then his body, giving you his full attention.  “And I think in time, we could make one another happy.”

Something loosened deep inside your chest as your hands trembled.  You smoothed your pants, attempting to ease the nerves that were suddenly very prevalent.  So many others were better equipped for the public presence such a union was expected to have.  Numerous women were undoubtedly more pious and selfless, wholeheartedly proselytizing that the Harmony was the way to salvation.

And yet…

The choice was yours.  Sunday was well within his right to leverage his position, convince you and assuage whatever dark clouds lingered.  Others might have.  

You would have been quite a fool to decline, of course.  And your parents would never forgive you for shattering their dreams.  All of your hard work, and for what?  Most wouldn’t have found it romantic in the slightest but it was practical, deliberate.  And that was a great deal better than fanciful ideas about a grand love like they showed in the cinemas.

 “I would be honored,” you replied, fighting the tiny quakes making their way up your arms.

Sunday extended his gloved hand, a silent request.  You placed your hand in his and you felt yourself grow warm from the touch.  You felt warmer still when soft lips met your knuckles and your lips tingled, stronger now with a faint itch inside your skull.  His halo gave off the slightest of auras.  You made a note to look further into Halovians and their qualities, for you wanted to be able to reciprocate.

The smile gracing his lips was like the rising sun, fresh and full of promise.

“As would I.  Xipe has blessed you with the qualities I wish to see continue on.  Together, we can balance the scales.”

Your wedding was a private affair, attended only by heads of the Five and their immediate families and leadership.  The Grand Theater would have been used for such an event but the Eventide achieved the same effect.  Most were enamored by the Blue Hour, where the Radiant Feldspar floated in the distance in the Sea of Dreams.

Your bridal party consisted only of Robin, who somehow managed to balance your comfort with her brother’s eye for detail in a way that sent a pang through you.  Siblings always had one another, even across systems and galaxies, across different life choices.  Something you never experienced except through the Harmony, through the partnerships and reciprocity of those around you.  Even then, you knew the sentiment to be different.

She never made you feel it, though.  For such a successful artist, an idol , she was incredibly in tune with the needs of others.  

“There’s one thing you need to be aware of with my brother,” Robin said, practiced hands opening a pin and pushing it into your hair as you held your veil in place.  “And it’s that he always takes on the responsibility around him.  It’s a reflex.  Whatever his reasoning behind this life change, please take care of him.  He needs a friend outside of Oak leadership.”

Robin finished fixing your veil and draped the front over your face.  It was nothing like Sunday’s, your face still partially visible through the mesh.  She gently brushed your skirt full of Charmony Dove feathers when you stood, nerves finally getting the better of you.

A knock on the door to your bridal suite startled you.  Robin’s security would have already cleared the visitor but the singer’s shoulders dropped a little upon the discovery of Gopher Wood himself, inhabiting the body of another.

“There is something important I must discuss with your brother’s betrothed,” he said, tone gentle.  “Would you please go check on him in the meantime, Robin?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second longer than you were used to from anyone else in his presence.  Everyone was quick to comply with the Dreammaster, one of the only surviving members who recalled the early days of Penacony’s founding.  Wordlessly, Robin took your hand, squeezed, and then left the dressing room.  The click of the door echoed in the depths of your mind.  

Through your own veil, you watched as Wood took a seat where Robin once perched.  He always unnerved you in a way you could not quite place.  Whatever happened to him that caused him to lose his corporeal form, it made your skin crawl.  It was difficult to feel at ease when you always felt like you were being watched.

You dared not let your voice betray you, ironing out every waver you could.  “Has something happened, Dreammaster?”

The smile you saw should have put you at ease but it only served to prod you, a shiver sitting at the bottom of your spine and never crawling.  Surely this wasn’t going to be some discussion regarding the wedding night?  Or the possibility that you were no longer going to be walking down the aisle?  Had you said something during confessionals that was thought to be unbefitting?  You swallowed and tried not to lick your lips so you didn’t mar Robin’s hard work.

“There is a condition that you must abide by from today forward, dear Dreamweaver.  It is imperative and you must understand that although you are to be Sunday’s wife , not even you are privy to them.”  He continued before you could ask, imploring you.  “You must never look upon his face, for he has gazed upon Xipe’s true form.  Trust in the Harmony to reveal order upon your union and on Penacony.”

You were thankful for your face covering but it did little hide you from one as in tune with the Harmony as Gopher Wood.  He sensed it, your desire to question, and he chuckled.

“My son carries a heavy burden but I chose him as my successor because he intrinsically understands THEIR will.  Betray this condition and the consequences will not just be yours to bear.  The future of Penacony relies on this balance and it must not be upended; I will know if it is.  Am I clear, Dreamweaver?”

The words were spoken with such gentleness that they almost passed for little more than a lecture.  It didn’t feel right, not because you sought entitlement to Sunday as a spouse, but because it did not quite make sense.  When has Xipe ever desired to encourage that kind of separation?  Other than Sunday, no other Family Head hid their face.  Then again, no others were in charge of all of the Branches, either.  But what else was there to say?  What other choice was there?

You would discuss this with Sunday directly, you decided.  Direct communication was often the best solution in private affairs.

“Of course.  I will honor these wishes, Dreammaster.”

He left with little more than Xipe’s blessing upon you; his words circled like carrion birds in your head all the way down the aisle.

Leaving the Asdana System, or even Penacony itself, was out of the question for a honeymoon.  You hadn’t actually anticipated one but how else were you going to truly have time alone together as a married couple?  Even after the few belongings you did have were moved into Dewlight Pavilion, the schedules of a Family Head did not just stop on a dime.  Work always continued for him.  But would it for you?  Could it?

Your hands idly went to your necklace, tugging the charm this way and that down the chain as you gazed out of the window, little more than stars to light the way.  The Moment of Midnight was an interesting Hour to be in for what was meant to be, well, romantic .  Here, the lights were kept low, if not entirely off, and you had to rely on your other senses to get an idea of your environment.  Wood’s words took on a whole new meaning.

A great many things needed to be ironed out while the two of you were alone, away from the eyes of the press and the ears of those with knives behind their backs.  

So far, things went well.  The ceremony and reception were exactly what you were prepared for.  Your hands were fastened during vows, rings exchanged over gloved fingers, and the kiss was gentle and chaste.  

Your first dance was not as awkward as you’d expected it to be.  You’d practiced, of course, but not with Sunday, for he’d been far too busy.  All you recalled was the warmth of Sunday’s arm beneath your hands as you greeted guests, their visages nothing but a blur despite your best attempts to match names to faces.  You knew of a great many of these individuals already, as most of the Family did, but meeting them in-person was a different matter.

Sunday was attentive, mindful that your water was never empty and that you had your fill of each course; you paid him the same respect in turn.  It was easy to, you found.  Perhaps Robin was wrong.

He ate only a single bite of your shared slice of cake, lips wrapping around your fork as you customarily fed one another.  When you asked if he disliked it, he shook his head.  His mouth was visible for most of the night and not just through meals; you wondered if that was for your benefit, given you were unaccustomed to a lack of visual cues.

“I quite enjoy it but it brings me greater satisfaction for others to partake,” he explained.

Your reply was instant.  “You only get one wedding cake though.”

“And it makes me happier to see your eyes light up than indulge myself.  Those are the memories I’ll have and that is enough for me.”

Sunday had taken your left hand and you could just barely feel the warmth of his skin through both your gloves and his.  You did your best to control your facial expression, burying your disappointment.  This was his wedding, too, why shouldn’t he enjoy what had been so carefully planned for both of you?

Hours later, here you stood, the afternoon and evening washed away and dressed in the white silk and lace laid out by an Intellitron maid.  The selection was tasteful but left the material’s intention unmistakable.  The air here was cool, soothing, and made the silk feel as if it was melting into your skin and accentuating every curve.  Your skin was sensitive, goose bumps dotting your arms and your nipples hardening from the chill.  Soft footsteps made their way over to you and in the faint light coming in from the stars outside, you only barely made out the vague shape of your husband behind you.  His veil shimmered slightly.  He had not yet changed for bed but abandoned his jacket, tie, and waistcoat.

His sleeves were neatly rolled up and your mouth grew dry at the sight of his exposed forearms.  Hardly a man who did any kind of manual labor but you found yourself curious about tracing your fingers up and down a particularly prominent vein.  Were you even able to touch him?

“We don’t have to do this.”  His voice was barely more than a whisper.  “It doesn’t have to be tonight.  Today was eventful enough.”

“It’s inevitable,” you replied, feeling a shiver run through you.  “There’s little harm in trying.”

You turned to face him, tentatively reaching out to rest your hands on his chest in the darkened room.  Although your eyes adjusted, your sense of spatial awareness was off.  When you didn’t quite make the mark, he stepped forward, his gloved hands guiding yours.  Sunday brought your hands higher, over the collar of his shirt and your fingers skimmed the hem of the veil, stopping right at his jaw.

“You were warned, were you not?” he asked, voice tight.

“The Dreammaster forbid me from seeing your face.”

“He was right to.  Your hands will go no higher, for one’s touch is just vision in a different form.”

“And what of a kiss?  Am I allowed that?” the question poured from your lips, a mix of insatiable curiosity and a demand to know the boundaries.  “Or am I left with only the seal of our union?  I want to know you, Sunday, even if I can never gaze on your face.  I cannot fulfill the role expected of me without knowledge.”

“Your dedication means a great deal.  Compromises can be reached, within reason, dear wife.”

Sunday moved your hand to trace his lips, soft and supple, breath hot on the pads of your fingers.  You felt the heat creep up with your arm and crawl into your chest, your own breath catching.  The silken nightgown suddenly felt much colder against the rising flush of your skin.  Slowly, he pressed his lips to your fingers and then your palm, turning your hand over to brush his lips against your knuckles.  With your other hand, you brushed your middle finger against the curve of his jaw, beneath his ear, mindful of the wing joint.

His hands fell to encircle your waist.  You stepped closer, not daring to close the distance entirely, but enticed by the heat radiating from him.  Sunday’s lips followed the path of your arm, ghosting across your skin, until he reached the curve of your shoulder.  His veil was firmly in place, its hem teasing you with every kiss.

“Is this to your satisfaction?” He punctuated his question with your name and you shivered.

You nodded before you swallowed, tongue heavy in your mouth.  “Almost.”

An unspoken question hung in the air but before Sunday could voice it, you brushed your nose against the fabric and captured his lips with yours.  You felt him freeze, your free hand feeling the muscles cord in his neck as his wings tensed, curling inward.  Your pulse rushed in your ears as you pulled away slightly, fighting the urge to deepen the kiss.  Had you gone too far?

He didn’t move but the skin of his neck was scorching.  Daringly, you closed the distance between your bodies, breasts pressed against him and hips touching.  Something hard prodded against you.  Sunday’s breath hitched, a gasp stolen right from his lungs.  

You’d never shared yourself with anyone but the mechanics were ingrained in your mind from years of education.  There had been little point to exploring it when other priorities were necessary.  He was enjoying this and you pretended not to feel the tiny thrusts against you, as though he was hoping a little friction would alleviate his own need.

“Like I said, I want to know you,” you repeated.  “ All of you.  Or almost all of you.  If you’ll have me.”

You felt his wings flutter, one of them curling to cup his own cheek, the feathers brushing your fingers.

“I…forgive me, I have never…”

“Neither have I.  We can figure it out together.”

Tentatively, you leaned forward and kissed him again, full of reassurance.  You trailed your hands back towards him, searching for spots that made him sigh and relax.  When you neared his wing joint, he gave a choking moan that sent a twitch through your core.  Trembling, you extended your fingers to stroke the wing bone and the hold on your waist tightened.  

The tops of your thighs were damp, an ache sitting between them that throbbed in time with your pulse as both of you explored, shifting to eventually tangle yourselves into the sheets of the waiting bed.  Touching became a process to map out one another’s bodies, finding dips and divets and curves as you undressed.  He was methodical but you didn’t mind.  This was a learning moment for you both.

You discovered that touching Sunday’s wings made him shiver, but that he instantly stiffened if you brushed his feathers; he’d pulled your hands away, mumbling pleas more to himself than to you.  He memorized the shape of your spine against his fingers and traced circles around your hardened nipples, kissing and sucking through the silken fabric until you hiked the nightgown up to encourage him to feel you, skin on skin.  His fingers grazed your folds and in turn, you took his shaft in your hand, his tip already leaking; he settled between your legs, uttering prayers into the curve of your neck, his veil cool against your burning skin.

Sunday inhaled sharply as you bucked your hips, obscene wet sounds filling the silence he left behind.  At least this was better than the alternative, you thought.  Your body’s cooperation and eagerness made it a little easier to push aside the dissonance at the notion that the man above you was both your husband and almost a complete stranger.

He started slow, for his benefit and for yours, you realized.  You’d felt him in your hand but without a comparison, without experience, you had no frame of reference.  He was bigger than you anticipated, stretching you slowly.  Your eagerness helped, of course.  Once buried, he stilled for a moment, allowing both of you to catch your breath and collect your thoughts.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, shifting slightly to hold himself up further.  “We can stop if you…”

The initial sting already ebbed away and you reached to rest your hand over his heart.

“I’m okay.  We can keep going.  I’d like to,” you replied.

Sunday’s rhythm was slow, his strokes long and gentle.  It reminded you of a song, soft and flowing, and briefly, you wondered if one day, you’d be able to resonate with the Harmony, and with him.  Properly, the way you’d heard Halovians could with one another.

Deep inside you, you felt a tug like a string being wound on a spool, amid a low-burning fire churning.  It felt as if you were floating among the stars themselves and you clung to Sunday, unsure of what your body needed but knowing he could provide—

He leaned down again, nestling his covered face in the curve of your neck as his movements became more erratic, hips almost snapping in their fervor.  Both of you were breathless, and the edges of your vision began to go white just as Sunday gave a shuddering final thrust, warmth spilling into you with a quaking moan of your name.  You brushed the backs of your fingers over Sunday’s upper arms before you reached around and held him, unsure of where, precisely, was safe to touch him.

You’d been on the precipice of something and it lingered in your mind, nagging.  Regardless, for a first time…

“That was messier than I expected, my apologies,” Sunday whispered.  “Allow me to help?”

You murmured an agreement and disentangled yourself, suddenly very cold in his absence.  You heard Sunday’s footsteps, soft against the plush carpet, and felt the bed dip when he returned, towel in hand.  He was gentle, attentive just like he had been earlier, if a little hesitant with the heat of the moment lost.

“I’ve been told it’s supposed to go…differently,” he said, brushing the towel against your sticky thighs.  

You stifled a giggle as his fingers found a sensitive spot.  “Ticklish there, sorry.  You were saying?”

He adjusted his approach and continued.  “Such moments are…intended to be a moment of convergence for two people.  They should…last longer, or at least not be as…one-sided…it’s selfish for me to have… finished when…”

Oh.

“Sunday.”

In the dark, it was difficult to make anything out but you felt his gaze on you, and you sat up, covering the hand on your leg with yours.

“Nothing is perfect the first time.  We can try again.  What’s important is that we communicate, right?”

You heard his swallow and imagined his Adam’s apple bobbing.  That was a spot you wondered if you could touch, could kiss if you promised to close your eyes and not peek.

“You’re very kind,” Sunday replied softly.  “I knew that, of course, but…thank you.”

“Like I said, we’ll figure it out together.”

A beat, and then as he finished drying your legs, you said, “I want to ask something but I don’t know if it’s…appropriate.”

“I will answer if I’m able to.”

“When you sleep…”

His answer was swift.  “I must remove my halo.  We won’t be sharing a bedroom.  Even here, I’ll be sleeping elsewhere.  I could not risk accidentally exposing you to Xipe’s wrath for such a transgression.”

It felt as if an icy wall had slammed against you.  You knew there would be hurdles in this new life you’d chosen, of course there would be.  You hadn’t gotten to where you were in life without a lot of them.  Shame snaked itself up your leg and you pulled away when he rose, tucking yourself under the covers.  In hindsight, it felt silly assuming you’d be able to fall asleep together.  All of that, and you would still be…

“Of course.  Forget I asked,” you replied, tone mild as if you’d asked about the weather.

You could still sense his presence in the dark as he silently gathered his things, the rustle of clothing somehow loud.  It felt like every pop of a button echoed in your skull.  You had no right to feel this way, you scolded yourself.  This wasn’t anything more than an arrangement, an agreement between two followers of the Harmony.  You’d entered this marriage knowing that it might never…

You heard the door handle and in the sliver of light trickling through, you caught Sunday’s silhouette, veil lowered and his figure clothed.  His wings were folded in, tucked behind the veil as if shielding himself.

“In time, perhaps a compromise can be reached.  We shall seek guidance on such matters when the time comes.  I shall see you in the morning.  Sweet dreams.”

Eyes stinging, and tongue thick, you pushed away your pride and your pain long enough to say, “Sleep well, Sunday.”

The door clicked shut and you pulled the covers over your head when you curled up onto your side.  You stifled your sobs with a pillow, wondering just what you’d gotten yourself into.

[shogvnate]

Insomnia. headcannons

re8 ladies with a s/o who's an insomniac

contains; mother miranda, mia winters, alcina dimitrescu, donna beneviento, bela dimitrescu, cassandra dimitrescu, daniela dimitrescu.

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warnings; none.

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🐦‍⬛ mother miranda

honestly she's also an insomniac herself so it's not really a problem for her

if you're not busy, she'll ask you to accompany her while she's doing late night experimenting.

she's… surprisingly domestic?

she doesn't talk much when it's late (she doesn't talk much in general though), and you don't either so it works out.

sometimes forgets that you're not a mutant like her, but when she remembers she'll help you fall asleep. She'll find a way, she's a scientist, after all, a mad one at that. Nothing is impossible with her.

entertains you with her crows if her experiments get too dangerous for you.

the type to make you play chess with her over a cup of tea.

you have zero idea how to play so she teaches you.

???

how did the two of you end up playing uno??

…

why are the two of you playing go fish now?

🪡 donna beneviento

also an insomniac

but she's not as noticeable because she wears a veil and no one really sees her face.

late night reading, not healthy for both of your eyes but who cares?

donna is surprisingly active at night (not like that).

living with her includes hearing the kitchen being rummaged at 3 am only to find out it's her trying to cook pasta.

either that or she's trying to find her missing tool.

she can be forgetful sometimes and you are too, but remember, two negatives makes a positive! (you two still haven't found where your blue pen went.)

makes you and herself some soothing lavender tea.

she wears her hair down when it's late, and she's fucking gorgeous goddamn.

the sight of her alone makes you sigh dreamily.

you don't need sleep, you're already living the dream.

angie bites your toes if you look at donna funny for too long.

🍷 alcina dimitrescu

for the love of all that is holy, please stop trying to scare the maidens, it's 2 in the morning.

she's very tired.

she's the opposite of an insomniac, her line of work makes her really cranky at night.

technically she doesn't need sleep, but it's refreshing so she does it and hates when she's disturbed.

just imagine having to be a single milf girlboss with a massive dump truck, must be tiring for her, damn.

sorry. anyway, she'll find a way to help you.

perhaps you need medicine? she can give the Duke a quick late night call and make either Cassandra or Bela fetch them (because she doesn't trust the maidens will come back alive if she sent them this late.)

sits up with you until you're tired, but all the time she'll look like someone who hadn't had a blink of sleep since 500 b.c.

you decide to help her sleep instead, you don't mind.

so you ended up being cuddled by her while she's in her deep sleep, yay!

❄ mia winters

she's tired, not like alcina kind of tired, but just tired.

at some point in the night, she noticed you're not sleeping next to her, again, which made her wake up and get you.

you make her feel safe and when you're not there she gets reminded of her Louisiana days, which, isn't fun.

depending on the day, she can either haul you back to bed for her to cuddle or ask you whether you need something to calm your nerves.

stays up with you, but falls asleep in the end.

cuddling on the sofa with her is heaven so you don't mind.

in the morning you'll be so sore and stiff though, because when she cuddles, she's not even a koala, she's literally merging with you.

her warmth usually brings you to sleep, it's likely her general comforting presence that helps you.

buys you medicine to help with your insomnia if you ask so, but she'll do it tomorrow.

for now, she'd like to rest.

🦇 bela dimitrescu

contrary to alcina, the three of her daughters, and especially, bela, are insomniacs.

they do random shit at 1 in the morning.

one time bela got dragged into having a karaoke session, which meant you also got dragged by the other two sisters (read: daniela).

it's fun though, you got a good laugh from them.

which is great considering your insomnia is making you more and more mentally exhausted.

once they all let their energy out, bela can finally get some time with you.

bela may or may not bring you to her bedroom, depending on whether or not her sisters will tease her for it.

doesn't know how to make tea, so don't hope she does or ask her for it.

silence.

it gets really awkward when she's just sitting there staring at you and expecting you to just get bored and sleep.

you end up having candlelit dinner? breakfast? at 3 am.

🗡️ cassandra dimitrescu

as mentioned before she also has insomnia. she sometimes still manages to sleep though, but it usually happens at day or at random times.

after the whole late night shenanigans, usually she's the most tired because she matches daniela's endless energy but also bela's crankiness.

she enjoys laying down doing particularly nothing so expect her to lay on the same bed as you while staring blankly at the ceiling.

when asked she usually takes a few moments to respond, and as it turns out, she accidentally slept with her eyes open. kinda neat.

she's also like daniela, she can't sit still.

may make random small talks before she just… had it.

so she decided to ask you to spar with her in the armor room.

if you're tired, she'll suggest doing something else like taking a walk around the castle.

one time she's feeling generous, she actually asked you to waltz on the grand hall.

she still remembers the steps despite being dead for God knows how long but you absolutely have zero idea how to waltz.

and you're losing your shit whenever she smiles at you softly.

how uncharacteristic for the murderous vampire who gouged a maid's eyes out for looking at you wrong.

needless to say, your nights are always productive with cassandra.

🌹 daniela dimitrescu

with daniela, it's like gambling your sanity.

there's half the chance that she's feeling hyper that night, or the other being that she's feeling hella tired and doesn't want to be disturbed by the maids. (meaning if she sees someone messing up while she's in this mood, there'll be one more barrel in the cellar.)

either way, none of them meant anything good for you.

drags you to the library to read her stories, more often than not, she's asking you to read her fairy tales which is super valid. I also love them.

makes you play with her hair while you're reading.

very unpredictable, no wonder she's dimitrescu's wild card.

she sleeps when her energy runs out, which may take a long time.

she sleep talks, mostly slurring out your name or whining about how cassandra is always so unfair to her.

softly snores

you always end up being the one cleaning her mess if a maid died that day.

[eunseoksimp]

Siren ; Lee Anton

Pairings: Obsessive!Anton x Femme Fatale!Reader

Genre: Angst

Description: at seonghwa academy, you reign like a queen—flawless, untouchable, and cold as ice. your beauty is your weapon, used to control and manipulate those who fall under your spell. but when you catch the eye of anton, a brooding athlete with a quiet intensity, you meet your match. beneath his silence lies a dark obsession, a twisted desire that mirrors your own. as you engage in a dangerous dance of power and control, the line between.

Warnings: manipulation, obsessive behaviour, anton is low-key unhinged, death

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

in the heart of seoul, hidden away from the prying eyes of the common folk, lay seonghwa academy—a sanctuary for the elite. the school was a sprawling estate, its towering gates adorned with intricate gold designs, a symbol of the wealth and privilege that lay within. beyond the gates, the grounds stretched out in a lavish display of manicured gardens, where ancient cherry blossom trees stood sentinel, their delicate pink petals drifting like snowflakes in the gentle breeze.

the main building of the academy was a marvel of architecture, a blend of traditional korean aesthetics and modern grandeur. its walls were of pristine white stone, polished to a shine, with high windows that allowed sunlight to pour in, casting long, golden rays across the polished marble floors.

inside, the halls were wide and lined with portraits of illustrious alumni, men and women who had gone on to shape the world, all of them linked by the common thread of privilege and power. the ceiling soared above, adorned with chandeliers that glittered like a constellation of stars, their crystal drops refracting light into a thousand tiny rainbows that danced across the room.

it was within these halls that you held court, like a queen surveying her kingdom. your presence was a force unto itself, commanding attention without a word, demanding devotion without a single gesture. you moved through the school like a wisp of smoke, impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore. wherever you went, a hush fell over those around you, as if the mere sight of you demanded reverence.

you were beautiful, but not in the way most people imagined when they thought of beauty. it wasn’t just your face, though that was a masterpiece in itself—high cheekbones, a delicate nose, lips that curled into a perfect bow. your skin was like porcelain, flawless and smooth, with a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from within, your hair, a cascade of black silk, framed a face so perfect it seemed almost unreal, like something crafted by the hands of a deity in a moment of unparalleled inspiration. your eyes, dark and mysterious, held a depth that could drown anyone who dared look too long into them, a dangerous promise hidden behind a veil of innocence.

but it was more than just your physical appearance. your beauty was a weapon, and you wielded it with precision. you were calculating, always two steps ahead, your mind a cold, sharp instrument honed to perfection. everything you did was for your own gain, every smile, every glance, every word spoken was a move in the intricate game you played. you took pleasure in your power, in the way others bent to your will without even realizing they were doing so.

and then there was your voice, soft and low, like velvet brushing against bare skin. when you spoke, people listened. they hung onto your every word, eager to please, desperate to be noticed by you.

boys fell over themselves trying to catch your attention, offering gifts, writing love letters, all in the vain hope that you might spare them a glance. you accepted their offerings with a smile that never reached your eyes, always taking, never giving. you played them like instruments, each one serving a purpose, whether it was to boost your social standing, to gain favors, or simply to amuse yourself. all blinded by the allure of being noticed by someone as unattainable as you were.

girls envied and admired you in equal measure, some even attempting to emulate your style, though none could quite capture the effortless elegance that came so naturally to you. they didn’t realize that what they saw was a facade, a carefully constructed image designed to elicit the desired response from those around you. you knew exactly how to dress, how to speak, how to act to keep them all under your thumb, to keep them guessing, to keep them wanting more.

among the crowd of admirers, anton was different.

anton was handsome, that much was undeniable. he had a certain ruggedness to him, a sharpness to his features that contrasted with the softness of yours. his hair, dark and thick, often fell across his forehead in a tousled mess that only seemed to enhance his brooding appeal. his eyes, a piercing shade of blue, stood out against his tanned skin, giving him an intensity that could be felt even from a distance. he was tall and lean, his athletic build a testament to the hours he spent training on the field, every muscle in his body honed to perfection.

but where you were a beacon of light, drawing everyone towards you, anton was a shadow, always lurking at the edges, observing from afar. he was quiet, almost painfully so, his presence more of a whisper than a shout. while others jostled for your attention, anton remained on the periphery, content—or so it seemed—to watch you from a distance. his eyes followed you wherever you went, though he rarely spoke more than a few words to anyone.

his silence made him a mystery, one that no one seemed able to solve. he was a puzzle, each piece carefully guarded, revealing nothing of the whole. few knew anything about him beyond the superficial; he was good at sports, he was handsome, and he kept to himself. only a handful of people could claim to be his friends, and even they struggled to understand the depths of his thoughts.

where others saw an angel, he saw something more—a force of nature, a tempest that he wanted to be caught in, even if it meant his own destruction. his heart beat faster when you were near, the blood in his veins turning to fire as your scent—jasmine and something darker, something that whispered of forbidden things—wafted through the air.

his shyness was a curse in your presence. while others boldly approached you, offering gifts and compliments, anton remained in the background, his love for you a silent, burning thing that threatened to consume him. he longed to speak to you, to make you see him, truly see him, but the fear of rejection, of shattering the perfect image he had of her in his mind, kept him silent.

but you noticed him, of course. how could you not? unlike the others who fell over themselves to win your favor, anton presented a challenge. he was a puzzle you wanted to solve, not out of any genuine interest, but because you hated the idea that someone in your domain could remain untouched by your influence. there was something in the way he looked at you—intense, almost possessive—that sparked a flicker of interest, but more than that, it was the challenge that intrigued you. here was someone who didn’t play by your rules, and that was unacceptable.

one crisp autumn afternoon, as the sun bathed the campus in a warm, golden light, you were making your way across the courtyard. the air was filled with the soft rustle of leaves as they fell from the trees, carpeting the ground in shades of red and gold. your footsteps were almost silent against the cobblestones, the sound barely audible over the murmurs of students passing by.

ahead, you noticed anton standing with a small group of his friends. they were near the edge of the courtyard, leaning casually against the stone balustrade that overlooked the garden below. though his friends were engaged in light conversation, anton seemed distant, his gaze unfocused as if lost in thought. it wasn’t until you were closer that his eyes snapped to you, a flash of something dark and unreadable crossing his features.

“here she comes,” one of anton’s friends, a tall boy with an easy smile, murmured under his breath, though not quietly enough to escape your notice. “the ice queen herself.”

“more like a goddess,” another boy replied, his tone tinged with admiration. “she doesn’t even have to try, does she? it’s like she was born to make us all look bad.”

there was a low chuckle from the group, but anton remained silent, his eyes still fixed on you. you allowed a small, knowing smile to curve your lips, a smile that only deepened the allure you held over them. you knew the effect you had, and you reveled in it. but this smile wasn’t just for them—it was a calculated move, a test to see how anton would react.

as you walked past, you let your gaze flicker towards anton for just a moment, long enough to meet his eyes and see the way they darkened, the intensity of his stare like a physical touch. it was a brief exchange, but it was enough to tell you what you needed to know. he wasn’t immune to you. far from it. he was just better at hiding it.

“careful, anton,” one of his friends teased, noticing the exchange. “she’s not the kind of girl you want to mess with.”

anton finally tore his gaze away from you, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as he replied, his voice low and measured, “i’m not messing with her.”

his friend raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “so what’s the plan, then? you just going to keep watching her from afar? because if you ask me, she’s out of everyone’s league here. untouchable.”

anton didn’t respond immediately, his eyes flickering back to where you had just disappeared around the corner. when he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet that his friends had to lean in to catch the words.

“some things are worth waiting for,” he said, his tone laced with a quiet conviction that sent a ripple of unease through the group.

“yeah, well, just be careful you don’t get burned,” the tall boy replied, though there was no real concern in his voice, only the easy camaraderie of someone who didn’t quite understand the depths of his friend’s obsession.

anton offered no reply, his thoughts already drifting back to you. his friends resumed their conversation, but he remained silent, his mind occupied with the image of your smile, the way it had seemed to linger on your lips just a moment too long, as if it had been meant for him alone.

later that afternoon, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the school grounds, you found yourself in the library. it was a vast room, lined with shelves that reached up to the ceiling, filled with books that spanned every subject imaginable. the scent of aged paper hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of polished wood and the crispness of the autumn air that drifted in through the open windows.

you chose this place deliberately—your sanctuary, your throne room, where you could reign undisturbed. the library was usually deserted at this hour, a perfect place to think, to plot your next move. you moved gracefully through the aisles, your fingers trailing lightly over the spines of the books as you walked, until you reached your usual spot, a secluded table tucked away in a corner, hidden from view but with a clear line of sight to the entrance.

you settled into your seat, your back straight, your posture impeccable, as you opened a book—a volume on ancient strategies of war, a fitting choice given the games you played with those around you. but as you began to read, your thoughts kept drifting back to anton, to the way he had looked at you in the courtyard. there was something about him that you couldn’t quite place, something that made him stand out from the others. he was different, and that intrigued you.

you heard the door to the library creak open, the sound barely perceptible, but you were attuned to the slightest disturbance in your surroundings. you didn’t look up, though you knew who it was even before you heard the familiar sound of his footsteps approaching. you continued reading, allowing him to come to you, your expression calm and unreadable.

“strange seeing you here twice in one day,” anton’s voice broke the silence, soft yet edged with something dark, something that hinted at the depths beneath his calm exterior.

you slowly raised your eyes from the book, fixing him with a cool, appraising gaze. “is it?”

he stood at the edge of your table, his posture relaxed but his eyes focused, as if he were trying to decipher the meaning behind your calm demeanor. he didn’t sit down, didn’t make any move to bridge the gap between you, and you respected that. it showed that he wasn’t like the others who would have rushed to fill the silence, eager to be close to you, to bask in your presence.

“you usually avoid places like this,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur, as though the library’s quiet demanded a softer tone.

you tilted your head slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “and yet, here you are.”

anton didn’t respond immediately. his eyes flickered to the book in your hands, his expression thoughtful. “war strategies?” he observed, raising an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “fitting.”

“for what?” you asked, your voice smooth, almost teasing, though there was a hint of steel beneath your words.

“for someone like you,” he replied, his tone flat, betraying nothing of what he might be thinking. “someone who always seems to be a step ahead.”

you allowed a soft laugh to escape your lips, though it was devoid of any real warmth. “i find it useful to stay informed,” you said, closing the book with a decisive snap. “knowledge is power, after all.”

anton’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “and you enjoy having power, don’t you?”

you met his gaze, unflinching, your expression unreadable. “wouldn’t you?”

he didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes was enough. he understood, perhaps more than anyone else. in that moment, you saw a reflection of yourself in him—a hunger, a need to control, to dominate. it was rare to find someone who could match you in this way, and it made you wonder just how far you could push him before he would break.

“why are you here, anton?” you asked, your tone light but with an underlying sharpness. “surely you didn’t come all this way just to exchange pleasantries?”

anton took a step closer, leaning slightly over the table, his eyes locked onto yours. “i came to see you.”

“did you?” you replied, feigning surprise, though you were anything but. “and what is it that you want from me?”

he took another step closer, his gaze intense, as if he were trying to penetrate your carefully constructed facade. “you already know the answer to that.”

you leaned back in your chair, creating more distance between you, as if to remind him who was in control. “perhaps,” you said slowly, your voice laced with an almost cruel amusement. “but i want to hear you say it.”

anton’s jaw tightened, the only outward sign of his frustration. he wasn’t used to being played with, and it was clear that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the power dynamic between you. but he held his ground, refusing to be the first to break.

“i want to understand you,” he said finally, the words heavy with meaning.

you raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued now. “understand me?” you echoed, your tone mocking. “how quaint. and why would you want that?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were trying to see through your facade, to find the real person beneath the mask. “because you’re different from the others,” he said, his voice firm. “you don’t care about the things they care about. you’re not like them.”

you felt a flicker of satisfaction at his words, though you kept your expression neutral. “you think you’re different too, don’t you?” you asked, your voice soft, almost a whisper. “that’s why you’re drawn to me. you see something of yourself in me.”

anton didn’t deny it. instead, he straightened, putting more distance between you. “maybe,” he admitted, though there was a hint of reluctance in his voice, as if he didn’t want to admit just how much you fascinated him.

you leaned forward, your eyes glinting with something dark, something that spoke of the game you were playing. “but here’s the thing, anton,” you said, your voice low and almost seductive. “just because we’re alike doesn’t mean we’re on the same side.”

anton’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. “are you trying to warn me?”

you smiled then, a smile that held no warmth, no kindness. “no,” you said simply. “i’m just letting you know that you should be careful. you might think you understand me, but you don’t. and trying to get close to me, trying to figure me out, might not end the way you hope.”

there was a moment of silence, the tension between you so thick it was almost suffocating. anton’s expression remained unreadable, but you could see the wheels turning in his mind, could almost hear the thoughts racing through his head as he tried to decide his next move.

finally, he nodded, as if coming to some kind of internal decision. “i’ll take my chances,” he said, his voice calm, but with a resolve that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.

you studied him for a long moment, weighing his words, considering your next move. and then, you smiled again, this time a real smile, one that hinted at something more, something dangerous. “good,” you said softly, leaning back in your chair. “i was hoping you would say that.”

anton didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. he wasn’t afraid of you, and that made him even more interesting. this was going to be fun.

without another word, you stood up, the movement smooth and controlled. you gathered your things, the book you hadn’t read and the bag you carried with you everywhere. you leaned slightly over the table, bringing your face closer to his, your lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile.

"good luck, anton," you whispered, your voice low and intimate. "you’re going to need it."

and with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him sitting there, the echo of your parting words lingering in the air. as you left the library, you didn’t look back. you knew he was watching you, just as you knew he would continue to chase the idea of you, to try and uncover the truth you kept hidden behind layers of ice.

but in the end, it didn’t matter. you were always in control. anton might think he was playing the same game as you, but the truth was, he was just another piece on your board. and you? you were always several moves ahead.

the sun had set by the time you stepped outside, the evening air cool against your skin. the sky was a deep, inky blue, dotted with the first stars of the night. as you walked back to your dorm, your thoughts were already shifting to the next day, the next opportunity, the next move. anton was a distraction, an interesting one, but a distraction nonetheless. you had bigger plans, bigger goals, and you wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—stand in your way.

as the door to your dormitory closed behind you, you allowed yourself one last, fleeting thought of anton, of the way his eyes had burned with that cold fire, the way he had tried to match your coldness with his own. it was a futile effort, but it had been amusing, if only for a moment.

and then, with the finality of a chess player making the winning move, you pushed the thought from your mind, focusing instead on the game that truly mattered—the one where you were always the queen, and everyone else was just another pawn.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the days began to blur into one another, the once vibrant tapestry of autumn fading into the cold, muted tones of winter. seonghwa academy, with all its grandeur and decadence, seemed almost timeless in its beauty, untouched by the passage of the seasons. the cherry blossoms had long since fallen, leaving the trees bare, their skeletal branches scratching at the sky like bony fingers. the manicured gardens were now coated in a thin layer of frost, a glittering veil that shimmered in the pale morning light.

you moved through the academy like a specter, your presence felt more than seen. the halls were your domain, each corridor a labyrinth where you pulled the strings, where every whisper, every glance was carefully orchestrated. the students, your pawns, fell in line, their lives intertwined with yours in ways they could never fully understand. you held court in the shadows, your influence seeping into every corner, every conversation.

anton was no exception. from the moment he had sought you out in the library, you had known he would be different, a challenge unlike the others. and challenges, you had learned, were meant to be conquered.

he was drawn to you like a moth to a flame, his obsession growing with each passing day. it was subtle at first—an extra glance in your direction, a lingering look that held just a bit too long. but soon, it became something more, something palpable. you could feel his eyes on you even when you weren’t looking, could sense his presence lurking at the edge of your awareness like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

you began to toy with him, your moves calculated and deliberate, each interaction becoming a carefully orchestrated dance. the academy, a place of prestige and ambition, provided the perfect backdrop for your machinations. its grand halls and meticulously maintained gardens were a testament to the wealth and power of its patrons, and you knew how to navigate this world with ease.

your interactions with anton began innocently enough. it started with small things—catching his eye in the hallway and holding his gaze just a moment longer than necessary, brushing past him in the crowded corridors, your touch fleeting but deliberate. you could see the effect it had on him, the way his breath hitched, the way his composure faltered ever so slightly. it was intoxicating, the power you held over him, the way you could bend him to your will with nothing more than a look.

one evening, as the first snow of the season began to fall, you found yourself in the school’s music room, a place rarely visited by anyone outside of classes. the room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the sconces on the walls, casting long shadows that danced across the polished wood floors. the air was filled with the faint scent of old sheet music and the lingering notes of a piano that hadn’t been played in years.

you had come here to think, to plot your next move, but the silence was soon broken by the sound of the door creaking open. you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. you could feel anton’s presence, the way the air seemed to thicken with his arrival.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you said, your voice a soft whisper that barely disturbed the quiet.

“neither should you,” he replied, his tone calm but with an undercurrent of something darker, something that hinted at the storm brewing beneath his surface.

you turned slowly to face him, your eyes meeting his with a cool, detached gaze. “i go where i please,” you said simply, as if that explained everything.

anton stepped further into the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. he was dressed in the school’s uniform, but it seemed somehow more disheveled, the tie loosened, the shirt untucked at the edges, as if he had grown careless with his appearance. his hair was tousled, the dark strands falling into his eyes, but it did nothing to diminish the intensity of his gaze.

“why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice steady but with a hint of desperation, as if he were struggling to keep his emotions in check.

you tilted your head slightly, feigning ignorance. “doing what?”

anton’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he took a step closer. “you know what,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “why are you playing with me?”

a smile ghosted across your lips, a smile devoid of any warmth, any humanity. “because i can,” you replied, your tone light, almost mocking. “because it amuses me.”

anton’s eyes darkened, the shadows in the room seeming to grow longer, deeper. “you think this is a game?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly with barely restrained anger.

“everything is a game,” you said, your voice as cold and unfeeling as the snow falling outside. “and you’re just another piece on the board.”

he stared at you, his expression a mixture of anger and something else, something you couldn’t quite place. there was a darkness in him, a darkness that mirrored your own, and for a moment, you almost felt something—a flicker of recognition, of understanding. but you quickly pushed it aside, reminding yourself of who you were, of what you were.

“i don’t want to be your pawn,” anton said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“then don’t be,” you replied, your tone dismissive. “no one’s forcing you to play.”

but you both knew that wasn’t true. he was trapped, ensnared in a web of his own making, and there was no escape. not now. not ever.

anton took another step closer, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that was almost suffocating. “what do you want from me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, as if the words had been dragged from the depths of his soul.

you looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment, you felt something stir within you, something you couldn’t quite identify. but then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating detachment that had always served you so well.

“i want to see how far you’ll go,” you said, your voice soft, almost seductive. “how much you’re willing to sacrifice for me.”

anton’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and anger flaring in equal measure. “and what if i’m not willing to give you what you want?” he asked, his voice challenging, daring you to push him further.

you smiled then, a smile that was all sharp edges and hidden dangers. “oh, anton,” you said, your tone dripping with condescension. “you will. you won’t be able to help yourself.”

there was a moment of silence, the tension between you so thick it was almost suffocating. and then, without warning, anton reached out, his hand gripping your wrist with a force that sent a shock of pain up your arm. his touch was cold, his fingers like iron bands that held you in place, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of fear, a fear that you hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“don’t underestimate me,” anton said, his voice low, dangerous. “i’m not like the others. i won’t break for you.”

you met his gaze, your eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, you saw the truth in his words. anton wasn’t like the others. he was stronger, more resilient, and that made him dangerous. but it also made the game more interesting, more challenging. and you had never been one to back down from a challenge.

“we’ll see,” you said, your voice steady, unyielding.

anton held your gaze for a moment longer, his grip on your wrist tightening before he finally let go. you watched him as he stepped back, his expression unreadable, the storm in his eyes raging just beneath the surface.

“this isn’t over,” he said, his voice low, filled with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“no,” you replied, your tone calm, composed. “it’s just beginning.”

with that, anton turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. you watched him go, a small smile playing on your lips, your mind already working, already planning your next move.

the game was far from over, and you had no intention of losing. anton was a challenge, a puzzle that you were determined to solve, no matter what it took. and if you had to break him in the process, then so be it.

after all, in the end, there could only be one winner.

as the days passed, you continued to play your game, each move calculated, each interaction designed to push anton further, to test the limits of his obsession. you gave him tasks, small at first—bring you a book from the library, fetch you a drink from the cafeteria—but each one was a test, a way to gauge just how far he was willing to go for you.

and he did them all, without question, without hesitation. it was almost too easy, the way he bent to your will, the way he followed your every command. but there was something about the way he did it, the way he looked at you with those dark, intense eyes, that told you he wasn’t doing it out of fear, or even out of a desire to please you. no, there was something else driving him, something deeper, something darker.

you began to push him harder, your requests growing more demanding, more invasive. you asked him to skip classes for you, to lie to his friends, to steal things from the other students. and still, he did it all, without a word of protest, without a single sign of reluctance.

it was thrilling, the power you held over him, the way you could make him do anything with nothing more than a smile, a glance, a whispered word. but there was also a danger in it, a danger that you were acutely aware of, but chose to ignore. because the truth was, you weren’t sure how far anton would go, and that uncertainty, that unpredictability, was what made the game so intoxicating.

one night, as the winter winds howled outside, you found yourself alone in your room, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. you were seated at your desk, a glass of wine in hand, when there was a knock at the door. you knew who it was before you even opened it.

anton stood in the doorway, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was something different about him, something you couldn’t quite place. his clothes were disheveled, his hair even more tousled than usual, and there was a wildness in his eyes that sent a thrill of fear, and excitement, coursing through you.

“come in,” you said, your voice steady, betraying none of the emotions swirling within you.

he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and for a moment, the two of you just stood there, staring at each other, the tension in the room thick and suffocating.

“what do you want?” you asked, your tone cool, detached.

anton didn’t answer immediately. instead, he took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours, his expression intense, almost desperate.

“i want you,” he said finally, his voice low, hoarse.

you felt your heart skip a beat, the admission catching you off guard. but you quickly recovered, your composure slipping back into place like a well-worn mask.

“you can’t have me,” you replied, your tone cold, unfeeling.

“i know,” anton said, his voice barely above a whisper. “but that doesn’t change anything.”

there was a moment of silence, the two of you standing so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to control his breathing.

“why?” you asked, your voice soft, almost curious.

anton’s eyes darkened, the storm in them raging just beneath the surface. “because you make me feel alive,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “because i can’t stop thinking about you, even when i know i should.”

you stared at him, your mind racing, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions swirling within you. you had always known that anton was different, that he would be a challenge, but you hadn’t anticipated this, hadn’t expected to be confronted with his raw, unfiltered need for you.

“you’re a fool,” you said finally, your voice sharp, cutting.

anton flinched at your words, but he didn’t back down. instead, he took another step closer, closing the distance between you until there was barely a breath of space between you.

“maybe,” he said, his voice steady, determined. “but i’m your fool.”

you felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, the sheer intensity of his devotion both exhilarating and terrifying. you had played this game a thousand times before, had manipulated countless others, but this—this was different. anton was different.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” you said, your voice low, warning.

anton’s lips curved into a small, bitter smile. “i know,” he said, his voice soft, resigned. “but i’m already too far gone to stop.”

and in that moment, you knew it was true. anton wasn’t like the others. he wasn’t just another pawn on your board, another plaything to be discarded when you grew bored. he was something else, something more. and that realization sent a thrill of fear, and excitement, coursing through you.

he hesitated, his jaw tightening as if he was struggling to find the right words. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted finally, his voice raw with emotion. “you’re all i think about.”

you reached out, placing a hand on his cheek, your touch gentle but possessive. “and what do you think about, anton?”

his breath hitched at your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment. “everything. your smile, your voice, the way you move. it’s driving me crazy.”

you leaned in closer, your lips just inches from his. “is that so?” you whispered, your breath warm against his skin.

he nodded, his eyes opening to meet yours. “yes. i can’t sleep, i can’t focus. all i want is to be near you, to make you happy.”

“then we’ll see how far you’re willing to go,” you said, your voice filled with a dangerous promise.

anton’s eyes locked onto yours, his gaze unwavering, and in that moment, you knew that whatever happened next, there was no going back.

the game was no longer just a game. it was something more, something darker, something that could destroy you both. and for the first time in a long time, you felt truly alive.

as the snow continued to fall outside, the two of you stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills, the fire in the hearth casting long shadows on the walls, the only sound the crackling of the flames and the faint whisper of the wind.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

in the weeks that followed, your manipulation of anton became a carefully orchestrated dance, a twisted ballet where you led with a graceful, calculated precision, and anton followed, oblivious to the strings you pulled. each interaction was a deliberate step in this dark routine, with you guiding him ever deeper into the labyrinth of your control.

your tasks soon grew more intricate, more demanding. you asked him to dig up obscure references for your essays, to track down rare books that could only be found in forgotten corners of the city, to bring you your favorite coffee from a shop miles away from campus. each request was a thread in the web you wove around him, tightening your hold with every act of service.

anton never hesitated. his devotion to you was absolute, a blind, consuming need that drove him to fulfill your every whim without question. it was as if your presence had become a drug, one he couldn’t live without, and the more he did for you, the deeper his addiction grew. you could see it in his eyes, in the way he looked at you, as if you were the center of his universe, the very air he breathed.

as the days passed, you began to notice the subtle changes in him, changes that you observed with a detached amusement. anton’s once healthy frame grew gaunt, his cheeks hollowing out as he lost weight, the sharp angles of his bones more pronounced beneath his pale skin. dark circles formed under his eyes, a testament to the nights spent sleepless, his mind too consumed by thoughts of you to find rest.

his friends grew concerned, their worried glances and whispered questions following him wherever he went. “are you okay, anton?” they would ask, but he brushed them off with a forced smile, his thoughts always returning to you.

the sharp mind that had once been the pride of his teachers, the envy of his peers, now seemed solely focused on you, on the endless tasks and challenges you set before him. his world had shrunk, until it revolved around you alone.

one crisp afternoon, as the late sun cast a warm, golden hue over the campus, you decided it was time to push anton further. the chill in the air was sharp, a reminder of the winter, but inside the academy’s library, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of old books and the quiet hum of whispered conversations.

you found anton where you expected him, hunched over a thick volume of korean history, his eyes scanning the pages with a fervor that betrayed his exhaustion.

as you approached, he looked up, his gaze lighting up with that familiar, fervent intensity that had become so familiar to you. it was a look that both thrilled and repelled you, a reflection of the power you wielded over him.

“anton,” you said, your voice soft and sweet, a siren’s call that masked the sharpness of your intentions. “i need your help with something.”

he stood immediately, closing the book with a soft thud and giving you his full, undivided attention. “anything,” he said, his voice thick with longing, his eyes searching yours for any sign of approval.

you smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “there’s a fundraiser next week, and i need a partner for the opening dance. will you be my partner?”

his eyes widened in shock and elation, the emotions playing across his features like a silent movie. “of course,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “i’d be honored.”

“good,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction, enough to make his heart race. “meet me in the ballroom tonight at eight. we need to practice.”

that evening, the academy’s ballroom was a cathedral of opulence and grandeur. chandeliers hung from the high ceiling like glittering constellations, their crystal drops refracting light into a thousand tiny rainbows that danced across the polished marble floor. the scent of fresh flowers filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of waxed wood, a testament to the academy’s commitment to luxury and tradition.

you arrived at eight sharp, your entrance a vision of calculated perfection. anton was already there, of course, nervously adjusting his tie as he waited for you. his breath caught as you stepped into the room, the soft rustle of your gown the only sound in the vast, echoing space.

you had chosen a gown of deep crimson, a shade that matched the dark currents of the game you played, the color of blood and desire. it flowed around you like liquid silk, the fabric clinging to your form before cascading to the floor in a pool of rich, dark red. your hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, a few loose tendrils framing your face, and a simple diamond necklace adorned your neck, glittering against your porcelain skin like a single drop of ice.

“you’re early,” you said, your tone light and teasing, as if you hadn’t planned every detail of this encounter down to the second.

“i didn’t want to keep you waiting,” anton replied, his voice filled with a mix of awe and devotion that made your smile widen.

you crossed the room with a deliberate grace, each step measured, each movement designed to captivate. “shall we begin?” you asked, extending your hand to him, your fingers pale against the deep crimson of your gown.

he took your hand, his grip firm yet trembling slightly, the subtle tremor sending a shiver of satisfaction through you. you led him into the dance, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, a testament to the control you exerted over him. anton followed your lead with an intensity that bordered on reverence, his eyes never leaving yours, his focus entirely on you, as if the world beyond your shared steps had ceased to exist.

as the music swelled, you leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “you’re doing well, anton,” you murmured, your voice a soft, seductive purr. “but you need to loosen up. let go of your fears.”

he nodded, his jaw clenching with determination, the tension in his body palpable beneath your touch. you could feel the rigid control he tried to maintain, the desperate need to please you, to be perfect for you. but you wanted more. you wanted to push him further, to see just how far he would go to prove his devotion.

“anton,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper, a breath of wind in the stillness of the ballroom. “do you trust me?”

his eyes widened, and for a brief moment, you saw a flicker of uncertainty, a tiny crack in the facade of his devotion. but then he nodded, his expression resolute, his voice unwavering. “yes,” he said, the word carrying the weight of a promise, a vow.

“good,” you replied, your lips curving into a smile, a smile that was both a reward and a warning. “then close your eyes and follow my lead.”

he hesitated for the briefest of moments before obeying, his eyes fluttering shut, his trust in you absolute. with his eyes closed, anton’s other senses seemed to heighten, his body attuning to yours with an intensity that bordered on desperation. you could feel his breath quicken, the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand, his heartbeat pounding in his chest like the rhythm of the music, a rhythm that echoed the pulse of your own power over him.

you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear, your voice a soft caress, a velvet glove over a steel blade. “you’re mine, anton,” you whispered, the words wrapping around him like a chain. “you’ll do anything for me, won’t you?”

his breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that spoke of both fear and longing, and he nodded, his voice a ragged whisper, his will crumbling under the weight of your command. “yes.”

“good,” you murmured, a thrill of satisfaction coursing through you, a dark current that matched the crimson of your gown. “because i have another task for you.”

he opened his eyes then, his gaze locking onto yours with a desperation that was almost tangible, a need that radiated from him like heat. “anything,” he said, his voice filled with a desperate longing, a need to prove himself worthy of your attention.

you smiled, a slow, predatory smile, the smile of a hunter who knows the prey is already ensnared. “i need you to find out everything you can about professor kim. i have reason to believe he’s hiding something, and i need to know what it is.”

anton’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them, a shadow of the man he was becoming under your influence. “i’ll find out,” he said, his voice firm, the resolve in his tone a reflection of the control you had over him.

you leaned back slightly, your smile widening, your satisfaction evident in the way your eyes glinted in the soft light of the chandeliers. “i knew i could count on you, anton,” you said, your voice a soft purr, a reward for his obedience.

as the music came to an end, you stepped back, breaking the connection between you, your movements fluid, graceful, a dancer stepping away from a completed performance. anton stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and devotion, his mind consumed with thoughts of you.

“same time tomorrow?” you asked, your tone casual, as if you hadn’t just tightened the chains of his obsession, as if this were just another dance, another game.

he nodded, his gaze never leaving yours, his heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. “yes,” he replied, his voice steady, but you could hear the undercurrent of desperation, the need to please you, to be everything you wanted him to be.

you turned and walked away, your steps light and graceful, each movement a calculated display of control and power. behind you, anton remained standing in the middle of the ballroom, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind consumed with thoughts of you, with the task you had given him. 

the game was progressing perfectly, each move bringing you closer to your goal, and you reveled in the power you held over him, in the knowledge that anton was yours, body and soul, and that you had no intention of letting him go.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the power dynamics between you and anton had shifted to an almost surreal degree. what began as a subtle manipulation had evolved into a full-blown psychological entanglement, a dangerous dance where you were the undisputed maestro, and anton, the eager but unwitting puppet. 

each interaction was a calculated move, each touch a deliberate action to tighten the threads of control around him. you reveled in the power you held, the way you could bend him to your will with nothing more than a smile or a whispered command.

the academy’s sprawling grounds, with its grandiose architecture and serene gardens, became the stage for your most intricate schemes. the cherry blossoms in the garden, once a symbol of delicate beauty, now seemed to echo the treacherous nature of your relationship with anton. their petals floated down like fragments of innocence lost, each one a testament to the corruption blossoming between you.

one afternoon, you sat on a stone bench beneath a weeping willow. its branches hung low, creating a curtain of green that shielded you from the prying eyes of others. anton approached with the usual mix of eagerness and trepidation, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that bordered on worshipful.

“anton,” you called softly, your voice a caress against the backdrop of the rustling leaves. “i need you to handle something for me.”

“of course,” he replied, his voice a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. he was so eager to please, so desperate for your approval, that it was almost painful to watch.

you leaned in slightly, letting the air between you become charged with unspoken expectations. “there’s a student, su-jin. she’s been trying to undermine me in class, and i need you to… persuade her to stop.”

anton’s face darkened at the mention of su-jin. you could see the conflict within him, but it was quickly overshadowed by his desire to comply with your wishes. “what should I do?”

you allowed a slow, satisfied smile to creep across your lips. “find out what she’s planning, and if necessary, convince her to leave me alone. use whatever means you deem necessary.”

his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and determination. “you can count on me.”

as anton walked away, you could see the way his shoulders stiffened with resolve. it was a dangerous game you were playing, but the thrill of exerting such power over him, of watching him bend to your will, was intoxicating. you knew that anton’s obsession with you would lead him down a darker path, but you were content to watch the descent with a detached fascination.

anton’s mental state began to deteriorate as his obsession grew. he became increasingly paranoid, his thoughts consumed by the idea that no one else deserved your attention. his once bright eyes took on a haunted look, and his usually calm demeanor was replaced by a nervous restlessness. he started to isolate himself from friends, pushing them away with brusque words and averted gazes. his world had narrowed to a singular focus— you.

one evening, as the sky turned a deep shade of indigo and the stars began to prick the velvet darkness, you were walking through the gardens again. anton followed a few paces behind, his gaze fixed on you like a shadow that never wavered. he had been quiet for days, his once vibrant conversations now reduced to terse, monosyllabic responses.

“anton,” you said, turning to face him as you paused near a fountain where the water gurgled softly, creating a soothing, rhythmic sound. “you’ve been so quiet lately. is everything alright?”

he looked up, his eyes flickering with a mixture of anxiety and something darker— a possessive intensity that you noted with a hint of amusement. “everything’s fine,” he said, though his voice trembled slightly. “i’ve just been… focused.”

you could feel the shift in his demeanor, a subtle but unmistakable tension in the air. “focused on what?”

he hesitated, his gaze drifting to the ground before meeting your eyes again. “on making sure that no one else gets in the way of what we have.”

you raised an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. “and what is it that we have, anton?”

he swallowed hard, his throat working as if the words were difficult to form. “i… i want to make sure you’re safe. that no one can harm you or distract you from… us.”

a shiver ran down your spine at the way he said “us,” the possessive undertone clear. you took a step closer, your eyes narrowing as you assessed his state of mind.

 “anton, you know i appreciate your loyalty. but remember, you’re here to support me, not to control the people around me.”

he nodded, but the look in his eyes betrayed a different reality. the shadow of his darker side was beginning to surface more frequently. it was in the way he would flinch if he saw you talking to another student, the way his hands would clench into fists when you mentioned someone else’s name.

like when you conversed with a fellow student, your laughter ringing out in the courtyard, you caught anton’s gaze from across the lawn. his face was a mask of barely restrained fury, his eyes dark and stormy. the sight sent a thrill of dark satisfaction through you. you knew that you were pushing him to the brink, but the control you had over him was intoxicating.

afterward, as you walked through the campus, you found anton waiting for you by a secluded alcove. his expression was a volatile mix of anger and desperation. 

“why were you talking to him?” he demanded, his voice low and harsh.

you stopped, turning to face him with a calm composure. “anton, it’s just a conversation. you have nothing to worry about.”

“nothing to worry about?” he spat, his eyes blazing. “i saw the way he looked at you. you were laughing with him, enjoying his attention. what about me?”

you took a deep breath, the thrill of his jealousy and anger washing over you like a wave. “anton, you need to calm down. you’re becoming irrational.”

“irrational?” he echoed, his voice trembling with a barely contained fury. “i’m trying to protect you! you don’t understand—”

“understand what?” you interrupted, stepping closer and placing a hand on his cheek. the touch was intended to soothe, but you could feel the tension beneath his skin. “anton, you’re losing control. you need to trust me.”

he flinched at your touch, a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over him. his eyes were wild, and for a moment, you could see the extent of his obsession, the way it had twisted into something darker. 

“i don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “i can’t lose you.”

you drew back slightly, the thrill of his turmoil invigorating you. “anton, you’re not losing me. but you need to focus on what’s important.”

his eyes searched yours, desperation evident in every line of his face. “i’ll do anything,” he said, his voice cracking. “just tell me what to do.”

you smiled, a smile that was both reassuring and chilling. “just remember, anton, your loyalty is what matters most. don’t let your feelings get in the way.”

this only spurred anton’s behavior to become increasingly erratic. he would often have vivid fantasies about you, his mind concocting elaborate scenarios where you were entirely his and no one else could share in your attention. these fantasies grew darker and more obsessive, painting a picture of a world where you were trapped in his own twisted vision of devotion.

one night, as the moon cast a silver sheen across the academy grounds, anton sat alone in his dorm room, his thoughts racing. the walls seemed to close in around him, and the quiet of the night was punctuated only by the sound of his own uneven breathing. he had been unable to sleep, his mind a chaotic swirl of images and emotions.

he imagined you, alone and vulnerable, with him as your sole protector. in his fantasies, you were completely dependent on him, your every move dictated by his will. the images were vivid, almost tangible— you sitting by his side, your hand in his, your eyes locked with his as he whispered promises of eternal devotion. 

but these fantasies quickly twisted into darker visions, where he had to fight off other suitors with a ferocity that bordered on violence. in these dreams, he was ruthless, striking out with an intensity that mirrored the storm within him.

when he awoke, drenched in sweat, he could still feel the echoes of his dark fantasies, the haunting intensity of his own thoughts. he stared at the ceiling, his mind struggling to separate fantasy from reality. his heart pounded, the line between his desire and his actions becoming increasingly blurred.

the next day, when you encountered anton, his demeanor was a mask of calmness, but the turmoil beneath was palpable. he tried to hide his paranoia, but the tension in his posture and the shadow in his eyes spoke volumes. he watched you with a possessive gaze, his actions more calculated, his interactions with others strained.

“anton,” you said one afternoon as you found him standing near the fountain, his gaze following you intently. “is everything alright?”

he forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “everything’s fine,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “just… making sure everything is as it should be.”

you studied him, noting the way his eyes darted toward other students, the way his hands clenched into fists. you could feel the control you wielded over him, the way his obsession had morphed into something more dangerous. the thrill of manipulating him, of pushing him to the edge, was a dark pleasure you savored.

“anton,” you said, stepping closer and lowering your voice. “i need you to trust me. I don’t want to see you like this. It’s not healthy.”

his eyes met yours, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his facade. “i just… want to protect you,” he said, his voice a mixture of anguish and resolve.

you reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “i know, and I appreciate it. but it’s creeping me out so i need you to stop, okay?”

he nodded, but the shadows in his eyes betrayed the internal struggle he faced. you knew that his descent into obsession was far from over, and as you watched him walk away, you could almost feel the weight of his darkness pressing down on him.

the games you played were dangerous and morally ambiguous, but they had become a twisted form of entertainment for you. you had pushed anton to the brink, watching with a mix of thrill and detachment as he spiraled into obsession. the power you held over him was intoxicating, and though you knew the consequences of your actions, the pleasure of manipulation was too alluring to resist.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the days continued to grow colder, the winter tightening its grip on seonghwa academy, transforming the once-golden landscape into a monochrome world of gray skies and snow-blanketed grounds. the chill seeped into the very bones of the school, into the ancient stone walls and the hearts of those within them, as if the academy itself were a living, breathing entity, feeding off the darkness that now hung heavy in the air.

you had been watching anton closely, more closely than ever, though you would never let him know it. there was a darkness in him that intrigued you, a shadow that had grown deeper, more pronounced since that night in your room. it was as if something had awakened in him, something raw and primal, and you could feel its presence lurking just beneath the surface of his carefully composed facade.

it had been a twisted tapestry of obsession, each thread woven with a careful hand, yet fraying at the edges with the weight of something darker. anton’s once-gentle demeanor, that quiet reserve you had once found so easy to manipulate, had slowly unraveled, revealing a shadowy core of obsession and fixation. what began as harmless devotion had curdled into something far more dangerous, an all-consuming fervor that twisted his thoughts and actions until they no longer resembled the man you had first ensnared.

the signs had always been there, lurking beneath the surface like cracks in a fragile facade. at first, they were subtle—a lingering gaze that held too much intensity, an eagerness to please that bordered on desperation. his words, once soft and measured, began to carry an undercurrent of something sharper, a hint of possessiveness that set your instincts on edge. but these were easy to dismiss, easy to overlook in the grander scheme of your game.

yet, as the days turned into weeks, those cracks deepened, splitting wide to reveal the depths of his obsession. his once kind eyes now burned with a fervor that was both unsettling and relentless, like a predator stalking its prey. the change in him was gradual, a slow, insidious transformation that you hadn’t anticipated, until one day you realized that the man before you was no longer the same anton you had once so effortlessly controlled.

what had begun as a game of manipulation had now spiraled into something far more dangerous. you had been playing with fire, testing the limits of his devotion, pushing him further and further, and now, those flames were ready to consume everything in their path. the air around him seemed charged, like the tense silence before a storm, the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. you could sense the shift in him, the way his presence felt heavier, more oppressive, as if the weight of his obsession had grown too large to contain.

but you didn’t question it. you didn’t need to. after all, whatever was driving anton, whatever darkness had taken root in his soul, it only served to deepen your control over him. and that was all that mattered.

it was a chilly evening, and the academy’s grand library, usually a sanctuary of quiet knowledge, felt different tonight. the air was thick with an unsettling tension. the shadows cast by the flickering lights danced ominously on the rows of ancient, leather-bound books. you had been here often, as much to avoid the prying eyes of others as to indulge in the hidden recesses of knowledge. tonight, however, your curiosity had led you down a path of discovery you hadn’t anticipated.

you were seated in a leather armchair near the back of the library, a book in hand, though your mind was far from the words on the page. instead, your thoughts were occupied by anton, by the strange, twisted game you had been playing with him, and by the gnawing curiosity that had begun to take hold of you.

it was then that you heard the door to the library creak open, the sound pulling you from your thoughts. you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. you could feel his presence, as you always could, a dark cloud that seemed to hang over him, shadowing his every step.

anton moved through the library with the same quiet grace that had always characterized him, but there was something different about him now, something that set your nerves on edge. you watched from the corner of your eye as he made his way toward the back of the library, his gaze fixed on something you couldn’t see.

as he drew closer, you noticed that his clothes were disheveled, more so than usual, his hair unkempt, the dark strands falling into his eyes in a way that only added to the air of disarray that clung to him. there was something in his eyes, too, something wild and untamed, a flicker of madness that sent a chill down your spine.

he stopped a few feet away from you, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that was almost suffocating. you met his stare, your expression carefully composed, though you could feel the unease building in the pit of your stomach.

“anton,” you said, your voice calm, measured. “what are you doing here?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he stood there, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths, as if he were trying to keep himself under control. when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was an edge to it that made your skin prickle.

“i did something for you,” he said, his words clipped, precise.

you raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued despite the unease that was now thrumming through your veins. “oh?” you said, your tone light, almost teasing. “and what might that be?”

anton’s eyes darkened, the storm in them growing more intense, more dangerous. he took a step closer, his hand reaching into his coat pocket, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of fear, a fear that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

but then he pulled out a small, silver object, holding it out to you with a trembling hand. you looked at it, your heart skipping a beat as you realized what it was.

a locket. a delicate, ornate locket that you recognized immediately, because you had seen it around the neck of one of the students, a girl who had been the object of anton’s silent, simmering jealousy for weeks. she had been one of your pawns, someone you had used to stoke the fires of anton’s obsession, to push him further, to test the limits of his devotion to you.

and now, here it was, in his hand, the chain broken, the locket itself smeared with something dark, something that made your breath catch in your throat.

“anton,” you said slowly, carefully, as if speaking to a wild animal. “what did you do?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he looked down at the locket, his expression unreadable, before finally lifting his gaze to meet yours.

“i did it for you,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “she was in the way. she was trying to take you from me.”

your heart began to pound in your chest, a cold, creeping dread settling over you. “what did you do, anton?” you repeated, your voice sharper now, more insistent.

anton’s eyes flashed with something dark, something twisted, and he took another step closer, the locket still dangling from his fingers like a macabre trophy.

“i made sure she couldn’t take you from me,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “i made sure she would never come between us again.”

the realization hit you like a physical blow, the air leaving your lungs in a rush as the full extent of what anton had done sank in. the locket, the dark smears—blood, it was blood. he had killed her, that girl, that innocent pawn in your game, all because of his twisted, obsessive love for you.

you stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process the enormity of what had just happened. and yet, even as the horror of it all settled over you, you couldn’t help but feel a strange, twisted thrill of excitement, of power.

anton had killed for you. he had crossed a line, had stepped into the darkness, all in your name. and in that moment, you realized just how deeply you had ensnared him, how completely he had fallen under your spell.

but there was also a danger in it, a danger that you couldn’t ignore. anton was no longer just a pawn in your game. he was something else, something more dangerous, more unpredictable. and you knew that you would have to tread carefully if you were to maintain your control over him.

“anton,” you said, your voice low, soothing, as if you were trying to calm a wild animal. “you shouldn’t have done that.”

he blinked, his expression faltering for a moment, as if he were struggling to understand your words. “but i did it for you,” he repeated, his voice desperate, pleading. “i did it because i love you.”

you felt a cold, bitter laugh bubble up in your throat, but you forced it down, knowing that now was not the time for mockery. anton was on the edge, teetering on the brink of something dark and terrible, and you needed to pull him back, to regain control before it was too late.

“love?” you said, your voice soft, almost mocking. “you think this is love, anton? what you’ve done, what you’ve become—this isn’t love. it’s madness.”

his eyes widened, a flicker of pain flashing across his face, but it was quickly replaced by something darker, something more dangerous.

“no,” he said, his voice low, trembling with emotion. “no, you’re wrong. you don’t understand. everything i’ve done, i’ve done for you. because i can’t live without you. because i need you.”

you stared at him, your mind racing, trying to find the right words, the right approach to keep him from slipping further into the darkness. but even as you searched for a way to regain control, you could feel the situation spiraling out of your grasp, slipping through your fingers like sand.

“anton,” you said, your voice sharp, cutting through the thick tension in the air. “listen to me. you’ve gone too far. you’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back. what you’ve done… it’s unforgivable.”

for a moment, he simply stared at you, his expression blank, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what you were saying. but then, slowly, something shifted in his eyes, something dark and twisted, something that made your blood run cold.

“unforgivable?” he echoed, his voice low, almost a whisper. “but i did it for you. i did it because i love you. how can that be unforgivable?”

you shook your head, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure. “love isn’t supposed to be like this, anton. it’s not supposed to be… destructive.”

his expression twisted into something ugly, something full of pain and anger. “you’re wrong,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “you’re wrong. love is everything. it’s all that matters. and i would do anything—anything—to keep you. to make you mine.”

there was a desperation in his voice, a wildness that sent a shiver down your spine. you had pushed him too far, had played your game too well, and now you were faced with the consequences of your own actions.

but even as the fear gripped you, there was a part of you, a dark, twisted part, that couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement, a perverse satisfaction in knowing just how deeply you had ensnared him, how completely you had broken him.

“anton,” you said, your voice low, almost a whisper. “this has to stop. you have to let me go.”

his eyes flashed with something dark, something dangerous, and he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to grasp your arm with a grip that was almost painful.

“no,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “i can’t. i won’t. you’re mine. you belong to me.”

you felt a cold, creeping dread settle over you, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. anton wasn’t going to let you go. he was too far gone, too consumed by his obsession to see reason. and there was no telling what he might do, what lengths he might go to, to keep you.

“anton,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts to remain calm. “you need to let me go. this isn’t healthy. it’s not right.”

his grip on your arm tightened, his eyes blazing with a wild, desperate intensity. “i don’t care,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “i don’t care if it’s not right. i don’t care if it’s not healthy. i need you. and i won’t let you go. not ever.”

the words hung in the air like a dark, ominous cloud, the finality of them sending a shiver down your spine. you had always known that anton was different, that he was dangerous, but now, faced with the full extent of his madness, you realized just how precarious your situation had become.

you were trapped, ensnared in the very web you had so carefully woven, and there was no way out. anton’s obsession had consumed him, had driven him to the edge of sanity, and now, there was no telling what he might do, what lengths he might go to, to keep you.

“anton,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “please. let me go.”

but he only shook his head, his grip on your arm tightening, his eyes wild and desperate. “no,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “i can’t. i won’t. you’re mine. and i’ll do whatever it takes to keep you. whatever it takes.”

the words sent a chill down your spine, the cold, creeping dread settling over you like a heavy blanket. anton had crossed a line, had stepped into the darkness, and there was no going back. the game was over, and you had lost.

and in that moment, you realized just how dangerous obsession could be, just how easily it could consume and destroy. anton had been your pawn, your plaything, but now, he was something else, something darker, something that could destroy you both.

and there was no escape.

“anton,” you said, your voice trembling, your heart pounding in your chest. “this isn’t love. it’s madness.”

but he only smiled, a twisted, broken smile that sent a shiver down your spine, his grip on your arm like a vice, unrelenting and unforgiving.

“maybe,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “but it’s our madness.”

and in that moment, you knew that there was no going back, no escape from the darkness that had consumed you both. anton had become something else, something more dangerous, more terrifying, and there was no telling what he might do, what lengths he might go to, to keep you.

the snow continued to fall outside, the world outside the library quiet and still, as if holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break. and in the silence, you could hear the faint whisper of the wind, the crackling of the fire, and the pounding of your own heart, as you stood there, trapped in the darkness, with no way out.

and as the night closed in around you, you knew that this was only the beginning, the first step into a world of darkness and madness from which there would be no return. anton’s obsession had consumed him, and now, it would consume you both, dragging you down into the depths of despair, with no hope of escape.

and as you looked into anton’s eyes, those wild, desperate eyes that had once been so full of life, so full of promise, you knew that you had lost, that you had played your game too well, and now, you were paying the price.

the darkness had won.

[kurokawaia]

❛ Princess ❜

GoldenAge!Griffith X fem!princess!Reader

| YANDERE THEMES | SFW |

WC; 1.3k + | !MDNI! | TW/CW; reader is implied to be charlottes sister!! use of '{Y/n}', yandere themes, just griffith choosing his next victim, dark content, possessive behaviour

i spent a lot of time writing this and making sure everything i wrote was perfect, i hope you all enjoy😣 - honey

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"Commander Griffith," your father meted the acknowledgment, and Griffith stepped in front of the King, Queen, and the two princesses, bowing in respect, his cascading white hair lying over his shining silver armor.

"Princess {Y/n}," your father called out in command, gesturing for you to proceed forward.

You step forward with elegance as the waves in your waves of elegance in your navy dress continued to spread behind you. You step with exactness, moved with exactness—in exactness, in every motion that had been rehearsed over and over before attaining the said standing you were in. The eyes of court watched observantly.

The moment you arrived at Griffith, you extended your hand with fingers so graceful and poised. He took it gently. His armor was cold against your skin. His lips were elusive as a soft kiss and lingered a second too long; the kiss hung at the edges of the proper and correct.

He was flexing power in such a subtle way—it was subtle, but he knew.

There was something kind in the manner and, at the same time, some veneer into which intention had been collected.

A shiver ran down your spine as his ice-blue gaze caught yours, his eyes raising from his bow. Something predatory glistened in his eyes, something that made one wonder or a key piece of a game that only he knows if one was nothing more than a pawn in his grand design.

"It is truly an honor to finally meet you, Princess," came that smooth, well-oiled voice of Griffith's. The crowd murmured in approval; all sounds echoed through the cavernous cathedral.

Yet, somewhere beneath the polite exchanges, a person could sense something more going on here: the veiled calculations, the faint flickers of ambition that had put Griffith in this position of power.

His gaze never left yours as he dropped your hand. He was watching you, looking through you, perhaps, for the best way to bend you to his whim.

You belonged to him, whether you understood that you were a pawn, queen, or maybe something between.

It was a sea of faces, the whole of the cathedral at that moment respectfully concentrating over the play unfolded in front of their eyes. Nobles, ecleastics, distinguished guests filled the pews, eyes glued to the action being played out between Griffith and yourself. The tension in the room was tangible; together, they breathed as if they awaited the next moment.

There is something commanding in Griffith's presence, captivating in his aura, but unconsciously repellent. Consciously, even the way he was holding your hand was soft, and his kiss, in which almost imperceptible pressure was put, was calculated.

You could feel the pulse of that moment, the silent exchange between the two of you speaking volumes more than the mere touch could have done. It was as though he had claimed you, staked his territory—marking you as his before the whole court.

Your father stood immovable behind you, his face stoic, although you knew the tiny glint in his eyes betrayed a hint of his concern. Generations had passed with the royal family playing this game of power and politics, but Griffith was a new breed; he was silky, composed, with a burning will like the colored rays cast off the stained glass across his armor.

Griffith eventually released your hand but he did not break the eye contact. There was something in the way he looked at you, something that seemed as though, if he needed to, he could see through all of the falseness and look way past it.

There was something uncanny in this silence, something perhaps even rather fascinating in another way, something that simply could not fail to grip the attention. Breath was heard murmuring from all the corners when whispers spotted around in the crowd: Where the discussions carried would be so imperative in the history books for the fate of the kingdom?.

"For me, to serve Midland and its royal family is an honor," Griffith spoke, and there was just a subtle current of authority in his voice. His gazes never left yours, and you realized this wasn't just a formal introduction.

This was more.

A relationship that would all be about his control and your compliance.

Something dark glinted beneath those warm eyes of Griffith. It wasn't the supple quality in his voice, or even the grace in his movement; it was the way his eyes locked onto yours, as though no one else in that room counted.

You were regarded, Princess, as if he'd your life already mapped out: each decision you'd make.

And that, somehow, no matter what, you belonged to him.

During dinner, his eyes never left you for long. He listened to everyone else, chuckled at their stories, contributed some bromide to some noble's question, but you knew his attention was on you.

You rose from the head table; his eyes followed you, following every step you made.

You could feel the weight of it, a possessive intensity making you hyperaware of his presence.

You would see, as others tried to draw you into a conversation, his expression never waivered—just a polite smile—but that little tightness in the jaw, that cold flash in the eyes. You could see him staring as if to say, 'Back off'—with the eyes.

Featuring the eventual success of placing yourself in one of the quieter corners, far enough from the hustle, Griffith was now standing at your side, seemingly as if he emerged from the shadows. His steps soundless, his calves dragging his tensiled body closer and closer to you, so close that he might have been radiating heat.

"Princess. Princess {Y/n}," he began, his voice a bare hiss overlaid with tension. "I've been waiting for this moment."

He was so near it was unnerving; there he stood, quite imposing. It's as if he were ever growing near to your personal space, one and two feet at a time, awaiting you to crack. He had a twinkle in his eye, almost as if he were sick with pleasure.

"Great Lord Griffith," you replied, trying to hold your bearings, "I never knew you to be so interested in the lines of succession for the royal family."

Griffith's smile slowly grew slightly predatory. "The royal family is dear to my heart," he said, though his look stayed upon you. "And you, Princess, are perhaps the most interesting of them all. Your beauty, your grace, it is as if it was a destiny made for greatness; I could not conceive of this land without you being lined up in some succession for the throne."

His words were full of praise, as if he spoke with a possessor's lilt, but not like he was talking of you, but to you, and ever watching your eyes, and you were cold in that warm hall. Not that he was interested in you; by the way he spoke, you belonged to him already, as if he had a right to determine your future as his property.

Griffith touched his fingers to your wrist—just an elusive touch, and yet it sends shivers down your spine, not out of pure love but out of a silent claim, as if he were thinking of you as something to be owned or to be mastered in existence.

"We could do so much together," he murmured as his voice lowered, becoming intimate. "Just think of the power, the influence. Together, there is nothing we could not do. You're mine, Princess, and you know you're mine too, right?"

His words were a trap, expertly laid to draw you in, to make you feel that you had no choice but to agree with him. The possessiveness in his gaze, the way it seemed to lock out the rest of the world—well, that was all according to his masterful maneuvering.

You stood there, very aware of the weight of his presence. You realized Griffith was not just some leader; he was nature itself, something unbreakable by his will for something and with the intent of taking it.

Do not steal, copy, modify, etc Reblogs and likes are appreciated

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[gloryofroses19]

The Force of a Curl

Major John ‘Bucky’ Egan was hungover, wet and missing a shoe. Hungover because those boys in the 389th challenged him to a drinking contest, wet because his mother stopped pestering him to take umbrellas when he was twelve years old and missing a shoe because of that damned English mud. 

If the boys could see him now, Bucky thought, shaking his head. He could practically hear Curt and Buck’s laugh all the way from the US. 

Sighing loudly as the storm increased, the pilot moved to pick up his shoe. But as his fingers brushed the shoe, the Major was shocked to find that the rain had stopped. No, not stopped he amended noticing the umbrella extended above his head.

“Are you alright, Major?” Asked a feminine voice conveying a mixture of concern and thinly veiled amusement. 

While he had only been at Thorpe Abbots for two days, John Egan recognized the woman before him. Lieutenant [last name] was a notable figure to many. To most on the base, she was the pretty faced WAC lieutenant included in the upper brass briefings. To Bucky Egan, she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Though their interactions had been limited to a short introduction and shared proximity during meetings, he already knew she was beautiful, smart, calm and confident. Even when facing the asinine questioning of Colonel Huglin. However, this interaction was offering something entirely new… 

Standing to his full height, John ran a hand through his hair. Whether it was because of the rain or self consciousness of being caught in this position by her was something he’d never tell.

“Oh, I’m doing great, Lieutenant. Just enjoying the feeling of the ground.” Shooting her a confident smile despite his sorry state.

“Just with one foot?” Raising an eyebrow, [y/n] struggled to keep the laugh from escaping. “Guess you pilots really do forget what it’s like to be on solid ground. Bit of advice then, try to avoid the puddles. They’re deeper than they seem.”  [y/n] teased as the Major moved to rescue his shoe from the mud. 

“Oh, why didn’t I think of that?” He responded airly feeling his grasp on the situation slip. With no teasing retort brewing on his mind, the pilot was left feeling mollified by the teasing glint in her gaze. 

Raising the umbrella to adjust for the height difference, [y/n] watched transfixed as a stray curl fell in front of his eye. He really was a handsome sight to behold [y/n] mused as his hand brushed hers to take the umbrella from her grasp. 

If anyone were to pass by them, the pair offered the illusion of intimacy and familiarity through their shared laughter and proximity. However, an illusion was just an illusion unless perceptions were altered. 

“You been here long?” Like in any small town, she had heard of the new Major before she met. His singing alone had reached her ears before she entered the pub two nights prior. Though his voice was loud and brash when singing, the deep Midwestern baritone during conversation was far more pleasing. “I hope you’ve fared better with the mud than I have, Lieutenant ''. 

“5 months and yes I have,” [y/n] began before pausing to giggle at a memory, “but two weeks in being here I…”  Looking up into those inquisitive cerulean eyes, [y/n] stopped herself from continuing. Clearing her throat, she reminded herself that he wasn’t just any handsome man, he was a Major. And therefore, it was probably best to not inform her superior of some slight trouble that happened to find her. “Nevermind, sir”. 

Noticing the tone of professionalism that blended into her dulcet tones, John frowned. He had heard this tone before, it was how she responded to him when he introduced himself and when she spoke during the Brass meetings. 

“No, don't give me sir, I don’t want sir. I’m soaked and missing a shoe, rank’s off. Call me Bucky or I’ll even take John.” He liked this version more, because there’s nothing he loved more than someone he could laugh with. Even if it was at his own expense as Bucky Egan wasn’t a man who took himself too seriously. 

“Come on, can’t leave me hanging like that. You’ve seen me at my lowest, it’s only fair that you share as well.” He countered, his determination to get her to smile at him again unwavering. To further emphasize his point, he wiggled his sock clad foot hoping to get another laugh. 

She could see why many were transfixed by the new Major on the base, he carried himself with a genial ease that was both disarming and charming. 

Deciding she might as well dig her own grave, she relented with a sigh. “Two weeks in I got locked in the enlisted men’s mess hall on an unnecessary errand for Colonel Huglin.”

Eyes crinkling in delight, John took in her deadpan delivery that was obviously a pass fake to her underlying embarrassment. “How’d you get out?” John asked in response, knowing it would be a worthwhile story. 

“As the metaphor goes, when one door closes another one opens. Namely a window in the back of the kitchen.” She remarked casually as if any rational person’s first idea would be to climb through a window. 

Laughing in warm boisterous bursts, Bucky’s gaze was unwavering and full of affection and intrigue. 

The implication of his gaze was enough to make any girl flustered, [y/n] included. Deciding to busy herself with pointing in the opposite direction, she hoped to quell the butterflies. “Can I walk you somewhere, Major?” 

“How chivalrous of you.” He responded softly, with a matching grin. Watching the rain drops land on her otherwise pristine uniform, he stepped forward. Leaning closer, he was captivated by the teasing curl of her lips. 

“Well if being one shoe down and soaked doesn’t make you a damsel in distress then I’m not sure what else would.” 

With the way she was smiling at him, he wouldn’t mind being saved by her again, John thought. “Well you got me there. Walk me to my billet kind knight?”

Up until this point in the war, her mindset had firmly been 'loose lips sink ships’. No unnecessary comments or connections or else her heart would be broken. However, watching that damn curl fall across his face, [y/n] knew she had lost this battle. And if she was so easily defeated by Major John Egan then she feared for the poor unsuspecting Germans. 

“Lead the way, Fly Boy.”

[edges-of-night]

Hi! I'm sure everyone tells you this, but I absolutely love your writing. Seeing your new posts always brightens my day :) It's a silly request, but could I ask for the elves reacting to a reader who's a Starfleet officer/from the Star Trek universe? TYSM and sorry if this isn't what you usually do

Thank you for your kind words, anon! It always brightens my day to hear that this blog brings people joy ♡

As for your request: People who’ve seen my main blog will know I’m a Trekkie, so I couldn’t let this classic fandom crossover slide haha! I’ve turned Reader into a Vulcan working as a Starfleet officer who ends up in Middle-Earth by accident (damned transporter interference…)

Enjoy the read and – of course – live long and prosper!

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Arwen is probably one of the best inhabitants of Middle-Earth to run into if you’re stranded in an unknown place. Whether you get beamed into Rivendell or to the riverbends of the Bruinen, the Elven lady is quick on her feet and recognises you as someone in need of help – especially when others speak of you with great suspicion. “Do not listen to their words. They have no meaning where my heart is concerned.”

Arwen is kind and curious, making it increasingly hard for you to follow the Prime Directive. She must not know about your starship, but of course it is senseless to try and hide your worries from her attentive gaze. Though she might not know of your dilemma exactly, she promises to help you find your way back home and always wants to make sure you’re comfortable in this strange world, being openly affectionate and sometimes even touchy with you – until she sensed that holding hands meant a bit more to you than an Elf… ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

The Lord of Rivendell, Elrond, works almost as logically as a Vulcan, which impresses you. He is a master of knowledge and a lore expert with a vast collection of literature at his disposal. I like the idea that maybe the Prime Directive would not even concern him because he has heard of star-faring people but always considered them legends, until he met you.

Not only is Elrond an intelligent conversationalist – he is also the most considerate and kind host you could have wished for. He respects your drive for finding a solution to your problem but also endows you with comfortable quarters to retreat into, as well as a vegetarian menu to eat. To further help you clear your mind, he’d invite you to a session of harp playing. The music is soothing, not too different from your Vulcan lute – and yet entirely new – fascinating!

.

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

The Lady of Light knows of your presence in Middle-Earth even before you yourself do. She immediately senses that something is off and delights when she finally gets to meet you. “How nice to have a face to the stranger on our earthly shores,” she’d whisper in your head. Her fascination with you is intense and maybe even scaring you a bit. However, logic suggests you have nothing to fear of her.

Galadriel’s resources and ancient knowledge, as well as the futility of upholding the Prime Directive, make the search for a way back to your ship easy. Before you go, however, Galadriel would ask you to join her telepathic palace – which you agree to. Her mind meld is more powerful than any you have ever performed before. It gives you a glimpse into her internal lights that are eons olds and yet young and beautiful. To remember it, Galadriel would give you a strand of her legendary hair as a parting gift ♡

.

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Honestly? Haldir running into a Vulcan might be the funniest combination in this post – the stone faces would be off the charts! At first, the beautiful Elf and his ability to hide his emotions (minus his thinly veiled contempt) would fascinate you, as well as his matter-of-factly duty of keeping you out of Lothlórien. Maybe you’d point out, “It would seem we are both simply following our orders.” – “Indeed.”

However, you can be just as silent and stubborn as Haldir, so the two of you would probably spend an entire night just staring each other down, until he has had enough and finally escorts you to his Lady to make you her problem instead of yours. It is obvious to him that you do not belong here, so his sense of duty makes him care for you – which he would never admit to, of course!

.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

Initially, Legolas would think of you as a fellow Elf lost in Mirkwood, which is good for the Prime Directive but bad for someone as untalented with lying as you. Eventually, you’ll informed him of your suspicion that the two of you belonged to entirely different species. He would ask you about your body then, as well as your workplace and perhaps your family. But after the friendly ‘getting to know you phase’, Legolas knows your weaknesses and will try to mess with you – in a playful and non-hostile but all-too Human way, testing your patience and logic alike.

That said, he will do what he can to help you get back to your world and ask many questions about it. “What is it like? To fare the stars as if they were islands in an ocean? What does the moon look like up close? Oh, there is no moon in your world? There hasn’t always been one here, either. Look that way… up, silly, not at me! You see it…?” ♡

By the way: The young Romulan warrior Elnor, a main character from Star Trek: Picard, has an Elvish name according to the showrunners. One meaning of “el” (as in the names of Elrond and Elros, for example) is star, and “nor” means run. In both Sindarin and Quenya, dear Elnor’s name roughly translates to “Star Trek”!

Being candid and brash, a skilled fighter and absolute sweetheart, I think he’d get along splendidly with dear Legolas, for example...

[cillianhead]

oppie (cillian’s version) is a sub change my mind

i think oppie (cillian's version) is a freak in the sheets. (listen this is all just me daydreaming more about Cillian AS OPPIE just doing stuff BUT LIKE I DO SAY STUFF REFERENCING OPPENHEIMER KIND OF??? SO SORRY IF ANYTHING IS INCORRECT (tbh this ain't that freaky it's just me writing a short little random blurb lol) (also i sorta switch in and out of using she / you)... 18+ OBVIOUSLY MINORS DNI!!!)

i think he's probably more than happy to be a dom or a sub, he doesn't really care. I think he'd also be into being pegged by his woman or pulled around on a leash or slapped around. oppie is pretty open-minded and pretty eager to 'spice' things up. but this is all just me daydreaming

i can imagine you in the Los Alamos home, waiting for him in bed after a long day's work of telling men what to do. And finally... the time when he got told what to do... whether it be fuck her harder until his back aches or let him be the chew toy he usually was. she liked to joke she'd make him his own personal collar to go along with his clothes... and the thought of that did turn him on, not strange at all to him who stares into the making of the death of mankind. The idea of sex was something just as complicated and interlaced with deep intricacies we will never understand but also something more primal. Something that reminded him he was human. And fuck... staring into your sticky pussy you fiddle with as he starts to undo his tie was like frying every cell in that brain of his.

"No... keep it on..." You shake your head, fingers still drawing circles lazily on your clit barely teasing yourself as you lay there proudly for him. His eyes soaked in your body and how utterly breathtaking the sight of what lies in between your legs was. "I wanna pull you around on it..." "Well... yes, ma'am," He'll flare his nose in a tone of amusement as he tips his hat off to her and sets it down on the dresser as he unbuttoned his shirt. Robert would watch you in the mirror as you slid your sticky fingers to your thinly-veiled tits, slipping your fingertips under the lacy top and toying with your hard and incredibly sensitive nipples. You drove him crazy in the best of ways... in the ways he should be crazy. "Now don't look at me like that, bunny..."

"You're taking way too long to undo those buttons of yours..." You complain and he'll roll his eyes as he always does once he gets off his top pieces, he's undoing his belt and pants within a matter of seconds. His tie still around his neck as he stood fully naked and fully erect for you as you got up on your knees on the bed, perched up and facing him as you leaned in. You'd grab his chin and he'd feel how wet your fingers are. "Are you gonna behave tonight, daddy?" You asked, tilting your head as you yanked on his tie a little, enjoying the way he flinched.

"Yes, of course, my darling..." He nods desperately, mouth full of drool for your demands. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it... command me, I'm your slave." "Get on your fucking knees and beg..." You whisper harshly and then slap him across the face and he lets out a delightful sigh at the familiar burn and the handprint on his face. "You like that don't you..." As he collapses to his knees, Oppie nods and prays for you to give him something.

"Please... Y/N..." Oppie tries, head tilted slightly down as you lower your feet down to the floor and run your fingers through his short hair, treating him like a dog. "I'll be a good boy." You pulled his face to force him to look at your pretty pussy, close enough to smell but not close enough to taste... you were teasing him. "I beg of you..."

'Tsk Tsk Tsk' You shook your head with a smug grin on your face, swaying your hips and tantalizing him with his favorite view. "More."

"Darling," He pleaded, eyes so big and blue, he was defenseless to how he showed his emotions through the dread of the irises honesty. "Please let me taste you... I've dreamt about you in my head all morning and all afternoon..." "Dreamt of me?" You mused.

"In the daytime," He mumbles, trying to shake his head from your grasp like a feral dog trying to get at its prey. "I see flashes of you... pictures of you... traces of you everywhere... I see you in my mind wherever I go."

"How very romantic of you," You chimed, letting go of his hair to lean back on the bed and prop your legs up on his shoulder, spreading yourself out on display for him. His pupils expanded like black holes on the horizon of a dying sun that shone blue. "You can taste..."

No other words were said by him as he (for once) mindlessly dove in and buried his face into your wet cunt. Oppie wasn't sure there was a god up above but he knew this was heaven right here with his head between your thighs and your lips slipping his name loudly and endlessly.

He loved being bossed around, being possessed, it reminded him of his body, and for once not his mind.

??? did any of this make sense??? sorry??? lol

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

…I’m sorry. Not really. Also quick housekeeping: I will not be online pretty much at all for a month starting Dec. 15th. I don’t know how long this fic is gonna be; I’m currently writing part 41 (which is insane, how are any of y’all still here, I’m in love with y’all) and don’t have much time to write currently, and won’t have any time to write during the month I’m off. Hopefully this wraps up before I leave so it’s all a moot point, but I wanted to let y’all know early, just in case it does affect the posting schedule.

Part 1 | . . . | Part 36 | Part 37 | Part 38

“Oh, poor baby,” Eddie teases, absolutely delighting in the blush that pops up on Steve’s cheeks. “Is your best friend being mean to you?”

There’s a sparkle in Steve’s eye and a tilt to his lips that he can’t hide, even as he pouts and nods when he faces Eddie. “The meanest.” His gaze travels to his bowl, and his eyes suddenly narrow.

“I didn’t touch it,” Eddie swears. “Not after Allison warned me off.”

Steve sighs happily. “Knew you were good for something,” he tells his sister, moving to press a chaste kiss to Eddie’s lips before hip-bumping Allison as he grabs his bowl.

Allison squawks. “Excuse you, I made that food, you ungrateful brat!”

Just then Dustin barges in. “I heard food,” he says, making a beeline for Steve and his bowl. “Ooh, this looks good!” He helps himself to a taste, and Eddie and Allison watch with thinly-veiled amusement as Steve resigns himself to looking up, praying for death; whether for himself or for Dustin, no one could say.

“Dustin Clarence Henderson,” he starts, only to be immediately swamped by noise.

“Who told you that?” Dustin shrieks.

“You did, genius,” Steve retorts, pointing at himself. “Future, remember?”

At the same time, Eddie makes a funny little squeak noise. “His middle name is Clarence?”

“Shut up!” Dustin shrieks, resorting to swatting at Eddie’s arm.

“Ow, you little psycho, get off me! Steve! Steve, a small child is attacking me!”

Meanwhile, Allison is laughing hysterically. “Now I know why Robin kept calling you their mom!”

Steve spins around to stare at Allison, betrayed, only to have his bowl snatched from his hands by Dustin. “Payment for full-naming me,” Dustin says, mouth already full.

Steve groans, wipes a hand down his face, and intones, “I hate all of you.”

“Lies,” Allison says happily, “Lies and slander, you love us and can’t imagine your life without us.”

Steve flips her off.

Eddie grins at Alli, eyes sparking. “I like you.”

Dustin looks between them, lip curling. “Ew, dude, she’s way too old for you.”

Eddie and Allison look at each other before bursting out laughing.

“That’s not what I mean,” Eddie assures Dustin. “Trust me, I do not want to date her.”

Dustin narrows his eyes. “That’s… correct, but it sounds rude.”

Allison laughs again. “Don’t worry, kiddo, I know what he means, and I wouldn’t want to date him, either.”

Dustin narrows his eyes at Allison, then shrugs and turns to Steve. “Okay. What’re we gonna do about Dart?”

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, he helped last time.” He winces. “Just, uh, keep him away from your cat.”

“Okay, but I can’t keep hiding him in my closet, dude.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, dude, it worked fine enough last time.” Steve sets his hands on his hips and stares at Dustin.

He huffs and spins on his heel, walking out of the room. “Whatever! Guess I’ll just keep him, then!”

A beat passes before Eddie looks at Steve. “It’s his tone, right?”

Steve starts laughing. “You say the exact same thing three years in the future.”

Eddie grins back at him, and Allison sighs.

Steve looks at her. “What?”

She shrugs. “Nothing, just. You two are cute. It’s fun to see relationships just starting out, y’know?”

Steve snorts. “Romantic.”

Allison raises a brow. “Like you aren’t?”

“…Touché,” Steve finally says.

Eddie grins. “Personally, I like seeing this sibling dynamic.”

Allison cocked her head. “Your uncle never had kids?”

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t think he dated much, t’be honest. And then I came along, and how’re you supposed to explain that to a date, right? So I think he just… stopped.”

Allison nods, impressed. “It takes a special kind of person to do that.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, grinning. “He’s kinda the best.”

“I bet,” Allison says warmly.

“Steve,” Dustin calls, “how d’you work the TV remote?”

“The little shit,” Steve mutters again, walking out to help to the sound of Eddie and Allison laughing.

He sticks out in the living room for a few minutes, showing Dustin the remote and helping him pick a channel, before Eddie’s voice catches his attention. “Uh… Steve? Steve!”

He sounds worried, so Steve hurries back in. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie points wordlessly at Allison, who’s sitting still, eyes pointed at something off in the distance. As they watch, her eyes begin to roll back in her head. “No,” Steve whispers, then louder. “No! Allison!” He runs to her, taps her on the cheek, shakes her shoulders, does whatever he can think, but nothing works. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, looking around with wild eyes.

“Eddie,” he gasps, running back to the phone. “Robin- I need-”

“My number?” Eddie confirms, reciting it when Steve nods.

He waits impatiently for the phone to connect. “Hi, Mr. Wayne,” he says as politely as he can manage, though he knows his voice is thin. “Can I speak to Robin, please?” One more pause, then his voice breaks when he says, “Robin? It’s Alli. He’s got her.” He swallows, takes a breath, and says in a voice barely above a whisper, “Vecna’s got my sister.”

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[sebastianswallows]

It's not like any other love | S.S. | Part 3

— PAIRING: dark!Sebastian Sallow x F!MC

— SYNOPSIS: Sebastian teaches reader Imperio in a more unconventional way, and satisfies some of his own needs at the same time (kisses, he just gives her lots of kisses).

— WARNINGS: needy and touch-starved Sebastian, non-con kisses, and generally an indecent use of Imperio.

— WORDCOUNT: 3k

— A/N: It’s been a long time since I updated this fic on tumblr, I’m sorry my dears 😭 These last ones should come in quick succession, so, enjoy!

They were alone in the Undercfort again, where candles flickered around them, and the air was cold and stale. But it was quiet, even in the middle of the day with the whole castle bustling around them. They had about an hour until everyone was done with lunch and they had to go to their next classes, but neither she nor Sebastian could keep from experimenting with this new forbidden magic.

Sebastian first taught her the motion of the spell, coming up behind her to correct it a few times — completely unnecessarily, but he pretended to be a perfectionist about it when it came to her. After all, what other excuses did he have to hold her hand, and feel her against his chest, and nuzzle his cheek against her hair? He thought she didn’t notice, but it was hard to tell whether she was smiling at his veiled attempts at closeness or just focusing on perfecting the cast.

“And the incantation is Imperio,” he whispered in her ear.

“Imperio,” she recited.

“Do you think you can do it?” asked Sebastian as he stepped in front of her.

“I… I guess I could.”

“It’s not the sort of spell you can practice with on a dummy. You need a living target. And as with the curse before, you have to mean it.”

“I understand,” she nodded, but he could hear a tremble in her voice.

He wondered who she ever would want to control, then he thought how lucky her victim would be — to be under the power of her spell, to service her, to be the only creature with whom she shared that side of her, who knew her deepest desires, all those the shameful and illicit things she would only ask for under the compromising and desperate secrecy of an Imperious curse... What would she ask for, he wondered. He’d only ever thought of using it against enemies and turning them against each other, but Sebastian would kill her enemies for her for nothing. So what would she ask for from a friend?

“Do you think you can cast it on me?” said Sebastian without giving it another thought. He was excited at the possibilities the spell now opened up between them — with her shy and reluctant and him desperately in love.

“What!?”

“You can lift the spell at any time… It would be safe,” he said.

She looked doubtfully at him and, although her lips were parted, she said nothing. He hadn’t given it a thought before today, but the sudden idea of her using it on him, of being under the leash of her control, of getting to know her in this way that nobody else could — even for an instant, even without remembering it afterwards although he would definitely try — was far too tempting to let pass.

Would she simply test the limits of the curse? Ask him to move around, to tell her things, to submit completely? Would she ask for secrets she was curious about but didn’t dare admit to? Would she ask him to kiss her? Would she ask him to kneel? Would she…

“Would you cast it on me?” he asked now in earnest, grinning ear to ear. “Come on, I want to see you do it.”

“Alright,” she chuckled, lifting her wand and practising the motion a few times before saying, with her eyes fixed on him, “Imperio!”

Strange, thought Sebastian. He didn’t feel any different.

“Did it work?” she asked, staring at him as he stared back.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Tell me to do something.”

“J-jump?” He stayed firmly on the ground. “Damn,” she muttered, looking down at her wand as if it could be broken.

“Try again,” he said.

But the best she could muster from her wand were muted sparkles, and saying the spell louder didn’t work.

“Do you really mean it, though?” sighed Sebastian, arms crossed over his chest.

Beyond being disappointed that this wasn’t going as planned, he was disappointed in himself. Was he such an unappealing subject for her? Sebastian had never wanted to be cursed more, but if he had any doubts before, he laid them to rest: she didn’t want him.

“I guess…”

“You guess?” he arched a brow.

“Well, you try it, then!”

Before she even finished saying it, he pulled the wand out of his robe’s pocket, aimed it at her, and, “Imperio!”

The change was instantaneous. Sebastian gasped at just how quick it was, how dangerously easy, how much the same and yet completely different the girl seemed to be in the grip of one blue wisp of light. She stared at him out of milky unfocused eyes, her form relaxed and straightened, and the tense frown of her mouth turned into an easy smile. She blinked lazily at him as if time had no meaning, and she lived only for his words.

Sebastian closed his gaping mouth and, after clearing his throat to make his voice more steady, spoke. “How do you feel?”

“Happy,” she said with the echo of a voice, sounding like her yet not like anything he’d ever heard from her. There was no real feeling behind her words.

Sebastian took a small step forward. “Are you upset with me?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

He stopped.

“What?” he muttered. “Why not?”

“You strike me as a bit impulsive,” she answered with a smile.

Sebastian straightened his back, offended, but could think of nothing to contradict her. “And do you dislike that?”

“Sometimes,” she said.

“When?”

“When it doesn’t serve me.”

“Greedy little witch,” he grinned. “What else do you dislike about me?” he continued, stepping closer as she spoke.

“You insult me sometimes and hurt my feelings. You say things that you know hurt me to try and change the way I think. You don’t trust me. You are sometimes dismissive of Ominis and I worry it will —”

“Alright, that’s enough, thank you,” he said, raising his hands. He sighed and paced in front of her, more worried than upset. “So why do you never tell me?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “I could try to be different for you. To be nicer, perhaps, or more… gentle, more like Ominis.” And as soon as he said it he regretted it and tensed, unbidden images coming to his mind of Ominis being gentle with her in ways he shouldn’t be, of him touching and caressing and kissing her where he had no right to. Her reply startled him out of his reverie.

“Because I want you to like me,” she said serenely.

Sebastian’s immediate reaction was elation, and then a sense of doubt. Did she speak the truth? Had it really worked? He thought of ways to test the curse’s power, but he didn’t want to do anything to hurt her. He also wasn’t sure how long they could do this for, and when he could do it again, if ever. The thought crossed his mind that she might even be upset with him once released from the power of the spell.

He took her hands in his, holding her cold digits in his warm palm and pulling her gently toward him. She walked as Sebastian walked them both backwards until he was stopped by one of the tall pillars.

“Tell me the truth,” he ordered. “Do you love me?”

“I do”, she said with a happy smile. “I love you.”

She didn’t hesitate to reply, her voice remaining calm and pleasant, resonating in the emptiness of the Undercroft. There was even a sense of relief in her, like months of pressure on her heart lifting as she told the truth that had for so long weight on her mind.

His heart fluttered when he heard it. A rush of pleasure and hope and enkindled dreams made his blood sing and his skin feel electric. Sebastian couldn't help but smile widely as her words echoed in his mind. He looked into the girl’s eyes with passion, with care, with affection, and at that moment wished to give her everything, and take everything from her in turn.

“Tell me what you like about me,” he said. “Better yet, come closer. Whisper it to me.”

And just as placidly as before, the girl leaned in, braced her chin over his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, all while letting her hands be held and warmed in his, their chests beating together, feet entangling on the dusty floor.

“I like how loyal you are,” she started, “and how brave, and how clever, and I like the shape of your lips, and how good you are at duelling, and I like how gentle you can be when you allow it of yourself, and I like your warm eyes, and your voice, and your scent, and the softness of your hair, and how happy you make me, and how determined you are against all the odds you face, and I like how warm you are, and the sprinkle of freckles all over your face, and —”

“Wait,” he whispered. He was already breathing heavily, just from the things she had said and the way they sounded coming from her, so close, so intimate, her breath tickling his ear and the small sounds of her lips and tongue against her teeth slipping in among her words. He felt a blush grow on his cheeks and spread up to his ears and down his chest. Never in his life had someone said such nice things to him, not Anne nor Ominis nor anybody else. He was filled with warmth as her words sank in, and had to stop her before his heart burst out of his chest.

“So, erm,” he started bashfully, “what do I smell like, to you?”

“Old books and Confringo.”

“Yes,” he laughed, embarrassed, “I guess that’s true. Suppose it’s not the worst thing in the world.”

Sebastian brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it gently, then placed it around his shoulder. His arms then curled around her, holding her tightly against his front. He could not help himself after everything she’d said, he felt so much for her, like a rush of joy that made him whole. He could make himself believe that she spoke the truth, even though her voice was far away and dreamy under the effects of the Imperious Curse, and although he felt sorry that that was what it took for her to say it, he enjoyed this closeness with her, her voice in his ear, her shape in his arms.

Against his chest, Sebastian could feel her heart beating steadily, while his was ready to break through his ribs. He nuzzled his face into her neck, breathing in her warm girlish scent while he waited for his nerves to settle.

“Tell me you belong to me,” he begged, his breath tickling her neck.

“I belong to you,” she whispered.

Her left arm was slung around his shoulder, where he’d placed it, while the other hung limply at her side.

“Hold me,” said Sebastian, and she obeyed immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on to him. “Tell me you love me again,” he said, feeling a shiver go down his whole body. It felt wrong to keep this going, to take this from her unwillingly like this, to satisfy his shameful urges for affection, but he needed to hear it once again.

“I love you,” she whispered, her lips close to his neck.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

The girl obeyed, speaking in heated whispers against his skin while he brought his lips down to her neck and pressed them right beneath her ear. She was especially warm there, and soft, and as he dragged his lips lower, he left a wet trail of kisses down until he reached the top of her shirt.

“Again,” he said.

Sebastian brought up a finger to tug her tie a little looser and dipped his tongue into the hollow of her clavicle, then moved back up the column of her throat. And as he pressed hot kisses into her skin, he could feel her voice reverberating through her skin as she said, again, “I love you.”

He moaned and pulled her closer, rubbing her front against his, wishing they could swallow each other up and never part again. His hands clung to the back of her school robes while hers lay loosely around his neck.

Sebastian pulled back, leaning his head against the cool pillar of the Undercroft, and caught his breath. She’d never been so close to him, and with his right hand, he leaned the girl’s head backwards, cupping her skull in his palm for him to gaze into her eyes — blank and foggy blue over her natural colour with the effects of the spell.

“Can you moan for me?” he asked breathlessly.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do it,” said Sebastian. “I want to hear it as I kiss you. Pretend to feel something, pretend you like it.”

“Yes,” she said again and tilted her head backwards as Sebastian brought his face beneath her chin to kiss her neck there too.

He could feel her gentle moans right against his lips, and little whimpers of pleasure as he nibbled at her skin — very lightly, careful not to leave a mark — and felt her shiver in his arms and press herself closer against him. His whole face felt flushed and his body was on fire, every nerve of his hungry to feel more of her, his mouth eager to consume her, his mind knowing of nothing else than the weight of her in his arms and the sound of her in his ears and the taste of her in his mouth.

Sebastian worked his way up to her chin and pecked it with light kisses, then slowly travelled up to dip his mouth beneath her lower lip.

“Sebastian,” she gasped, sounding breathless in a way he’d never dreamed of.

“Is that how you sound at night when you think of me, darling?” he asked in a moment of mad confidence.

“Yes,” she sighed.

Sebastian was stunned still at hearing it. Was that another effect of the curse? Had she just told him what he wanted to hear, or did she tell the truth?

“Sebastian,” she moaned again in a faint and quiet whisper. It was lost in the stale air of the Undercroft.

“Sebastian?” he heard call again, but this time it wasn’t in her voice.

He looked up to find Ominis standing by the entrance to the Undercroft, his wand out emitting red echoes in search of them and a little square wrapping of napkins held in his left arm. Sebastian’s blood froze in his veins for the split second it took to remember that his friend was blind. They were still in a compromising position and he couldn’t afford for Ominis to know what they had done together — or rather what Sebastian had done to her.

“Finite incantatem,” he muttered under his breath, and slowly he felt the curse melt away from the girl’s mind.

She sagged in his arms, a bit unsteady on her feet for a moment, and Sebastian held her up until she came back to her senses. He let his eyes drink her in for one final time, his gaze caressing her lips and the angle of her cheekbones and her eyes while she held her head in her hands and winced. Once he noticed she could stand on her own, he unwrapped his arms from around her waist and started walking closer to where Ominis stood.

“H-hello, Ominis,” he started. “Something the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. Only that you weren’t there for lunch,” he said, a suspicious expression plain on his face. “Either of you.” His head moved in the direction from where the girl’s breath hitched as she got her bearings. He could probably hear her footsteps too when she leaned against the pillar to cool her head.

“Were you practising something?” Ominis asked.

“No,” said Sebastian coolly. “Nothing in particular. We were just talking. Lost track of time, I suppose.”

“Then why were you saying finito after I came in?”

“Don’t worry about it, Ominis,” Sebastian groaned. His hands had begun to shake and all the warmth was drained out of his body. “Everything’s fine. Right?” he said, turning around to look at their friend.

“Right,” she said automatically, not quite looking up at either of the boys. “Hello, Ominis. We have class now, right?”

Her hand went to her neck instinctively, and it broke Sebastian’s heart to see her wipe away his kisses from her skin. Did she even realise what had happened, or was the cold feeling bothering her? Her hands went up to straighten her loosened tie next, and before she looked away Sebastian thought he caught a blush on her.

“I’m surprised you recall,” said Ominis snidely. “Nothing as interesting as the spells you practice with Sebastian, I’m sure. Do you even remember what class we have now?”

“Don’t be like that,” she muttered. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for… for…”

“Potions,” sighed Ominis.

“Your favourite,” Sebastian grinned, coming to stand by him with his hands shoved in his pockets.

Ominis narrowed his eyes at the comment. “In any case, I brought you lunch. Nothing much, just a couple of sandwiches.”

“Oh, thank you, Ominis,” she grinned brightly, sounding grateful and relieved.

“Can I have one?” Sebastian asked.

“I don’t know, can you?” he quipped. “And don’t roll your eyes at me, I can hear you doing it.”

The girl joined them and they stepped out of the Undercroft together. There was an unsteadiness to her still, which Sebastian could plainly see and Ominis could hear, but none of them made any mention of it. Sebastian’s skin still tingled where he had touched her, his lips itching to kiss her again, but beneath it was a nagging feeling that he had gone too far and betrayed her trust. He licked the taste of her off his lips one final time.

[chlobliviate]

Wolfstar Microfic - Apparition

Words: 891

@wolfstarmicrofic

Warning: mentions of suicidal ideation

🌙✨🌙✨🌙

It had been three days since Sirius had fallen through the veil. Three sleepless nights. He’d stopped producing actual tears and now his body just shook violently. Tonks, Arthur and Molly, and Ted and Andromeda had been by to check on him. He hadn’t answered the door. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t even remember how he got home from the ministry. Whether he said goodbye to Harry before he was sent back to school.

He shouldn’t even be here, really. In the house that his dead boyfriend hated so much. But he didn’t want Dumbledore or anyone else coming to rummage through Sirius’ things before he had the chance to go through them himself.

He suddenly sensed that he was being watched and turned around slowly. In the doorway to their bedroom stood, “Sirius.”

“Uh, Hi.” He said, sheepishly.

“Are you…” Remus paused, he didn’t look like a ghost. “Are you real?”

“I hope so.” They stared at each other, neither daring to move. “You look awful, Moons.”

“You’d look pretty fucking awful if the love of your life had just died.” Remus snapped. “What are you? A ghost? Some kind of apparition? Or am I just finally succumbing to the madness within?”

Sirius’ face dropped. “No, it’s me. I came back.”

Remus shook his head, “You can’t have come back.” He spat, “You’re dead. I watched you die.”

“I was for a bit. Saw James, Lily and Reg. It was bizarre.” He took a step into the room. “And then, just as I was getting used to the idea, the veil spat me back out.”

Remus sat on the edge of the bed, resting his head in his hands. “No.” He whispered. “How?”

“Uh, don’t actually know. I suppose they’ll want to run all kinds of tests once they find out.”

“What do you mean once they find out?” Remus looked up at him.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell Dumbledore at some point.” He shrugged.

“How did you get— You just— What?”

“I found myself on the floor of the Department of Mysteries. You’d all fucked off, I turned into Padfoot and came here.” He looked at Remus’ face. “I really hope that your tears are about me, and not because something even worse happened. How long was I gone? Is Harry…?”

“Physically, fine.” Remus said quietly, “Mentally? Well, I don’t think anyone would be fine in Harry’s shoes. It’s been three days.”

“The last thing I remember is you grabbing hold of him.” Sirius took another step toward him.

“He would have thrown himself after you, I’ve no doubt about that.” Remus had been tempted to do the same, frankly.

“I’m sorry.” Sirius said, “We shouldn’t even have been there.”

“No, we shouldn’t.” Remus frowned. It wasn’t like Sirius to be this contrite. Then it dawned on him, “Did you get an earful from James and Lily?”

A small smile crossed Sirius’ features. “That’s an understatement. I’d forgotten how Lily gets when she’s angry.”

“So… you’re back?”

“It certainly seems that way.” Sirius sighed. “I probably need to go to St Mungo’s, right?”

“Would you like a cup of tea first?” Remus stood up and tentatively walked the few faces to stand in front of Sirius. He reached out a hand and gently pushed the hair back from his face, a small sob escaping when his hand touched Sirius’ warm skin. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

Sirius threw his arms around Remus’ neck, and Remus held him close. The familiar smell of his leather jacket, cigarettes and floral conditioner was too much for Remus. Sirius held him as he sobbed into his neck, whispering ‘I’m here,’ and ‘it’s alright’, and ‘I love you’.

“I’m sorry,” Remus said after a while. “This probably seems very dramatic, seeing as you’re not actually dead.”

“I wouldn’t have been strong enough to not follow you if the tables were turned, let alone to save Harry,” Sirius said in a small voice. “I think being emotionally ruined after that is fairly typical.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He sniffled, “I spent the last three days wishing I had followed you. If it hadn’t meant leaving the house, I honestly might have done it.”

Sirius kissed the tip of his nose. “I’m really glad you didn’t.”

“Me too.” He pressed their foreheads together. “The thought of being without you again, Pads…”

“I know.” He ran a thumb along Remus’ jaw. “I’ll never leave you again, I promise.”

“You can’t possibly promise that,” Remus said.

“Fine.” He huffed, “I will do everything in my power to never leave you again. Better?”

“Depends. The next time things are kicking off, will you go racing off to play hero?”

“I already promised James and Lily that I wouldn’t.” He chuckled, “I think I have some perspective now. It sounds ridiculous. I went from prison to on the run back to, essentially a prison, and then I died.”

“And then you came back?” Remus still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t his mind playing awful tricks on him.

“And I plan to stay back, and I’m going to be free this time. We can go back to living by the sea.”

“Yeah? You have a plan?” Remus took in the smile on his face.

“I do. Make me tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Notes:

Sirius is definitely going to be like 'Well, I was dead for three days, so I technically served my life sentence' if Dumbledore doesn't convince the Ministry to pardon him. Which he will, eventually. Because I said so.