#–––– ✧ the chains are broken but are you truly free

[chxrrylungs]

your chains are broken, but are you truly free?

[feilien]

 "So there's more like me." He'd never really considered that possibility, if he was honest. Of course, it made complete and total sense now that he thought about it. Why would he be the only freak of nature there was? It was oddly comforting in a way, knowing he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. Even if it didn't actually help him in any way.  

 When he was handed the envelope, Long Zhi stared at it for a moment, then took the key out of the envelope. It still seemed far too generous, and he couldn't help but feel a ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. There was no doubt in his mind that the other shoe would drop eventually. But, for now, he'd enjoy not having to struggle to survive. "I've never been late in my life."

 He was just about to get up, when Isen inquired about questions. There were more questions floating around in his head than he could count, and there were even more things he wanted to say, each of them more snarky than the other. But Long Zhi had learned a long time ago when it was best to hold his tongue. And the worst thing he could probably do was to piss off his new boss right from the get go. 

 Perhaps this didn't have to be permanent. Perhaps he could stash away the majority of that money and, once he had enough, he could hightail it out of here and start from scratch somewhere else. Maybe even in another country. Sure, he had no ID and no passport, but he'd have to change his name anyway, so he might as well just buy both on a blackmarket somewhere.

 But all of that was completely out of reach for now. So he let out a sigh, and shook his head. "No. No questions." With that, he left.

He could see the questions rise and die on the tip of Long Zhi's tongue. Smart boy. Surely he knew this was his only option, and that refusal would just end in his long, miserable death. After all, if it weren't for his previous position as heir to Xiao Dan's throne, Long Zhi would simply be another person with lackluster abilities, nothing for Isen to take interest in. But he was useful in many ways, thanks to the old man, and it had become crucial that Isen be the one to sweep in when the opportunity rose.

"It is one I've prepared for. This isn't the first time I've trained someone with your capabilities," Isen said with a slight nod of agreement. Evidently it was that easy, as he watched defeat take over Long Zhi. It was a risk. And yet, wasn't it always? Someone with a lifetime of learned self control would easily take to Isen's teachings, despite his subject's clear reluctance to do so.

Still, he knew this wouldn't be like the rest. He knew he had to play his cards right to get the most out of Long Zhi himself, not just his ability. The thought almost brought a smile to Isen's face. It had been a long time since he'd been properly challenged.

From inside his suit jacket, Isen fished a small envelope, which he held out to Long Zhi. "This is your apartment location and number, as well as a key," he said, almost sounding bored. As though this were some run-of-the-mill part of negotiation. "Avenue 34, no more than a mile away. Remember that I value punctuality."

Now Isen took a calculated pause, deciding to extend a gesture of good faith -- treating Long Zhi as a person. "Do you have any questions?"

[heliosunny]

Your writing for Phainon is soon good 💖 How about something with a Dragon-shifter!Reader who kidnaps Prince!Phainon as dragons do - maybe to get a nice ransom from the royal family - the only problem is that he ain't interested in getting rescued. And may have just slaughtered the knights sent to free him and slay the dragon himself.

Yandere!Phainon x Dragon-shifter!Reader

The sky was dark by the time you reached the ruins of the castle, the stone walls jagged and broken from age, yet still standing against the weight of time. It was a place long forgotten, nestled deep within the mountains, far beyond the reach of any kingdom, perfect for keeping a prince.

“You’re a bold one, I’ll give you that.”

Prince Phainon mused, his voice calm despite the chains coiling around his wrists. His silver-white hair was tousled from the rough flight, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.

“Most would hesitate before daring to steal a royal away.”

You ignored him, dragging him forward. You had to admit, his lack of fear was… annoying. Maybe even unsettling. He hadn’t even screamed when you plucked him from his fancy palace, claws closing around him like a vice. He merely stared, as if daring you to drop him.

"Don’t waste your breath" you muttered, shoving open the rusted iron doors. Dust rose from the disturbance, swirling in the air. "You’re not here for conversation."

Phainon chuckled, unfazed. "No? Then why am I here, oh mighty beast?"

You tossed him forward. He landed on his knees with a grunt, but when he lifted his gaze, there was something dangerously amused about the way he looked at you.

"Ransom" you finally said. "Your kingdom will pay handsomely to get their precious prince back."

His laughter filled the place.

Your brow twitched. "What’s so funny?"

Phainon grinned up at you, shoulders shaking. "Oh, you poor, clueless thing. You really think they’ll come for me?" He leaned back, tilting his head. "Let me spare you the disappointment, they won’t. Not before they send someone to kill you first."

You narrowed your eyes. That was expected, of course. Kings rarely sent gold before swords. But it didn’t matter. You could handle any knight they threw your way.

"Then I’ll just have to deal with them." you said.

Phainon hummed, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. He tilted his head, his smirk never faltering.

"You truly have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?"

You ignored him. The sooner you got him locked away, the sooner you could rest. The flight back had taken a toll, not that you’d ever admit it. Transforming, carrying a fully grown man in your claws, keeping to the shadows to avoid unnecessary fights… It was exhausting. And the moment you’d dumped Phainon inside the ruined halls of your abandoned castle, all you could think about was tending to your aching limbs.

Chains had been enough to keep him in place, or so you assumed. You doubted he’d escape, and even if he did, where would he go? You were deep in the mountains, miles away from the nearest civilization.

And so, you left him to his own devices, disappearing into one of the castle’s still-standing chambers. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting your disheveled form. You frowned, brushing dirt from your arms before pouring water into a rusted basin, splashing it against your face.

Just a quick rinse. Then, rest.

You didn’t notice the absence of chains.

Didn’t hear the soft, amused laughter echoing down the halls.

Didn’t realize your supposed prisoner had already slipped away.

Phainon rolled his shoulders as he strode through the forest, fingers brushing over the hilt of the sword he had so generously reclaimed from the ruins. His smirk widened. Really, he should be thanking you. It had been far too long since he had been truly entertained.

Ahead, the sound of armored footsteps drew his attention. He didn’t slow his pace, letting the knights spot him first. Their reactions were immediate- relief, determination, wariness.

"Your Highness!" One of them, a captain by the look of his insignia, rushed forward. "You’re safe! We came as soon as we heard-"

"Safe?" Phainon interrupted smoothly, tilting his head. "Was I ever in danger?"

The knights exchanged glances. "The beast-"

"Was nothing more than a misguided fool" he finished, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "I was just about to return, after dealing with my own business of course. No need for all this… concern."

The captain hesitated. "We can’t allow that, Your Highness. We must escort you—"

A sigh. Phainon turned his gaze to the trees, as if contemplating. "Ah, what a shame" he murmured. "I told you I would return."

He moved before they could react.

Steel flashed. Blood spattered against bark. The knights barely had time to scream before his blade cut through them like a whisper. Limbs crumpled, bodies fell. Their eyes, wide with shock, stared at him even in death.

Phainon exhaled, stepping over the corpses without a second thought.

"Now, then" he murmured, wiping his blade clean. "Where were we?"

With a smirk, he turned back toward the castle.

His little dragon was waiting.

Phainon pushed open the heavy wooden door, the creak echoing through the abandoned chamber. His eyes flicked over the dimly lit space, stone walls worn by time, a tattered bed of old furs, and there, lying in the center, a figure.

Not a dragon.

A human.

His brows lifted slightly, the only sign of his surprise. The realization came quickly, his captor was no ordinary beast. The dragon and this person were one and the same.

Leaning against the doorway, he observed you. Your breath was steady, though he noted the faint twitch of your fingers. He could slit your throat now, end this little game before it spiraled further.

But where would the fun be in that?

He stepped closer.

The moment his foot scuffed against the stone, your eyes snapped open.

Your instincts took over before reason could settle in, because your captive was free, because he had a sword again, because he stood over you with an unreadable smirk.

You moved in a flash.

Your hands shot out, grabbing at his limbs, forcing them down. Chains slithered from beneath the bedding, precautions you had set up, ones that now snapped into place with ease. His wrists slammed against the cold floor, and with a sharp twist, you locked his legs as well.

You pressed a knee against his chest, breathing heavy. "How did you escape?"

Phainon merely chuckled, entirely too amused despite his current position. "You should be asking yourself.. how did you fall for it?"

You narrowed your eyes.

His strength was not that of an ordinary man, you realized that when he shifted slightly beneath you, and your balance nearly tipped. He was holding back.

"You really are something else" he mused, tilting his head, the flickering firelight casting shadows over his sharp features. His blue eyes dragged over you, lingering, intrigued. "What should I call you? Or do you prefer ‘beast’?"

You didn’t answer.

His smirk widened. "You’re quite breathtaking up close, you know."

You scowled. "Spare me your empty words."

He laughed. "Oh, but I never lie." He shifted slightly, testing the chains, his muscles tensing beneath you. "And I never let myself be bound for long."

You barely had time to react before he tore free, a sheer burst of strength shattering his restraints like they were nothing. You leaped back, but not fast enough, his hands shot out, grabbing your wrist, flipping you before you could reach for another weapon.

The cold edge of his sword pressed against your throat.

For the first time, you truly looked at him, not as a mere human, but something far more dangerous.

His grip was firm, yet his touch was almost playful. His smirk was unreadable, a dangerous mix of amusement and something else entirely.

"You were saying?" he murmured.

Your lips curled, sharp canines glinting. "You assume too much."

Before his blade could descend, your form shifted- partly.

Your tail, thick with scales, shot forward, blocking the strike with an echoing clang. Sparks flew as his sword clashed against it, the force sending a tremor through the room.

Phainon’s smirk faltered for only a second before morphing into something else- pure, unfiltered intrigue.

"...Oh" he breathed, almost in awe. "Now this is getting interesting."

Phainon barely had time to act before you twisted, your tail sweeping low and knocking him off balance. His sword arm jerked, and you seized the opportunity, shifting back into your human form just enough to move swiftly, you grabbed his wrist, spun behind him, and yanked it up toward his back.

"Persistent" he said, amusement still lacing his voice, even as you forced him down.

"Annoying." you countered, your grip like iron as you shoved him to the cold stone floor.

The chains were still broken, so you resorted to something sturdier. From the corner, you grabbed thick, enchanted rope- strong enough to hold even creatures of great power. You looped it around his wrists, pulling them behind his back, then secured his legs in a way that left minimal room for struggle.

Despite being effectively restrained again, Phainon’s smirk remained, sharp and taunting. "You do like tying me up, don’t you? Should I be flattered or concerned?"

You yanked the rope tighter. "Be quiet."

A chuckle. "As you wish, my dear captor."

With a roll of your eyes, you stepped back, observing your handiwork. He was bound tightly this time, no easy way out, not unless he wanted to snap his own limbs.

But before you could relish your victory, he sighed dramatically.

"At least let me bathe before you keep me here like some caged beast" he drawled, his expression the perfect mixture of false suffering and noble exasperation. "I reek of blood. Is this any way to treat a prince?"

You scoffed. "You are a beast."

"And yet, I still deserve some dignity" he quipped, tilting his head. "Unless you enjoy the scent of dried blood and sweat?"

Your nose wrinkled. You didn’t.

Annoyance prickled at you, but you relented. He was still tied up. What harm could a bath do?

"Fine" you muttered.

Before he could gloat, you grabbed the ropes binding his limbs, dragged him up, and hauled him across the room.

Phainon let out a surprised grunt as you tugged him along. "Ah—so forceful. If you wanted to drag me somewhere private, you could’ve asked."

You ignored him.

The abandoned castle still had an intact bathhouse, a large pool of water fed by an underground spring. With one final tug, you yanked him forward and—

SPLASH!

You threw him in.

Phainon resurfaced with a sharp inhale, his silver hair now plastered to his face, water dripping down his broad shoulders. He blinked once. Twice. Then, he tilted his head up at you, his smirk both impressed and incredulous.

"You know" he mused, "when I asked for a bath, I expected something a little more… dignified."

You crossed your arms. "Be grateful I didn’t throw you off a cliff instead."

"Ah, but would you really? You seem far too attached already."

You grabbed a bucket and unceremoniously dumped more water over his head.

"Pfah!" He sputtered, shaking his head like a wet dog before blinking up at you again, lips curling into something downright mischievous. "If you wanted to get my clothes off, you could've just said so."

Your face twitched.

You promptly turned and walked out, leaving him tied up in the bath to deal with himself.

"Wait—! You’re just leaving me here?"

"You'll figure it out."

His laughter echoed behind you. "I like you more and more, little dragon."

The morning greeted you with an unfamiliar sound—soft, deep, and far too close. A hum. A HUM?

It took a moment for your groggy mind to register it. A gentle, unhurried melody, smooth as silk, drifting through the cool air of your chamber. You stirred, cracking one eye open, only to groan and bury your face into the pillow.

Phainon.

The silver-haired prince, your supposed prisoner, sat beside your bed, his arms resting casually on the frame as he leaned forward, watching you with the ease of a man who belonged there. He was freshly bathed from last night, his damp silver locks tousled slightly, his tunic loose at the collar. But what was most irritating was the absolute serenity in his expression as he continued to hum.

It wasn’t even an unpleasant sound. If anything, it was oddly calming.

"Shut up" you muttered, dragging the blanket over your head.

Phainon merely chuckled, his voice still low with sleep. "Good morning to you too, little dragon."

"Not a morning person?"

You groaned louder, pressing your hands over your ears.

His humming didn’t stop. If anything, it turned into an actual song, low, lyrical words spilling effortlessly from his lips.

You flung a pillow at him.

He caught it easily, smirking. "Tsk, so violent. I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"You shouldn’t be here." You finally sat up, glaring. "How are you here?"

Phainon tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "You tied me up, threw me into a bath, and then left me. Did you really think that would keep me contained?"

Your frown deepened. He was strong, you knew that, but you had used enchanted rope this time. He shouldn’t have been able to slip free so easily.

As if reading your thoughts, Phainon propped his chin on one hand, smirking. "I’ll let you in on a secret," he murmured, voice dipping. "I’ve never been trapped. I just enjoy watching you try."

You hated how easily his words sent a flicker of unease down your spine.

But before you could reply, the distant sound of armor clanking and hurried footsteps caught your attention.

Phainon let out a sigh, stretching leisurely, as if the mere idea of more interruptions exhausted him. "Ah. Took them long enough."

You shot up, shoving him aside. "Stay here."

You didn’t wait for his response. Rushing down the stone corridors, you made your way to the castle’s entrance. The knights were already spilling into the ruins, swords drawn, scanning the area. Their captain, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek—stepped forward.

"You there!" he barked. "We received word that Prince Phainon was taken by a dragon. Where is he?"

You hesitated. Your first instinct was to tell them you were the dragon, but something in your gut warned you against it. You had no love for humans, but you weren’t bloodthirsty either. You had taken Phainon for ransom, not war.

But before you could decide how to respond— Phainon let out a chuckle.

He stepped out from behind you, his gaze sweeping over the assembled knights like a wolf among sheep. His sword was already in his hand.

The captain’s face twisted in relief. "Your Highness! We came to rescue you—"

"Rescue me?" Phainon repeated, voice laced with mockery. "From what, exactly?"

The knights stiffened. "From the dragon—!"

Phainon then moved.

Steel sliced through the air, swift and merciless. Blood sprayed across the stone.

Silence.

Then, chaos.

The remaining knights recoiled in horror, some shouting, some scrambling to draw their weapons. But it was already too late.

You could only watch.

Your breath hitched as the last knight staggered back, his sword shaking in his grasp. "Y-Your Highness, what—?"

Phainon drove his blade clean through the man’s chest.

A ragged gasp. A final shudder. Then, nothing.

As the last body collapsed, Phainon exhaled, flicking blood from his blade. His posture remained relaxed, unaffected, as if he had merely completed a morning exercise.

Then, slowly, he turned to you.

His smirk was still there, unchanged, unwavering. But his eyes…

Cold. Sharp. Unrelenting.

He murmured, voice smooth as silk. "Where were we?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts. The scent of blood—fresh, thick, suffocating, filled the abandoned halls. Around you, bodies lay strewn, once armored knights reduced to mere corpses. And at the center of it all stood him.

Phainon, the prince you had kidnapped, the human you thought was nothing more than an arrogant, troublesome captive. Now, standing before you, bathed in crimson, he was something else entirely.

"You…" Your voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "What have you done?"

Phainon tilted his head, flicking stray droplets of blood from his blade. "What needed to be done" he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Your claws curled. You could feel the shift pulling at your skin, your instincts screaming at you to fight. "They came to help you."

He chuckled. "Did they?" His piercing blue eyes met yours, unblinking. "Or did they come to drag me back to a place I had no intention of returning to?"

You gritted your teeth. "You killed your own men!"

"And yet, here I stand." He took a step toward you, slow and deliberate. "And you, little dragon, haven’t run. Haven’t struck me down. Why is that?"

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had so many reasons. The problem was, you couldn’t pick one.

Because you were stunned. Because your mind still reeled from what you had just witnessed.

"You’re a monster" you snarled.

Phainon exhaled, his smirk softening, something almost fond flickering across his blood-smeared features. "I never claimed to be a hero."

That was it. That was the moment your restraint snapped.

You lunged.

Your tail lashed out, striking toward him like a whip, but he was fast. He sidestepped, blade flicking up just in time to meet your claws. Sparks flew as steel met scale.

"That’s more like it" he purred.

You growled, twisting, your tail sweeping at his legs. He jumped back, but you were already on him again, clawed hands gripping his tunic, shoving him hard against the stone wall.

"You think this is amusing?" you hissed, your breath hot against his face.

Phainon smiled.

"You’re magnificent when you’re angry" he murmured.

Your grip tightened. "I should rip you apart."

His smirk didn’t waver. "But you won’t."

Damn him for being right.

You hated that you hesitated. You hated that your instincts, your dragon instincts, were at war with something else entirely.

"You’ve fascinated me from the moment you took me" he confessed. "At first, I thought it was amusement. Curiosity." He tilted his head, the sharp edges of his expression easing just slightly. "But it’s more than that, isn’t it?"

"You could have killed me" he continued, as if weaving the truth between you both. "Yet you didn’t." His eyes traced your face, your form, like he was memorizing every detail. "And I could have killed you. Yet I won’t."

Your chest heaved. "Why?"

His fingers brushed your wrist, so gently, so deliberately.

"Because I don’t want to." His smile turned wicked. "Because I want you."

Your world tilted.

Your claws flexed, your mind screaming at you to reject it. To deny him. But Phainon only looked at you like he had already won. And you hated that you didn’t know if he was wrong.

You were still seething when Phainon led you toward the kingdom’s gates.

You should have run. You should have killed him.

But instead, you were here, walking beside the man who should have been your prisoner, yet somehow, you felt like the one who had been captured.

The city was alive with murmurs the moment the two of you entered. The scent of blood still clung to Phainon’s clothes, a stark contrast to his relaxed demeanor. People gasped, whispered, stepped aside as he walked through the streets with you in tow.

But it was nothing compared to the reaction inside the royal palace.

The moment the throne room doors burst open, the king and queen, seated on their ornate thrones, turned with sharp, wide-eyed disbelief.

"Phainon?" the king's voice was filled with stunned relief. "You're alive?"

The queen clutched her chest. "The knights said.." She hesitated, gaze flickering toward you. "Who is this?"

You barely had time to part your lips before Phainon slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against him.

His next words sent a ripple of shock through the room.

"This?" His smirk was downright predatory. "This one belongs to me now."

The king's expression darkened. "Phainon!"

"You sent knights to retrieve me," he interrupted smoothly. "And they failed. Miserably." He glanced down at you, as if you were some prize he had won rather than a kidnapper-turned-reluctant-companion. "So I took something better in return."

Your lips parted in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

His grip tightened ever so slightly. "Careful, little dragon," he murmured against your ear, low enough that only you could hear. "You wouldn’t want them thinking you’re protesting too much, now would you?"

Your body tensed. He was toying with you. In front of his entire court.

The queen’s hands trembled. "You’re injured—"

"A small price for something so valuable." Phainon mused, tilting his head. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

The nobles in the room exchanged whispers, none daring to speak aloud.

The king exhaled slowly, fingers tightening over the armrest of his throne. "What are you planning, Phainon?"

The prince's smirk widened. "Why, to keep them, of course."

The king finally spoke, his voice cold and measured. "Phainon, do you even understand what you're saying? You cannot simply claim someone as yours—"

"Oh, but I already have." Phainon’s grip on you was firm, his tone laced with amusement. "And I dare anyone to take them from me."

The challenge hung thick in the air, sending another wave of murmurs through the court.

You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to bare your fangs. "I am not some trinket to be owned."

Phainon turned to you, unbothered by your defiance, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Of course not." His hand brushed against yours, a deliberate taunt. "You’re something much rarer than that."

You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks, not from flattery, but from the sheer audacity of this human.

"Fine" you bit out, eyes narrowing. "But don’t think for a second that this means I belong to you. Make sure to keep your promise."

Phainon chuckled, tilting his head as if indulging a joke only he understood. Then, leaning in, he whispered just loud enough for you to hear:

"Oh, little dragon… you just haven't realized it yet."

And with that, the prince turned back to his stunned parents, still grinning like a man who had won everything.

You exhaled slowly. Knowing at least you won't have to live a miserable life anymore.

-----

[next]

[meiieiri]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐚 [gojo satoru]

synopsis: you got married to gojo satoru at the edge of a frozen lake in summer.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

warnings/tags: heavy angst, a love that’s TOO LITTLE TOO LATE if one can even call that a tag, unrequited love (kinda).

Marriage is a golden ring on a chain whose beginning is a single glance between two unsuspecting souls that ends with eternity.

Twelve years. You’ve loved him through twelve springs. It’s bittersweet to think how a person could give another their youth for free. But then again, the only things that you truly keep are the things you give away. That’s just life, isn’t it? And besides, you take a step towards the blue peony littered aisle with a wistful smile on your face as you picture a certain arctic-haired man standing at the other end, when it comes to matters of the heart, keeping ledgers of the love you give and the love you receive is a futile effort.

You should probably put that in your vows later. But ah, what did it matter? Satoru’s probably just gonna wing it later, arguing that expressions of love should be light-hearted and candid much like the love you share.

“Y/N-chan~!” He steps in front of you, his tall form towering over you as he catches you by the student lounge’s vending machine. Shoko smirks behind you, pulling Suguru ahead of you to leave the two of you alone. She nudges you forward and you cast her a betrayed look to which she only replies with an innocent shrug. It’s common knowledge to everyone in Tokyo Jujutsu High how you feel about the Gojo clan’s illustrious little starlet.

Well, it was common knowledge to everyone except Satoru Gojo.

And you don’t know if you find that comforting or saddening.

Comforting that he wouldn’t find out about your feelings from someone else, though you’re still working up the courage to fess up, you wholeheartedly believe that this is something he should hear from you and you alone. Saddening that maybe the reason he’s been all blissfully ignorant of how your breath becomes shallow whenever he’s around you is he’s actually already aware of your feelings towards him and he’s only deflecting it.

“We’ll go ahead, Y/N,” Shoko says in a sing-song voice, taking your cursed tool from you. “Come see me if you have any injuries!”

“But if it’s a broken heart, she probably can’t fix it,” Suguru chimes in, winking at Satoru as if to say: ‘Go talk to her.’ before turning to follow his girlfriend.

A hush falls between you and Satoru, unspoken words swirling around the two of you like a symphony of longing. Both of you seem to be saying the same thing:

Should I tell her?

Should I tell him?

What would she say?

Would he leave?

If the truth is meant to set you free, then he is your jailer. Why is he content with never uttering those words aloud? Why are you so eager to stay in the hedge maze of your mind, seeking his shadow at every corner? This was a tiring game of hide and seek.

But Satoru is completely fine with letting it drag on if it meant he’d never risk losing you.

And you were fine with that too. You were fine being a prisoner to your truth as long as he was with you in this jail cell. You were fine.

Whatever fine means.

“Wanna go to the arcade?” Satoru looks at you with a shimmering bittersweet look in his eyes.

You smile and a breathy laugh falls from your lips causing his face to light up even more.

“That depends, you gonna let me win?”

“Never.”

“Y/N! There you are.”

You turn around to see an older Shoko, her youthful bob cut having outgrown its juvenile flare. She looks out of breath, she must have run around the venue looking for you and judging from the way she keeps glancing at her watch, and the exasperated look she was throwing your way at the sight of you still in your silk robe, you needed to get moving.

But your feet remain planted in the middle of the empty aisle, your gaze trained on the arch.

“You feeling okay?” Shoko asks, her hand finding yours in a tender display of solidarity. “It’s okay to be nervous, you know.”

You flash her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I know. Just…deep in thought.”

“Yeah.”

Weddings are always so beautiful, you think to yourself as Shoko steps back giving you some space as you contemplate the day ahead. Your fingers trace one of the satin linens adorning the trellises much like your heart traces the contours of a love too delicate to verbalize, too powerful to ignore. Your gaze dances over the elegant arrangements of blue, white and gray, the scent of grapefruit-quince adorning the air, mixing with the scent of peonies, jasmines and white musk.

Everything here speaks of the imminent union of two souls finding their way to each other. And how comforting it is to know that no matter where you wander, all paths inevitably lead to Satoru Gojo. And you have your drunk cartographer heart to thank for that.

“He loves you,” Shoko finally says, catching your wrist to bring you over to the gazebo to get touched up.

“…I know.”

You look back at the empty aisle, with all but one question in your mind.

What happens when simply knowing is no longer enough?

“Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again with my sunglasses off?”

You nearly choke on your yogurt drink when you see yet another stunningly familiar light blue sticky note on your desk. Satoru fucking Gojo is going to be the death of you one day. Your touch grazes over the hastily scribbled note, a small smile playing at your lips as you take out a white pad of sticky notes from your school bag. After collecting your thoughts, you decide to play along with his little game, your heart fluttering when you realize that this back and forth could actually be considered flirting.

“There’s no such thing as love at first sight. And sorry, pretty boys like you aren’t exactly my type.”

Satoru finds the white sticky note plastered on his stool in Jujutsu Tech’s science lab. Despite the playful jab in your reply, Satoru is hyperfixated on the fact that you just called him pretty. Did you really mean it? He bites the inside of his cheek being careful not to grin too much in fear of Suguru catching wind of what’s happening — the strongest sorcerer of this generation being caught off-guard by his little crush? Detestable!

“You think I’m pretty? ;) I knew it.”

Shoko looks at you funnily, you’re practically red as a tomato with how you’re fuming from the ears and sputtering about how ridiculous Satoru is being. “He’s just so…so…!”

“You really should work on finishing your sentences now~”

You are interrupted at the sight Satoru practically hopping down the steps leading to the training field with a convenience store bag tucked under his arm and you sigh exasperatedly, turning away as if he was a bug that’s hovering over your ear that you really shouldn’t be paying attention to. All of his six foot two form plops down next to you and you jump when he presses a cold ice cream bar to your cheek.

“You’re awfully generous today, Satoru,” you smirk, accepting and lifting the ice cream bar in silent gratitude, suppressing the blush creeping onto your cheeks.

Satoru blushes himself, his hand coming up to rub the back of his head as a comfortable silence falls between the two of you. Shit, say something, Satoru thinks to himself. Was he being too obvious? Did you somehow piece it together now that he has feelings for you?

In his internal dilemma, Satoru settles for undermining the deliberate gesture.

“I only needed two more stickers to get this really neat toy,” Satoru explains, reaching into the convenience store bag and pulling out his new tamagotchi. “Pretty worth it, I would say. The one I saw in Akihabara is being sold for 7500 yen, but that’s the angelgotch variety, so I kinda get the whole roadside robbery thing.”

Of course, he steered the conversation elsewhere. You’re not even surprised at this point that he’ll always only stay at the surface when he treads these long drawn out conversations with you, too afraid to say anything more — do anything more — than what was necessary as your friend.

Keyword: friend.

He had no obligation to you other than being your friend. And you don’t blame him. You’re not angry at him that he’s only willing to stay in shallow water with you, it’s just…

“Hey, I have to go, Yaga’s calling me.” Satoru casually interrupts your train of heartbroken thoughts, but you do not miss the unease in his voice, he almost sounds sorry that he has to bail again.

But you already send him off with a reluctant thumbs up. As you look at his retreating form, he stops for a bit at the stone tori gate, his head bowed in thought, you don’t know why you held your breath. He reaches into his pocket, but thinks better of it, and he paces two hesitant steps forward.

Then, he looks back to meet your eyes from afar.

And his heart clenches in a mixture of affection and exasperation when you are the first to blushingly look away.

The ten feet separating the two of you is very reminiscent of how you began: running in opposite directions to outdo the other in your competition to see who can act that they care less, placing more distance between your flustered hearts. Satoru gazes at you as if he’s seen the divine incarnated into a single beautiful being. He wipes a tear from his eye, sniffing momentarily, watching you gracefully float down the aisle with an equally smitten expression on your features.

Clutching the bouquet in your hands, you don’t break eye contact and everything seems to unfold like a motion picture before your very eyes, your and Satoru’s life together in vivid cinematography: your first dance later tonight, your first trip out of the country together for your honeymoon, your first time, your first year, your first child. Everything. You’ve imagined Satoru to be your first in everything. And as you make your way to the aisle, tears glistening in both your orbs, you stop to meet in the middle, the two of you standing on fate’s edge together.

He casts you a look, and you offer him a melancholic smile.

This was it.

…

…

…

…

The doors open and his bride arrives, and you move to the side, taking your place next to Shoko, painfully leaving the space you and Satoru briefly shared, a space that was never meant for you in the first place.

Which begs the question again: what happens when knowing is no longer enough?

Or is it…the two of you never knew at all how the other felt?

No, you and Shoko watch as Satoru stares at you from his peripheral, his heart fragmenting into irreparable pieces at each step his bride makes towards him.

Should I tell her?

Should I tell him?

What would she say?

Would he leave?

The answer is clear now. He wouldn’t have left. Things were just left unsaid, never admitted — the words that you longed to hear from one another never fell from your lips. Not once in the twelve years you secretly held him in your heart. And thus, fate then decreed that love is for the brave, and not for cowardly souls like you and Satoru Gojo.

And with whatever strength you have left, uncaring if this would cause you to look scandalous: a bridesmaid going after the groom, you mouth the words: “I love you.”

A pained smile appears on his lips, an allegory to the goofy grins he used to flash you when you two were young, and he nods, tears in his eyes.

This was twelve years too late. But it’s better than never.

“I knew it.”

[postmoe]

So, I'm getting around to doing Amphoreus and... we're at the bath house... and there is a special bath house for heroes.... can you imagine being taken in there without anyone else knowing just to be banged senselessly?

With Mydei and Phainon x Reader

girl we on the same wave length. I just added a bit to something i had going but didn't like it enough for the story i wanted lol.

non-con, helplessness, a bit of choking, bathhouse, ambrosia, master/servant dynamicish

Translations off google so (I went the Ancient Greek route)... Dominus - Master. He philtatē - dearest love. (feminine).

.

Amphoreus is full of many heroes, and though they are all strong and worthy of their titles, there are some that put true unease in others.

Like Mydei. Even with Phainon right next to him, trying to lighten the mood in the room, people still fear his sharp looks and dominating muscles. Everyone has seen what these two heroes can do, and no one wants to be on the wrong side of them.

Not to mention how protective they are of each other. Back and forth arguments seem like nothing when their anger is truly displayed, especially at people who speak ill of their partner.

And then there's you, their precious, priceless darling. A warning isn't good enough if you were to be picked on, broken bones, lost jobs, people are still debating whether or not the person who moved lands is dead or still alive.

So, when you're dragged from your station, or told to meet them somewhere, everyone drops everything to make sure you comply. Which is why, even if people did see you be hauled into the heroes bathhouse, you know calling for help would do nothing good.

That's why you stand there, sweat soaking through your white road, nipples poking into wet, sheer fabric, face stoic and hands holding a large jug of wine like it were any other client. They seem entertained enough by each other, hopefully today they will just leave you alone.

However, as Mydei pulls away from the heated kiss, grinning drunkenly your way and leaning his head against the edge of the in ground bath, you know there is no such luck. "He philtatē, come drink ambrosia with us," he practically moans, Phainon grinding his naked body in his lap, kissing and lapping up the sweat of his lovers neck.

You make a point to keep your eyes facing forward, not wanting to give them the thought that you're indulging in their actions, "No, thank you, dominus. I am working right now." That's not to say you would if you weren't on shift, but, it's as good an excuse as any other.

Phainon finally frees his mouth from the other's body, sculling the rest of his drink, red ambrosia trickling over his lips, down the cleft of his neck, and over the pecs of his chest before mixing with the bath water and disappearing. His eyes are hooded, cheeks dusted red with the effects of alcohol and lust, "Why the sudden harsh treatment, He philtatē, you were never this reserved when we first met."

With a bow of your head, avoiding his gaze, you say, "Kindess is part of the job. I welcomed you in, my job is done."

"Boo~" Phainon whines, rolling off of Mydei and sitting next to him in the water. "You're not like this after work or with your colleagues," he mutters, now holding out his empty cup, "Refill, please!"

You're not even going to ask how he knows what you're like when they're not around, already having the sneaking suspicion they've been following you and paying someone to tail you when they're gone. You crouch down to aim the jug into the goblet, only for Mydei to snatch the wine from your hands which makes you cry out a, "Hey!"

Within moments, you're being dragged into the water by a laughing Phainon. You thrash and splash the water as you're manhandled, thick fingers pulling your clinging robe over your head, leaving you in thin panties and the gold chains around your torso to help support your breasts. You're held tightly against his chest, coddled like a sweet pet until you stop moving so violently. Once you calm down enough, Mydei hands a cup to Phainon, who then promptly presses the rim to your tightly sealed lips, "Ambrosia~ Ambrosia for He philtatē~"

His other hand is roughly grabbing your jaw, the ache forcing your mouth to part enough for the liquid to slip through. You grunt, swallowing the sweet drink, a lot of it falling down your front, until the cup is empty. His hand is swaying in front of your face, the motion annoying you so you backhand the goblet, it flying and dunking in the water. He's so out of it that it takes him a minute to realise what you've done, the man laughing and messily petting your head in a playful manner.

Mydei exhales, sinking further into the bath to relax his muscles, "The whole trip he wouldn't shut up about you. 'When can we see (Y/n) again?' 'How much longer until we leave for (Y/n)?' 'Do you think if I send a letter, it'll reach her before we get back?' Couldn't even focus on fighting."

Phainon cheekily pinches your cheek, directing your attention back to him, "Funny he says that. Just whose name do you think he was calling every night we fucked?" You grab at his wrists once they start to slip to your cunt, fingers brushing your clit while your strength did nothing to hold him back. He didn't even acknowledge it, choosing instead to ask, "We have those new heroes, too. Should we introduce them to our private hole?" A wince escapes you as he slips a finger in, your pussy clenching from the intrusion. He swirls his digit around before adding another, "And what of Anaxa? Where is he?"

"Anaxa is still busy, he won't be back for another month," Mydei steps from the tiled ledge and stands in front of you, his large hands stroking over your shoulders, cupping your breasts in his palms and grazing the nipples with his thumbs. His eyes follow every move with a predatory gaze, "They certainly have proved their worth..."

You zone out as they talk about you like some object. Gritting your teeth, frustrated tears mix with the sweat on your face as you silently cry. What sort of a God or Titan or Deity would allow something such as this to happen to one of their subjects? It just proves how lost your soul really is from everyone else's. Everyone was right, you were abandoned by the titans the moment you were conceived.

Mydei pushes himself against your front, sandwiching you between him and Phainon so he can easily kiss your tears away, "Now look what you've done, you made her cry."

Phainon coos against your hair, his fingers hooking inside you to get a jerking reacting out of you, your hips trapped between the two, "It's okay, He philtatē, we won't share you if you don't want to. It actually makes me happy to see your heart is ours alone."

That's absolutely not true.

"Just be good for us tonight or else we might have to get them to 'help' hold you down," Mydei chuckles drunkenly as if his joke was actually something worth laughing at.

It pissed you off how he could just say something like that and get away with it. You pushed a sturdy hand against his chest, halting him from your boldness. (E/c) eyes look to the door, longing for anyone to enter and stop this madness. Your voice is quiet, moisture inside your mouth gone from the alcohol, bath heat and sexual actions of these men, "One day... One day someone will stop you."

The amused rumble from Phainon's chest made your heart sink. Then, when Mydei's fierce eyes sharped as his grin showed too many teeth to bring an intense foreboding to flood your veins, you shrank back into Phainon as he suddenly seemed to be the lesser of two evils. Mydei scoffed and gripped the base of your neck, your chin tilted up on the curve of his thumb and index as he held you just hard enough to make you wheeze and meet his eyes, "That day won't be a day you're alive."

When he finally let go, the world around you went white and your head couldn't tell which way gravity was holding you. Thankfully, you had your two heroes to keep you safe.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

the cure to his curse

sylus x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || drabble out of boredom that spiraled into a series while listening to linkin park's song - heavy || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is not smut || story masterlist : love and deepspace

previous

ELEVEN

Your breath hitched as Sylus reached you.

You heard MC huff indignantly, a sound of profound displeasure, but you ignored her.

Sylus did too.

The world seemed to stop, shrinking down to just the two of you as he towered over you. Hesitantly, carefully, you reached out and rested your palm on his chest, right where his heart beat.

A sob, unwilling to be contained, escaped your lips as you felt the steady rhythm under your touch. He was alive.

He was truly, miraculously alive.

Sylus gasped as he felt your touch, his crimson eyes, usually so guarded, wide with disbelief. He watched your reaction, searched your face, a mirroring uncertainty in his gaze, as if he too was trying to determine if this was dream, illusion, or breathtaking reality.

Then, with a relieved sigh, he cupped your face tenderly, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that spilled from your eyes. You nestled your cheek into the warmth of his hand, relishing the familiar sensation.

He pulled you to his chest, and you allowed yourself to fall into his embrace, your legs finally giving way, unable to hold back the sobs that wracked your body.

His strong arms wrapped around you, his hand caressing your hair, your head, your shoulders, and your back.

"I'm back," he whispered softly against your temple, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry for causing such a scare. Thank you… thank you for holding everything together. For Onychinus, for me."

Suddenly, MC's voice shattered the moment, sharp and accusing, laced with victimhood. "Sylus! What is this nonsense? Why are you embracing her? I've always been your destined mate!"

Sylus turned, a subtle shift in his posture indicating he had regained some of his formidable balance, though still a bit unsteady. His gaze, piercing and calm, fixed on MC.

"Can you still feel the invisible cuff on your wrist?" he asked, his voice low. "The one that bound us together?"

With all her ingrained confidence, MC lifted her wrist, expecting to see the faint, ethereal shimmer of the bond.

But she saw nothing.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, then her gaze snapped back to Sylus, who had raised his own wrist, now conspicuously bare, free of any binding.

Sylus glanced at you, then back at MC.

"While I was slipping away," he began, his voice soft, almost melancholic, "close to death, I saw a vision. Chains being broken. And a new link forming."

His eyes, filled with an indescribable tenderness, met yours.

"The new link isn't heavy. It's… full of warmth."

It dawned on you then, a realization that hit you like a physical slap. The day you’d desperately saved him, in the chaotic adrenaline of the moment, you’d completely forgotten about it.

The glowing, pulsating bracelet, a cuff, chains, whatever it was, that had formed on your wrist, connected to an identical one on Sylus's.

The bond that linked him and MC had simply vanished.

'The fucking true love's kiss according to Zayne's ridiculous theories,' you thought.

MC stood in disbelief, muttering, "No… that's not how it's supposed to happen. Nobody can break fate. Nobody can bend destiny."

Tears streamed down her face, frantic and inconsolable, unable to accept that the curse she had placed on Sylus, the chains that bound him through lifetimes, were finally, irrevocably broken.

Sylus simply looked at her, his expression a mix of melancholy and a deep, resolute peace.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice imbued with a newfound clarity, "it's because she gave me all her love. Her undivided heart. Her life to me, and me alone."

He looked at you, his sharp features softened, "Even if I don't deserve her love, she still gave me her everything."

He paused, his gaze unwavering as he spoke to you directly, "I wish to reciprocate it. I wish to love on my own will, to be with someone I desire, with someone who forged connections from nothing, who fought by my side through hell and back."

His eyes held yours, filled with a quiet, powerful yearning. "I want that person to be you. Only if you accept me. My love. Despite everything."

MC was inconsolable, her sobs echoing in the room. Zayne, looking utterly exhausted, his own heart aching from MC's blatant disregard for his feelings, remained composed. He gently, but firmly, ushered MC out of the room.

Luke and Kieran, sensing the profound intimacy of the moment, also exited, positioning themselves as silent sentinels outside the door.

You and Sylus were left alone. You walked towards him, seeing him wobble slightly, his weakened body still protesting. You guided him gently back to his bed, and he pulled you into his arms, fully inhaling your scent as he nuzzled your neck.

"I missed you," he muttered against your skin, and you simply hugged him tighter, the warmth of his presence a comfort you’d craved for so long.

He pulled away slightly, still keeping you cradled in his embrace, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that laid bare his deepest emotions.

For the first time, there were no masks, no walls.

He was terrified, guilty, yearning, hoping, and most of all, his love for you shone brightly in those beautiful crimson eyes.

"Will you… give me another chance?" he asked again, his voice raw with vulnerability.

You couldn't speak. Words felt inadequate, lost in the overwhelming surge of emotion. But you knew what you wanted.

You wanted him.

All of him.

You nodded, tears blurring your vision as you managed a tremulous smile.

Then, you leaned forward, your lips finding his, pressing a soft kiss.

He gasped, a small sound of surprise, then kissed you back, and you melted into his arms, utterly consumed.

You both settled onto the bed, acutely aware of the countless challenges that awaited you once he was fully recovered.

But for now, in this moment, you had each other.

You gave yourselves this time, this space, until you were both ready to face the world together, no longer shadowed by a cruel curse, but strengthened by a love freely chosen, deeply felt.

★ 𝓯𝓲𝓷 ★

a/n : i've always wanted to write something like this, inspired by the lads x non-mc stories that i've read. i know its kinda rushed, a bit messy, but if you have reached this part — thank you for reading.❤︎ feel free to reblog, drop any messages and check my other stories. x

[odileeclipse]

A Wager of Fate PT 8 Final part

The Silver Tree, once a pillar of luminous divinity, shuddered against its broken chains, its glow dimming with each passing moment. The air carried the scent of old magic, of something ancient unraveling. The Silver Knights stood at a distance, their figures rigid with hesitation, with sorrow. White Lily Cookie lingered among them, hands clasped tight around her staff, her fuchsia eyes dim with grief. And in the heart of it all Elder Faerie Cookie. His presence, once unwavering as the roots of the Silver Tree itself, was now weighed down by something heavier than time. He stood apart from the others, just as you had asked. Alone with you. Shadow Milk Cookie lingered just at the edges of your perception, watching, waiting. You could feel his gaze—expectant, patient in his own way, but still unwilling to slip too far from your side. He had already won, hadn’t he? What more was there for him to do but gloat? You turned slightly, gripping your arms. "Just… leave me alone with Elder Faerie for a bit." Your voice was barely above a whisper, but there was a tremor in it. There was a pause, a hum of amusement. "Alone?" Shadow Milk mused, tilting his head, unseen but there in the shifting light. "Ah, my dear, what a lonely request. After all we've been through?"

Your shoulders tensed. "Please." A beat of silence. Then, a chuckle lighter than it should have been, but not unkind. "As you wish, little Faerie." A playful lilt, but no deceit in his words this time. "But don't keep me waiting too long." And with that, the weight of his presence receded, though you knew better than to believe he was truly gone. Finally, Elder Faerie spoke. “I had thought,” he murmured, “that I would never feel this kind of pain.” Your breath hitched. Elder Faerie exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It is not the seal,” he continued. “Not the kingdom. Not even the danger you have released upon Earthbread.” His gaze, though lined with exhaustion, did not waver from you. “It is you that pains me most.” Your hands curled into trembling fists. “Elder Faerie, I-” “I will not allow you to be remembered this way,” he interrupted softly. His voice did not carry the weight of anger, but of something far worse. “Your name will not be tied to destruction. Not if I can help it.” You swallowed the lump in your throat near unbearable. He stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow beneath the waning glow of the Silver Tree. “Even now,” he continued, quieter, “I cannot bring myself to hate you.” Your breath came sharp. “I should.” His voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I should rage at you. I should curse your name, demand that you answer for what you have done.” His fingers tightened around his staff, his composure threatening to crack. “But I cannot.” Your vision blurred with unshed tears. “Then…then hate him.” Elder Faerie’s expression darkened, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “I do.” The admission was quiet, restrained. “I loathe him for what he has taken. For what he has twisted.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then let out a slow breath. “But my hatred means nothing now. The seal is broken.”

Your body trembled. “Then we can fix it-” “No.” Elder Faerie’s voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed the weight he carried. “I can no longer fix it.” A pause. Then, more softly, “I have grown weaker over eons. The tree is no longer what it was.” Your breath came uneven. “But there has to be” “Do not dwell on it,” he interrupted, his voice gentle yet firm. “That is no longer your burden.” Your chest ached, torn between desperation and guilt. “But I” Elder Faerie reached out. His hand, despite everything, came to rest lightly against the side of your face. It was warm, grounding. A gesture of comfort. Of forgiveness. “I know you,” he whispered. “Better than you know yourself.” His fingers curled slightly, not in force, but in something fragile. “Your heart, your instinct, it has always been what guided you. It led you astray, but…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I do not believe it was ever meant to harm.” Your lips parted, but no words came. His gaze, softer than you deserved, held you captive. “Follow it, one last time.” The weight of his words settled deep in your chest. “Elder Faerie…” He gave the smallest of smiles, faint, tired. “Do not worry.” A pause. Then, quieter, “I will find a way.” The promise was as heavy as it was impossible. But even as he spoke it, you could see, could feel the pain beneath it. He blamed himself. For failing to guide you. For failing to save you. And even as he stood before you, speaking of hope, speaking of solutions his heart was breaking.

Tears blurred your vision, the fractured light of the Silver Tree casting a wavering glow over Elder Faerie’s grief-stricken face. His hand still rested against your cheek, warm despite the cold reality that had settled between you. You had broken the seal. You had shattered everything you had once vowed to protect. And yet, he stood there not condemning you, not striking you down, but aching for you. Your breath trembled as you whispered, “If I’m going to be remembered for this if they curse my name for what I’ve done then let them.” Your hands clenched at your sides. “You shouldn’t cover it up.” Elder Faerie’s expression flickered, but the sorrow in his eyes remained unmoving. “I chose this,” you continued, voice shaking but resolute. “Even if it’s wrong, even if I can’t take it back, I won’t let you erase it for me.” Your chest ached with every word. “I can own up to what I’ve done.” Elder Faerie exhaled slowly, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. When he opened them again, his sadness had not lessened, but his resolve had hardened. “No,” he said softly. “I will not let you bear this weight.” A sharp inhale stung your throat. “Why—” “Because you are still my kin.” His voice, though quiet, carried the finality of a thousand years. “Even now.” His fingers curled slightly against your skin before he withdrew his hand. A silence stretched between you, heavy with the truth neither of you wanted to face. Elder Faerie turned slightly, his gaze shifting beyond the ruined seal, beyond the Silver Tree that now stood vulnerable, its light waning. The Silver Knights still lingered, hesitant, awaiting orders that could no longer undo what had already been done. White Lily Cookie stood among them, her fuchsia eyes dark with sorrow.

With a weary sigh, Elder Faerie straightened his posture, the weight of leadership settling over him once more. “We are leaving.” Your breath hitched. “What?” “There is nothing left for us here.” His voice carried the burden of his decision. “The seal is broken. There is no longer a cage to protect.” He turned to you once more, his gaze firm. “I must protect my people instead.” A lump formed in your throat. “But Shadow Milk he’s-” “He is sparing the kingdom for you.” Elder Faerie’s voice, though not unkind, left no room for denial. “And that is not something I can gamble with. His mercy is not our salvation, it is a fleeting kindness.” His jaw tightened. “I will not allow unnecessary danger to fall upon my people.” The words sent a chill through you. “You mean to run?” “I mean to survive.” Elder Faerie’s eyes burned with determination. “I will not let our people fall, not while I still have the strength to lead them away from this.” Your lips parted, searching for words, searching for anything that could convince him otherwise. But what could you say? You had already chosen your path. Elder Faerie let out a quiet breath, stepping past you, back toward his people, the silver knights as the kingdom’s fate was unknown. “Stay if you must,” he said, the slightest waver in his voice betraying the pain beneath his resolve. “But I will not allow them to suffer for your decision.” The finality of his words settled over you like a crushing weight. And as he walked away, leading the remnants of the Faerie Kingdom into the shadows, you could do nothing but watch.

Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach out, to hold onto just a moment longer before he was gone. But you didn't. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and let your hand fall back to your side. Your wings trembled as you watched Elder Faerie retreat, his silhouette fading into the gathering darkness, his presence growing ever distant. Even now, he refused to hate you. Even now, he carried the weight of this loss as if it were his burden to bear instead of yours. Your chest ached. A whisper, barely above breath, slipped from your lips. “…Shadow Milk.” The wind curled around you, stirring the remnants of broken magic in the air, but you felt the shift almost instantly. A presence, cool and familiar, coiling around the edges of your senses. It seeped into the space beside you, unseen but undeniably there. “You called for me, little Faerie?” His voice was softer now, almost indulgent, as if savoring the way you sought him. Your eyes remained on the path where Elder Faerie had disappeared, but your fingers curled slightly as if grasping for something unseen. “Did I…” You swallowed, throat dry. “Did I do the right thing?”

A silence followed, but not an empty one. It was a silence considering, a silence that weighed your question like a game piece in hand. Then, Shadow Milk sighed, a sound both amused and something else you couldn’t decipher. “Ah, my dear, sweet thing… still seeking absolution?” His tone was almost fond. “Do you wish for me to ease your conscience?” You blinked hard, trying to clear the blur of your tears. “I don’t know what happens now.” Your voice was fragile, breaking at the edges. “What do I do?” A soft chuckle, curling with something unspoken. “Well,” Shadow Milk murmured, “you are free now.” That word free. It didn’t feel as weightless as it should have. You exhaled shakily. “Are the others…?” You hesitated, staring at the broken remnants of the seal. “Are they still dormant?” Shadow Milk’s response was slow, deliberate. “For now.” Your breath hitched. “When?” “When will I wake them?” His voice lilted, teasing, but you could feel the coil of something much sharper beneath it. You turned slightly, not quite facing him, but seeking him all the same. “Yes.” Shadow Milk hummed, considering. “Now, now… that would be spoiling the fun, wouldn’t it?” A chill curled around your spine. You could feel the amusement in his tone, but it was like a magician withholding the final reveal. A game he refused to lay bare. “Then… they’re still asleep?” you asked, almost hopeful. Shadow Milk laughed, a quiet, velvety sound. “Oh, little Faerie… you ask so many questions.” His voice lowered, curling at the edges of your mind. “Why not enjoy the moment? I am here, after all.” You let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t giving you answers. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “…Then what happens now?” Shadow Milk didn’t answer right away. Instead, you felt him shift, felt the weight of his presence settle closer, his words pressing against your ear like a secret. “Now?” He purred. “Now, we dance.”

You let out a short, breathless laugh, blinking up at the darkened sky. “You’re joking.” Shadow Milk only tilted his head or at least, you felt the shift of his presence, playful and indulgent. You shook your head, a wry smile ghosting over your lips despite everything. “Why dance?” He hummed, the sound rich and teasing, curling around you like silk. “Would you prefer I say something dreadfully serious?” His voice lilted with kindness, yet there was something almost intentional in his lightness, as if daring you to follow. “Or is it that you think a dance couldn’t possibly be fitting for the moment?” You crossed your arms, wings twitching. “Do you think that would cheer me up?” Your voice was softer than you meant it to be, not accusing just tired. “Or are you just trying to distract me from everything?” Shadow Milk chuckled. “Why, both, of course.” You sighed, shaking your head. “I own what I did,” you murmured. “I made my choice. I know that. But I’m not… happy about how I got here.” You hesitated, watching the remnants of the shattered seal glimmer faintly against the wind. “Shadow Milk… is this supposed to make it easier?”

Silence, for just a moment. Then, a whisper of a touch just the ghost of a presence brushing against your fingers, cold yet oddly inviting. “Dancing,” he mused, his voice dipping into something softer, “is not about forgetting.” A pause. “It’s about moving forward.” Your breath caught. “Would you rather stand still?” His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “Would you rather dwell in misery, in self-loathing, in regret?” His tone dipped into something almost mocking not cruel, just coaxing. “Or would you rather live?” You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching slightly. “And dancing is living?” Shadow Milk exhaled a sigh, as if you were terribly, terribly slow. “Oh, my dear.” There was a smile in his voice now. “Dancing is simply another form of freedom.” You weren’t sure what to say to that. He waited, patient, ever-present. “…Do I have a choice?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His chuckle curled against your ear like mist. “You always do.” The wind stirred. The air shifted. And then, like a hand extended into the dark, his presence curled around you once more. “Well?” Shadow Milk purred. “Shall we?”

The wind carried the last remnants of silver leaves across the ruined clearing, their shimmer dull beneath the weight of what had transpired. The once-sacred heart of the Faerie Kingdom lay fractured, the Silver Tree’s light all but extinguished. And yet, in the midst of the devastation, there he stood real, no longer just a voice in the dark. You had seen his real form before but you didn’t get a chance to take it all in. Maybe it was the way in the end, you and him had chosen each other. Shadow Milk Cookie was no longer a mere whisper in your mind, no longer a presence lurking just beyond reach. He was here, standing before you in full form, his tall, spindly frame draped in the harlequin darks of his bodysuit. His cyan and cerulean eyes glowed with something unreadable, flickering between amusement and something deeper. He extended a hand toward you, palm up, inviting. You hesitated. Now that you could truly see him, there was no excuse to hide behind the ambiguity of shadows. There was no veil of mystery, no plausible deniability. He was real, tangible, a force unshackled by the chains you had shattered with your own hands. And yet… he looked at you as if none of that mattered. "You hesitate," he mused, his voice dipping into a knowing lilt. “Shall I extend the invitation more sweetly? Should I bow? Kiss your hand? Or…” He leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his mismatched eyes. “Perhaps you’d prefer I demand it? A grand decree, from your villain of choice.” You scoffed, shaking your head, forcing something close to amusement onto your face. “You really think this is going to fix everything?” Shadow Milk hummed, unbothered. “Oh, little Faerie, I never said that.” His fingers flexed slightly, a silent offer still waiting. “I simply said we should dance.”

You exhaled slowly, looking past him for just a moment. Beyond the clearing, hidden within the trees, a figure stood in the dim glow of the fractured remnants of the Silver Tree. Elder Faerie Cookie watched. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders bore the weight of unspoken sorrow. He had sworn to erase you from the kingdom’s history, to protect you even as you had broken him. He would not allow you to be remembered as a villain but it didn’t change the truth. He had already lost you. Perhaps he had lost you long before this moment. Your fingers twitched at your side. The ache in your chest burned, sharp and unrelenting. You could not go back. Not after this. Not even if he forgave you. The Faerie Kingdom was no longer yours, no longer a place that would welcome you with open arms. Perhaps, it never truly had. You let out a breathy laugh, hollow but deceptively lighthearted. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, lifting your gaze back to Shadow Milk. His smile stretched into something terribly pleased. “Mmm. Yet you always come back” You swallowed. Your hands trembled, just barely. Then, before you could stop yourself, you reached forward and placed your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, cold yet steady, grounding in a way that sent a shiver up your spine. He grinned, sharp and triumphant, but there was something else in his eyes, something that wasn’t quite mockery, wasn’t quite gloating. Something softer.

Shadow Milk did not rush you. He did not sweep you into some grand, theatrical motion. Instead, he took a single step closer, his free hand resting lightly against your waist, guiding you gently into place. And then, the dance began. The broken clearing became your stage. Shadow Milk moved with effortless grace, leading you through slow, deliberate steps, his body curling and twisting with the natural showmanship of an entertainer who knew his craft well. His coattails swirled like dark silk, the eyes within them blinking lazily in time with the movements. You followed, your feet lighter than you had expected, though your heart remained unbearably heavy. ���So,” you said after a moment, feigning nonchalance, “what do I get for playing along with your little show?” Shadow Milk smirked. “Ah, so you do know how to play.” “Answer the question.” He hummed, pretending to think. “You get to forget, for a moment.” He twirled you with ease, letting you spiral before catching you again, his grip firm yet never forceful. “You get to pretend, just as I do. Isn’t that what you wanted?” You hated how easy it was to let yourself fall into the rhythm. Hated how the weight in your chest eased, if only slightly, as the world blurred around you in a slow waltz of shadow and silver light. Maybe you did want to pretend. Maybe deceit was all you had left. From the distance, Elder Faerie Cookie still watched, his expression unreadable, his grief buried beneath the stoicism of a ruler who had no choice but to move forward. But even as he turned away, retreating into the forest to gather what was left of his people, his heart ached with the bitter knowledge that, at the very least, You had chosen this.

The world outside your musicless dance had long since begun to fade. The broken clearing, the Silver Tree’s dying glow, the ghosts of the past that still lingered behind them it all blurred into irrelevance. The only thing left was the steady twirl of shadow and movement, the quiet rhythm that only the two of them could hear. But even as your feet moved in time with his, even as the air between you became lighter with each step, the weight in your chest never truly lifted. There was still something you needed to know. Your fingers curled slightly against his as you exhaled, steadying yourself. “Why me?” Shadow Milk tilted his head, mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, and here I thought you had already figured it out.” You shook your head, gaze steady despite the hesitance twisting in your gut. “Did you always feel this way? Or was it because I could free you?”

For the first time, Shadow Milk faltered. It was barely a flicker a momentary pause in his movement, a beat of silence too brief to be intentional. And then he laughed, soft and lilting, his grip on you tightening just slightly as he resumed his steps. “Would it truly matter?” he mused, spinning you once more before catching you again. “You were the only one who could hear me. The only one who listened.” His voice dipped, something unreadable in the way he regarded you now. “That was all it took.” Your throat felt tight. “That’s not an answer.” Shadow Milk only smiled. Your gaze searched his face, looking for something, some hint of truth, some crack in the performance. But he was as unreadable as ever, his expression locked in the same knowing amusement that had always defined him. Maybe he didn’t even know the answer himself. Maybe you didn’t want to hear it. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe through the weight in your chest. “Where are we going after all this?” He hummed, seemingly pleased by your acceptance of the change in subject. “The Spire of Knowledge.”

Your brow furrowed. “The Spire…?” You hesitated, something about the name tugging at old memories. “That was your domain.” Shadow Milk’s grin stretched wider. “Was being the key word.” He twirled you again, slower this time, deliberate. “It was once a place of truth. Of wisdom, enlightenment a monument to Knowledge itself.” He leaned in slightly, voice dipping to a whisper against your ear. “But truth is such a fragile thing, isn’t it?” You shivered, but not from fear. He pulled back, mismatched eyes glinting with something dangerously pleased. “It is only fitting that it becomes something new.” Your stomach twisted. “What do you mean?” “The Spire of Deceit.” His voice was soft, but the weight of the words made the air around you feel colder. “More befitting of who I am now than what I once was.” A chill ran through you, not from his words alone, but from the way he said them. There was no hesitation, no regret only a quiet certainty. Your gaze flickered downward. This is what I chose. There was no going back. Shadow Milk shifted slightly, his grip on your hand loosening just enough to give you an out—to let you step away, if you wanted. But you didn’t. Your fingers remained laced with his, your body still moving with his lead, even as doubt clawed at your ribs. From the distance, beyond the ruins of the Silver Tree, the Faerie Kingdom lay shrouded in the veil of deceit Shadow Milk had cast. You couldn’t see Elder Faerie anymore. You didn’t know if he had left or if he simply no longer watched. But it didn’t matter. Your world had already changed.

The realization settled in slowly, like ink bleeding into parchment.  

If you had stayed, if you had remained the Silver Tree’s guardian, you would have never been free. Not truly. Even if you had fought off the whispers, resisted temptation, devoted yourself wholly to the kingdom… the chains of duty would have remained. You would have always been at war with the shadows. Always peering over your shoulder, waiting for the next deceit to creep in and sink its claws into you.  But now?   Now, there was nothing left to guard. The Silver Tree no longer bound you. Everything comes at a price. Perhaps this was yours. As the dance slowed, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of duty no longer suffocated your ribs, no longer dictated every action, every thought. You were unshackled. And yet, even in this newfound freedom, you found yourself searching for something, some lingering trace of what had once been.  

Your gaze flickered back to Shadow Milk. His expression was unreadable, though amusement still curled at the edges of his lips. He had won. He knew it. But there was no gloating, no smug declarations of victory. He simply watched you, waiting. You hesitated, then spoke. “What was it like?”  His brow arched. “What was what like?”  Your grip on his hand tightened slightly. “Being the Sage of Truth. Before… all of this.”  For the first time since his freedom, Shadow Milk was silent.  The air between you grew still, the weight of your question settling over the space like a thick mist. His grip did not falter, but something in his posture shifted just slightly. The ever-present playfulness in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter, something distant. “…Ah,” he murmured, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to ask. He exhaled, gaze flickering skyward. “It was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. Your heart twisted.  It was rare to see him hesitate. Shadow Milk was never at a loss for words, always weaving truths and lies together so seamlessly that one could never tell where reality ended and illusion began. But now? Now he looked as though he were peering through a fogged window, trying to recall a reflection that had long since faded.Finally, he spoke. “It was lonely.”  

Your breath caught. His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself to the present. “Truth is a bitter thing. Everyone claims to seek it, to crave knowledge, to desire understanding. But in the end…” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “They only want the truths that comfort them. The rest?” His fingers brushed against yours, slow and deliberate. “They discard. They turn away. They call it cruel, monstrous even when it is simply reality.”  His mismatched eyes met yours, glinting with something almost unreadable. “That is why they chose him over me.” You knew who he meant. Pure Vanilla Cookie. Your lips parted, but you found yourself at a loss. What could you even say?  Shadow Milk smiled, but it was different this time. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… tired. “I thought I could endure it. I thought I could bear the burden alone.” His voice softened. “But even the strongest of foundations can crumble beneath the weight of solitude.” The ache in your chest deepened. He had been a Sage. A beacon of truth. A pillar of wisdom. And yet, in the end, he had been left alone. The realization settled into your bones, heavy and undeniable. Even now, he does not regret it. He had embraced his role as Deceit wholeheartedly, had cast aside his past identity without hesitation. But deep down beneath the layers of illusion, beneath the theatrics and cunning smiles there was still something lingering. Something forgotten. You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “…Do you miss it?” Shadow Milk blinked.  

Then, slowly, he tilted his head, as if pondering the question himself. “No,” he said at last. “Not in the way you think.” His thumb traced absent circles against your palm. “Truth may be a virtue, but deceit…?” A soft, amused hum left his lips. “Deceit is freedom.” Your breath hitched.  He smiled, tilting your chin up slightly with a single finger. “And now, my dear… you are free too.” The words sent a shiver down your spine. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the ruins of the Silver Tree, the winds carried away the last remnants of what once was.

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he lifted a hand to your face. His touch was featherlight, fingertips brushing just beneath your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his own mismatched eyes one bright and knowing, the other dark and unreadable.

"Tsk, tsk. Don’t do that," he murmured, his tone somewhere between amused and admonishing. "I am no wounded creature, no broken thing in need of fixing." His smile curved, sharp yet indulgent, as if he found the very thought amusing. "You know better than that, don’t you?" You swallowed thickly, unsure of how to respond. He only chuckled again, as though your silence confirmed something. Then, without another word, he turned, leading you forward away from the ruins of what had been, toward something unknown.

The path to the Spire of Deceit was unlike any you had ever walked before. The air shimmered, thick with an otherworldly presence, as if the very fabric of reality had begun to unravel and weave itself anew. The sky overhead was deep, dark indigo, fractured with veins of silver light that pulsed like the slow, steady heartbeat of something ancient. The world around you twisted and bent, landmasses floating in impossible formations, staircases spiraling into the void only to reappear elsewhere. Then, you saw it. The Spire. It rose from the shifting landscape like an unshaken pillar amidst chaos, its towering, jagged peaks reaching toward infinity. The structure was built from dark stone that gleamed like polished onyx, lined with veins of cerulean light that pulsed and flickered in rhythm with the strange magic saturating the air. Bridges hung suspended in midair, leading to archways that seemed to vanish the moment you blinked, shifting as though alive. The very walls breathed, curling with elaborate carvings that reshaped themselves when you turned away. Despite its eerie, twisting nature, the Spire was… breathtaking. Shadow Milk turned slightly, watching you take it in, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Ah, there it is," he mused. "That look of wonder—untainted, unburdened." He gestured broadly, the extravagant flourish of a performer unveiling his grand stage. "It was once the Spire of Knowledge, a haven for scholars and seekers of truth. But knowledge is a fickle thing, is it not?" His smirk deepened. "Now, it is something far more fitting." The Spire of Deceit.

A home for him. A home, now, for you. And before you even realized it, your feet had already found their way toward one place the library. Though you had a feeling he could control the spire’s illusions at will and was the guiding hand towards the library. The moment you stepped through its towering archway, the air shifted. A quiet hum filled the vast chamber, the sound of countless floating tomes drifting through open space, their pages fluttering despite the lack of wind. Shelves stretched impossibly high, their ends lost to shadow. Rivers of ink cascaded in midair, suspended in time, forming words that rewrote themselves before dissolving once more. The scent of parchment, old and new, mingled with something more something ancient, something lost.

Your fingers trailed instinctively along the spine of a floating tome, drawn by the same hunger that had always burned within you. Even now after everything your curiosity refused to wane. "You are predictable," Shadow Milk murmured, his voice a soft tease as he leaned lazily against the edge of a nearby desk. "Not even a moment to mourn the past, and already, you dive into what lies ahead." His mismatched gaze glinted with something akin to approval. You exhaled a quiet breath, scanning the text in your hands. "It was always about learning," you admitted. "Even when I was meant to inherit the role of Guardian… I think I cared more about the knowledge than the duty itself." Shadow Milk tilted his head, watching you with unreadable amusement. "Duty is an illusion an expectation forced upon you," he mused. "Knowledge, however… that is a choice. Your choice." His words curled around you, sinking into the quiet recesses of your mind. Yet, even as they settled, uncertainty still gnawed at you. And so, the question left your lips before you could stop it. "If there had been another heir… if someone else had been chosen to guard the Silver Tree…" Your voice faltered, but you pushed through. "Would it still have been me?"

Would he still have sought you out? Would he still be here, beside you? Would you still matter? Shadow Milk stilled. For a moment, the silence between you was thick, pressing. His expression gave nothing away, his mismatched eyes locked onto yours, searching. Then, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His presence curled around you, dark and velvety, his voice a low murmur against the hush of the library. "You ask as though there was ever another choice." Your breath hitched. His fingers brushed beneath your chin once more, tilting your face up toward his. There was no trickery in his gaze, no jest in his tone only certainty. "Even if the stars had aligned differently, even if fate had woven another path… I would have found you." His voice dipped lower, the words sinking deep into your chest. "And I would have chosen you." Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Truth or deception? You weren’t sure. But in that moment, as you stood in the vast, ever-shifting halls of the Spire of Deceit—beneath the glow of floating ink and the hum of knowledge long lost—none of it seemed to matter. Because, for the first time in what felt like forever, you had chosen this, too. And perhaps… that was enough.

The air in the Spire of Deceit was still, as if the very walls were waiting to hear your answer. The halls, lined with towering bookshelves and twisting staircases, seemed to stretch endlessly into the abyss, their winding paths mirroring the labyrinth of emotions inside you. The knowledge here was vast, unshackled, and tainted by neither truth nor lies just as he was. Shadow Milk Cookie stood before you, his presence inescapable. His mismatched eyes gleamed with something unreadable, watching as you struggled with words too heavy to speak. The quiet between you was suffocating, yet he seemed content to let you drown in it, his expression unreadable waiting. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’ll stay,” you finally breathed, and the moment the words left your lips, something inside you shifted, solidified. “I already chose you.” His smirk faltered for the briefest second. Barely noticeable. But you caught it. His thumb grazed your cheek, an almost hesitant touch, before his fingers settled beneath your chin, tilting your head up. His touch was cold, yet it burned. “You choose me,” he mused, more to himself than to you. His voice was softer now, lacking its usual theatrical flourish, as if the weight of your words had settled somewhere deep within him.

“I do,” you whispered. His grip on you tightened just slightly. But then, you continued. “But I don’t want to be part of destruction.” Your voice trembled, but you forced yourself forward. “I won’t fight against what’s already happened. I chose this. I’ll bear it. But I won’t… I won’t let it go further. I can’t. I won’t break Elder Faerie’s heart any more than I already have.” Silence. Shadow Milk Cookie simply stared at you, unreadable. Then, he laughed. Softly, breathlessly almost disbelieving. His hand fell from your chin, but the air between you remained electric, thick with something unspoken. “You think,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, “that you can stand beside me and remain untouched by what I do?” “I have to try,” you said, voice shaking. His smirk widened, but his expression and his eyes were darker now. “You are a fool,” he said, and there was no mockery in his tone. “Maybe.” His fingers ghosted over your wrist, lingering there, as if he was debating something. “Then answer me this,” he murmured, tilting his head. “If I were to refuse? If I told you that you must embrace the world I intend to create?” Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, but you stood firm. “Then I will go.” Something in his expression flickered. You didn’t know if it was amusement. Annoyance. Pain. Then, he exhaled slow and deliberate. The hand on your wrist slid towards your hand, his fingers curling loosely around your own. His grip was gentle, but firm, as if testing your resolve. “You would leave me,” he mused, voice soft, “after everything?” A lump formed in your throat. “If you make me,” you whispered. Another silence stretched between you. Then, unexpectedly his grip tightened. He didn’t let go. A low, knowing chuckle escaped him, but it wasn’t his usual laughter. No mockery. No theatrics. Instead, something deeper settled behind his mismatched eyes, something indulgent, something dangerously close to tenderness.

"You truly are something else," he murmured, his voice almost… fond. And then, he leaned in. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “Very well.” The tension in your chest loosened just slightly. His fingers dragged upwards on your arm before finally slipping away, giving you space. And yet, his presence coiled around you like an inescapable shadow. “I won’t force you to take part in my grand designs,” he continued. “Not yet, at least.” His smirk twitched at your sharp look. "But" His hand lifted in a careless flourish, his voice returning to its usual lilting amusement. "I will ask for something in return.” Your stomach twisted.“What?” He leaned back, watching you with knowing eyes. "Stay." One, simple request. No tricks. No riddles. Just that. Your heart ached at the simplicity of it. At the weight of it. You had thrown everything away for him. Your home. Your legacy. The love of the only father figure you had ever known. And yet here he was. The one thing in this world you could never predict. A monster draped in silk and illusions, deceit curled upon his tongue like honey. And yet he had never lied about what he was. The choice was yours. Your throat tightened. “I…” Your voice cracked. You exhaled. “…I will.” Shadow Milk Cookie only smiled. It was not triumphant. It was not victorious. It was satisfied. As if he had always known you would say yes. His fingers brushed against yours once more so fleetingly, so carefully, that for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it. Then, his presence pulled away, and the air grew heavier once more.

"You do amuse me," he mused, the playfulness creeping back into his tone, though something else lingered beneath it. "But know this, dear, my path has already been paved. My plans, my pact, are not yours to break.” A cold shiver ran down your spine. He turned, walking toward the towering windows of the spire, where the fractured sky bled into the horizon. "You wished for kindness, and I have granted it," he continued. "For you, I have spared them…for now." He turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder, his grin sharp as a knife. "But do not mistake that for weakness, my dear. My destruction has already been written. You simply are not part of its ink." 

Days in the spire were mainly mundane Shadow Milk was never too busy for you, however he was still scheming never letting you see his plans. Maybe it was for your own good. The halls of the Spire of Deceit wound like a labyrinth, towering shelves stacked with books whose truths had long since been twisted beyond recognition. It was neither day nor night here, just an eternal limbo where time bled into itself, much like the lines between truth and deception. The wind curled through the open halls of the Spire of Deceit, carrying with it the scent of aged parchment and something faintly sweet, like the last traces of a dream before waking. Shadow Milk Cookie stood before the grand window, his silhouette dark against the star-streaked sky. The view stretched endlessly, a world waiting to be rewritten.  You lingered at the threshold, watching him, waiting. He was always so unreadable, so infuriatingly composed, yet today… today felt different. He turned his head slightly. “If you have something to say, little Faerie, say it.” You swallowed. “Why me?” you had always asked this, asked yourself, asked him. You wouldn’t stop not until you got a concrete answer. That question always made him pause. You pressed on, stepping closer, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “From the moment you saw me at the tree, why did it have to be me? Was it just because I could release you?” Shadow Milk did not answer immediately. He exhaled slowly, his fingers trailing along the glass of the window before he finally turned to face you fully. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed in the dim light, the ever-watching shadows in his hair blinking lazily. “When I first saw you,” he mused, “when I could finally see beyond that wretched bark I thought you naïve.” His gaze flickered with something unreadable. “Entertaining, yes. But hopelessly foolish.” A smirk curled at his lips, but there was no mockery in it. “Enough to make me want to keep watching.”

You blinked. “Watching?”

His gaze flickered, and he took a step forward, closer than before. “When the seal weakened, and I could see through the bark of that cursed tree, you were the first thing I laid eyes upon.” His voice dropped to something softer, something almost dangerous in its honesty. “And I could not look away.” Your breath caught in your throat. “And it didn’t take long before I found myself waiting,” he admitted, voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “For your voice. For your questions. For your presence.” His mismatched eyes locked onto yours. “My patience has never been my strong suit, but for you? I endured.”

“I told myself it was strategy,” he continued, tilting his head as though studying you. “That it was only a matter of finding the right strings to pull, the right lies to whisper. But the more I watched, the more you became something else.” A hand reached out, brushing barely against your cheek before he pulled away, as if catching himself. “I don’t shackle easily,” he murmured. “And yet, somehow, you’ve bound me without a single chain.” His fingers grazed yours, barely touching, his voice dropping lower. “And when you did set me free… I realized that my shackles had never been made of wood or magic.” His lips twitched into something wry, something resigned. “They were made of you.” Your heart pounded. “Then… you would do as I ask?” Shadow Milk chuckled, the sound dark and rich. “Anything,” he said smoothly, “except abandon my purpose.” A chill settled over you. “The Beasts.” His smirk did not falter. “The pact I made with them was never yours to undo.”

Your throat tightened, a familiar ache clawing at your ribs. You had known—perhaps you had always known—that some things were beyond your reach. And yet, here he stood before you, offering everything but that. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Then what am I to you?” Shadow Milk leaned in ever so slightly, his mismatched eyes sharp with something unreadable. “You,” he said, voice a whisper against your skin, “are the only thing I choose to keep.” The words settled deep in your bones. There was no deception in them, no half-truths. And perhaps that was what frightened you mostYour chest tightened at the weight of his words. But you had to ask. “And if I walk away?” His smirk was immediate. “Then I shall follow.” You frowned. “And if I run?” His eyes darkened with amusement. “Then I shall chase.” You let out a quiet, shaky laugh, shaking your head. “You speak of me as though I belong to you.” “Don’t you?” The question hung in the air between you, heavier than any spell, more binding than any seal. You thought of the Silver Tree, of Elder Faerie Cookie’s pained expression as he turned away from you for the last time. Of the home you had lost, of the kingdom that would pretend you never existed. You thought of how, despite it all, you did not regret it. Because the truth was, you had always been running. From duty. From expectation. From a life that had never truly been your own. And now, at last, there was no need to run. Not when you stood before the one who had always seen you. Swallowing, you met his gaze fully. “And what now?” Shadow Milk Cookie smiled, slow and knowing, taking your hand in his. “Now?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Now, we rewrite the world.”

A/N I hope this ending was satisfactory I didn't want to rush to get to the ending. I really loved writing this and I took a little longer when tweaking it because I didn't like the ending I had written so I rewrote it please enjoy <3

[somereaderinblue]

Warrior!Penelope God Games

After writing Odysseus's Challenge, I was still on a creative high & decided to do this too. NOTE: The swaps between gods were taken from @too-much-flynnolium’s art.

[ARES]

Mother, God Queen, rarely do I ask for favours

Now, I'm kneeling on your floor

With hopes to save a friendship

With one who's a prisoner far from home

Penelope

[HERA]

Divine intervention, so that is your wish?

To untie apprehensions that were placed on that Greek?

You are braving such dangers for a girl full of shame

But if she's worth the risk of going under

Why not make it a game?

Convince each of them that she ought to be released

And I'll release her

[ARES]

Who's them?

[HERA]

Artemis! Hestia!

Dionysus! Athena!

Demeter! Or me

What do you say?

[ARTEMIS]

Sure.

[HESTIA]

Very well.

[DIONYSUS]

Hic!

[ATHENA]

Alright.

[DEMETER]

Interesting.

[ARES]

Bring it.

[ARTEMIS]

You all know I'm a fan of nature and all

So with so many sirens gone

I think Penny's in the wrong

[ARES]

They had planned to do their worst

All she did was reimburse them

Now they'll tread with caution first

To live another day and sing even more verse!

[ARTEMIS]

Good point, release her.

[HESTIA]

Trust is not wasted, it’s forged

Why should I give her my support?

She turned her back on her cohort

[ARES]

Did you forget they failed to listen?

She was betrayed and now imprisoned

But if you make the right decision

She can still have a future with those who miss her!

[HESTIA]

Fine, release her.

[DIONYSUS]

Your little high and mighty Penelope

Claims to love another, but keeps him chained to a broken heart

[ARES]

She was busy fighting

[DIONYSUS]

More like busy spiting the cyclops

Let her feel the pain that the others feel and rot

[ARES]

Wait!

You must reconsider this!

[ATHENA]

Really now, Ares, no new tricks?

[ARES]

Athena!

[ATHENA]

What kind of so-called fighter holds back her power

Just lets her friends get devoured?

She couldn’t fight Scylla, but didn’t even try to outwit her

Hides with naught but a sword to get the job done

Tries to handle things upfront

Dim-witted and weak like her son

[ARES]

Hold your tongue now, her son's my friend!

And tell that drunkard that all kinds of hurts can mend

You want more mind games? Then set her free

To get back to her homestead, she'll make everyone’s brains bleed!

[ATHENA & DIONYSUS]

Then release her.

[DEMETER]

So many talents, so many tales

Give me one good reason why yours should prevail

[ARES]

She's got the hands of a weaver!

[DEMETER]

Dig deeper

[ARES]

She's pretty skilled with words!

[DEMETER]

You can do better than that!

[ARES]

She's very sassy…?

[DEMETER]

Eh

[ARES]

Never once does she give up on her child.

[DEMETER]

Release her.

[ARES]

I’ve played your game and won! Release her.

[HERA]

You dare to defy me? To give me more shame?

No one beats me, no one wins my game!

Marriage, bring her through the wringer

Show her I'm the judgement call

The one who makes the final call!

.

.

.

.

[ATHENA]

Is he dead?

.

.

.

Penelope had told Ares that for mothers, childbirth in itself was a difficult battle and the parenthood that came after a race with no finish line in sight. Personally, Ares would’ve likened it to war. If family had truly been something as linear as a race then surely Hermes would be on their father’s throne by now.

She placed her spawn in his arms. Said spawn miraculously didn’t squirm or squall against his battle-hardened muscles and cold gauntlets. 

“His name is Telemachus.” Far from battle. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone. Then again, considering how eerily squishy the infant was, perhaps the name was fitting.

Ares blinked as tiny fingers gripped his, the pudgy digits unable to full wrap around it. Yet, the grip was strong. No, it was simply alive. He’s bathed in blood so often that he’s forgotten even the tiniest of hearts can still beat.

“Telemachus.”  Penelope and Odysseus smiled. Smiled at him, smiled because of him. They were happy. He was happy.

.

.

.

[ARES]

Let her go…..please

Let her go……

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS x FEM!READER

You are in a toxic relationship with the Marvel Comics Villains

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Venom, Carnage, Loki, Green Goblin, Kraven, Dr. Octopus, Shocker, The Lizard, Crossbones, Zemo & Muse

DOCTOR DOOM (VICTOR VON DOOM)

- Doom does not love lightly. He does not love kindly. But he loves. His iron will bends for no one, yet for you, it has shifted—an anomaly he cannot ignore, a flaw he will not permit. You belong to him; a sovereign claim written in the air between you, in the way his gloved hand tightens around your wrist, never enough to bruise, but enough to remind. When you question him, his voice is measured, calm, edged with the warning of a storm waiting to be summoned. “I am your salvation. You will not defy me.”

- You are the only one permitted to see beneath the mask. The weight of it, the suffering behind it, the ruined flesh that others would recoil from—he allows you to touch what no one else has touched. But your love is not a healing force, not for him. You do not soften him. If anything, you are his indulgence, the one weakness he refuses to cut out. And if you were to leave—no, you will not leave. Doom does not lose. Doom does not allow.

- There are gifts, grander than you could have imagined. Lavish, excessive, proof of his power and his devotion. A kingdom at your feet, riches beyond measure, knowledge beyond human understanding. But a golden cage is still a cage, and Doom’s affection is a thing of iron, of walls that do not crumble. You once thought his love might free you. You understand now—it only reshapes your chains.

- You are his equal in name, never in power. He calls you queen, but he is still the god of his world, the ruler of all. He will never bow to you, but he expects you to bow to him, to stand beside him as he burns the heavens and reshapes the earth. And if you resist—if you dare resist—his fury is not loud, not wild. It is quiet. Devastating. “You forget yourself,” he will whisper, and you will feel the walls closing in.

- He would never kill you. Not even in his deepest rage. But he will remind you of what you are, where you stand, who he is. You are his. Not his prisoner, no—but not quite free, either. And somewhere in the depths of his ruined soul, where he will never let you see, he wonders if you will ever truly love him back the way he loves you. Or if you, too, only see the mask.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- You are the only thing he has never missed. The first time he laid eyes on you, he knew—knew the way a bullet knows its target, the way a knife knows flesh. Obsession came naturally. Love? Love was unfamiliar. Messy. He was always precise, always perfect, but with you, he is reckless. Your laugh hits him harder than a sniper’s round. The way you say his name? A wound that never quite heals.

- He is chaos, and you are caught in the storm. His moods shift like a blade flicked between fingers, unpredictably sharp. One moment, he is draped around you like a lazy cat, lips at your throat, whispering filth and affection in the same breath. The next, his grip is too tight, his eyes too wild, his smile wrong, like he’s deciding whether to kiss you or cut you. “You like it,” he tells you, and maybe the worst part is—you do.

- Violence is his love language. Every scar on his body has a story, and sometimes, he gifts you the same. Not in cruelty—never in cruelty—but in something warped, something dark. A knife against your skin, not breaking, just resting, just waiting. A bullet casing dropped in your palm, engraved with your initials. “Got bored on a job,” he says, but you know better. You always do.

- He does not beg. Not for anything, not for anyone. But the one time you tried to leave, the one time you thought you could walk away, you saw something raw in his eyes. Something broken. He didn’t chase. He didn’t drag you back. No—he simply waited, appearing where you least expected, watching, watching, watching. “You’re mine,” he said, not a demand, not a plea—just fact. And when you came back, he only grinned.

- You love him, and it will ruin you. But what a way to fall. What a beautiful, burning, all-consuming thing you have become, in the hands of a man who never misses.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- He knows you better than you know yourself. The way you move, the way you breathe, the slightest shift of your expression—he reads you like muscle memory, like a sequence he’s learned a thousand times over. It should make you feel safe. Instead, it makes you feel watched, dissected, like a puzzle he’s already solved.

- There is no normal with him. One moment, he’s charming, teasing, almost easy to love. The next, he’s cold, distant, slipping into the void of who he is—who he’s been made to be. “I don’t remember everything,” he tells you, voice low, almost bitter. “But I remember you.” And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it isn’t.

- He does not show jealousy, but you know it’s there. You feel it in the sharpness of his grip, in the way his voice drops when another man looks at you too long. He doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t need to. A glance, a smirk, a quiet, lethal warning—you are his, and the world knows it.

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. His affection is measured, calculated, a thing given when he decides, when it suits him. And yet, there are moments—rare, fleeting—where he lets his guard down, where you see something unguarded in his gaze. You try to hold onto those moments. They always slip through your fingers.

- He would never forget you. Even if the rest of the world fades, even if his own past crumbles into dust, you are written into him. And that is both a comfort and a curse.

VENOM (EDDIE BROCK)

- His love is not singular. It is him. It is the symbiote. A force that wraps around you, claims you, fills every part of your life until you cannot remember what it was like to be alone. And maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you never did.

- He is protective, possessive, primal. The world is a threat, and he is the shield between you and it. No one touches you without consequence. No one looks at you the wrong way without meeting something dark, something hungry. “Ours,” the symbiote purrs, and Eddie only nods.

- He is rough but careful. His hands are big, his strength overwhelming, but with you, he tries. He tries so hard. But sometimes he forgets, sometimes he grips too tight, kisses too hard, loves too fiercely. “Sorry,” he mutters after, and you wonder if he is apologizing to you, or to himself.

- You are his anchor. Without you, he is lost. Without you, the hunger is too loud, the rage too consuming. He would burn the world to keep you, to hold you. And you—God help you—you would let him.

- You will never be free. But maybe freedom is overrated when love feels like this.

CARNAGE (CLETUS KASADY)

- He doesn’t love like a man. He loves like a fire, like a slaughter, like something that was never meant to be gentle. He loves in blood and laughter, in the gleam of a knife, in the way he whispers your name like a hymn before the killing starts.

- You are not a weakness. No, no, no—you are a prize, a conquest, a thing he has decided is his and his alone. “Ain’t nobody touchin’ what’s mine,” he says, and the world listens. The world fears.

- He is chaos incarnate, and you are caught in the spiral. One moment, he’s sweet—almost boyish, playful, crooning about how good you are, how perfect, how he’s never had a reason to be soft before. The next, there’s blood on his hands, and he’s grinning like the devil himself.

- You will never know peace. Not with him. But you will know passion, madness, devotion. You will know what it means to be loved so entirely, so terribly, that nothing else will ever compare.

- And if you ever tried to leave—well. You won’t. Not really. Not for long.

LOKI (LOKI LAUFEYSON)

- Loving Loki is like loving a storm. He is not constant, not safe, not something you can hold onto without feeling the sharp bite of the wind against your skin. One day, his hands are gentle, lips tracing whispered sonnets against your throat, promises woven in silver and silk. The next, he is a tempest—cold, distant, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Did you think you could own me?” he sneers, eyes burning with something unreadable. But he does own you, doesn’t he?

- He loves in illusions. Words spun like spider’s silk, so sweet, so delicate, so convincing that you almost believe them—until they unravel. He tells you that you are the only real thing in his life, that you are the one person he cannot deceive. But then you wake in an empty bed, the scent of him fading, and wonder if he was ever really there at all.

- He is jealous in ways you do not see. Not possessive in the way of mortal men, not in anger or in violence, but in something deeper, something ancient and godly. He does not rage when another looks at you, does not make threats. Instead, he smiles, charming, effortless. And then, days later, your admirer is humiliated, ruined, their life quietly destroyed by misfortune that does not seem like misfortune at all. Loki never admits to it. He doesn’t need to.

- He will test you, always. He will push, he will deceive, he will break your trust just to see if you will forgive him. “If you loved me, you would know,” he tells you, after yet another lie, another disappearance, another game. You wonder if he is trying to prove something to himself, or to you.

- And yet, he always comes back. No matter how far he runs, how many times he swears he is done with love, with weakness, with you—he returns. And every time, you let him. Because you are just as much a part of this game as he is.

GREEN GOBLIN (NORMAN OSBORN)

- His love is a dangerous thing. A poison, slow-working, seeping into your bones before you even realize it. He is charming, confident, the kind of man whose presence fills a room, whose voice makes you feel like you are the most important person in the world. And for a while, maybe you are. Until his moods shift, until his gaze darkens, until the weight of his temper presses against your throat like an invisible hand.

- He is a man of control. Everything in his life is structured, calculated, dominated by his will—including you. You are not a woman, not a person, not a lover. You are a piece of his empire, a treasure that belongs to him alone. If you step out of line, if you disobey, if you dare to question him—oh, how disappointed he is. And Norman’s disappointment is worse than anger.

- There are moments of softness. Moments when he holds you close, when his fingers brush through your hair, when he murmurs that you are the only thing keeping him sane. You believe him. You believe him even when you shouldn’t. Because those moments are rare, and they are beautiful, and you would rather live in the warmth of them than acknowledge the cold that follows.

- You are not afraid of him. At least, that is what you tell yourself. But when his voice lowers, when his eyes gleam with something manic, when the Goblin lurks beneath his skin—you know better. He has never hurt you. He never would. Would he?

- And yet, you stay. Because Norman Osborn does not lose. And you? You are not sure you would survive being without him.

KRAVEN THE HUNTER (SERGEI KRAVINOFF)

- You are his greatest hunt. Not prey, no—never prey—but something just as thrilling, just as dangerous. He looks at you like a predator watching a storm, something wild and untamed, something that he alone has the right to claim. And claim you he does, with hands that grip too tight, kisses that leave bruises, love that feels more like conquest than devotion.

- He loves you fiercely. Too fiercely. It is not gentle, not soft, not something that can be tamed or reasoned with. His love is obsession, possession, a thing that devours. “You are mine,” he tells you, eyes dark, voice thick with an accent that only makes the words more final. “And I will kill any man who dares to think otherwise.” You do not doubt him.

- He is both man and beast. There are nights when he is human—when he speaks of his mother, his honor, the burdens of his bloodline. He tells you that you are his salvation, his reason. But then, there are other nights—nights when the hunter takes over, when his hands are rougher, his words sharper, when he drags you beneath him with all the primal hunger of a lion taking down its mate.

- You run, sometimes. Not away—never away—but just far enough to remind yourself that you can. That you are still your own. But Kraven always finds you. Always. And when he does, there is no punishment, no anger—just satisfaction. “You wanted me to chase you,” he says, smiling. And perhaps, deep down, you did.

- You wonder if he loves you, or if he only loves the hunt. But does it matter? Because no matter how far you try to stray, you will always belong to him.

DOCTOR OCTOPUS (OTTO OCTAVIUS)

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. He loves you, of course he does—what fool would not?—but love, to Otto, is not a thing of tenderness. It is logic, calculation, the certainty of possession. You are his as much as his machines, his work, his mind. A brilliant, beautiful thing that he has claimed as his own.

- He is a man of ambition, and you are caught in the storm. He speaks of a future where you will stand beside him, where the world will bow, where he will rewrite the laws of science, of nature, of reality itself. He speaks of your place in it, but never as an equal. You are not a scientist, not a genius, not a mind like his. You are something greater—you are his muse, his reason, his beautiful, fragile thing.

- There is jealousy, but it is cold. Otto does not throw tantrums, does not break things in fits of rage—no, his jealousy is quiet. A lingering gaze, a remark too sharp, a conversation steered into dangerous waters. And if someone else dares to look at you, dares to try and steal what is his? Well. Accidents happen.

- He does not like defiance. Not from you. Not from anyone. And when you push, when you try to remind him that you are your own, his temper is not loud but cruel. Words like scalpels, sharp and precise, cutting in ways that cannot be stitched back together. “Ungrateful,” he murmurs, almost amused. “Do you think anyone else could love you as I do?” And the worst part is—you don’t know if they could.

- He adores you. He does. In his own way. And perhaps that is why you stay—because there is something beautiful in being loved by a man who bends the very world to his will. Even if, in the end, he will bend you, too.

SHOCKER (HERMAN SCHULTZ)

- He is not a good man, but he tries for you. He is a criminal, a thief, a man who has never known softness—but for you, he tries. He buys you gifts, leaves you notes in his messy handwriting, does his best to be gentle with hands that were made to break things. “Don’t deserve you,” he mutters sometimes, eyes dark with something unspoken. But he never lets you go.

- He is rough around the edges. Sarcastic, sharp-tongued, impatient. But when you look at him, really look at him, you see the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet desperation of a man who has never had anything good in his life—until you.

- He does not know how to love without holding too tight. He is not cruel, but he is possessive. He cannot lose you. He won’t. And if you try to leave, if you pull away—he doesn’t threaten, doesn’t shout. He just looks at you with something hollow in his chest. “Please,” he says, voice hoarse. And you stay. Because how could you not?

- He is dangerous, but not to you. Never to you.

- And you wonder if that makes you lucky, or just another thing he refuses to let go of.

MYSTERIO (QUENTIN BECK)

- Loving Quentin is like being lost in a dream. A beautiful, haunting dream spun in golden light and smoke, a world where every word he speaks is poetry, where every touch is a promise wrapped in silk. He makes you feel like the center of the universe, like a goddess sculpted from mist and stardust. But dreams are not real, and neither is Quentin.

- He lies, effortlessly, constantly, beautifully. You do not know if he even realizes he is doing it anymore. “You’re the only thing I see clearly,” he tells you, voice thick with something like devotion. But you’ve seen the way his illusions flicker, the way his masks slip just for a second. You do not know if he loves you or the idea of you—the version of you he has created in his mind, the one that exists only in the stories he tells himself.

- You never know what is real. Sometimes, you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping, reaching for him—only to find an empty bed. A trick. A performance. A cruel game played by a man who needs control over every scene in his life. “Did you think I would leave you?” he asks, amused, when you confront him. “You know me better than that.” And you do. That is the problem.

- He is jealous in ways that are terrifying. Not loud, not violent—no, his jealousy is theatrical. He does not scream when another man looks at you. He does not threaten. He simply makes them disappear. Ruins their lives. Turns them into shadows, forgotten faces in a world rewritten by his illusions. You do not know how many times he has done it. You do not ask.

- And yet, you stay. Because when he loves you, when he looks at you with those dark, endless eyes, when he whispers your name like an incantation—you feel like magic. And isn’t that worth the cost?

THE LIZARD (CURT CONNORS)

- Curt loves you in two minds. One of them is gentle, human, the man he was before. He kisses you with careful hands, calls you his brightest light, tells you that you are the only thing keeping him grounded. But the other—the Lizard—does not know how to be gentle. Does not understand softness, does not understand love as anything but possession.

- There are days when he does not remember what he has done. When he wakes up with your bruises under his fingertips, with your fear still thick in the air, and he does not understand why you flinch. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, eyes wide, horrified. And you believe him. Because this is not him. Not really.

- You are afraid, but you do not leave. Because when he is Curt, when he is himself, he is everything. Brilliant. Kind. The man who kisses your fingertips and tells you stories of science and discovery, the man who wants to heal the world. But then the scales come back, the hunger in his eyes, the way he grips your wrist too tight. And you wonder—will there come a day when he does not turn back?

- He begs you to stay. Even when he knows he shouldn’t. “I need you,” he tells you, voice breaking. “I need you more than anything.” And maybe you need him too. Maybe that is why you stay.

- But love cannot fix what he has become. And one day, you will have to decide if you can love a man who is not always a man at all.

CROSSBONES (BROCK RUMLOW)

- Brock does not love gently. His love is bruises, rough hands, the sharp edge of a knife pressed against your throat—not to hurt, never to hurt, only to remind you that he could. He is danger made flesh, violence wrapped in a smirk and a scarred mouth that kisses you too hard, too possessively, like he is afraid you will disappear if he does not leave his mark.

- He is a man of war, and you are his greatest prize. Not a woman. Not a lover. A thing he has taken, claimed, wrapped in his arms and his rage. “You’re mine,” he growls, lips against your skin, voice thick with something darker than devotion. And you know he means it. In the way that means no one else ever can have you.

- He does not understand softness. Not really. But he tries. You see it in the way he pulls you close in the dead of night, in the way he buys you gifts—things he does not know how to give properly, shoved into your hands with a scowl. “Take it,” he mutters, looking away, as if the act of giving is something he is ashamed of.

- He is jealous in a way that leaves scars. Not on you. Never on you. But you have seen what he does to the ones who look too long, who think they can touch what is his. “You don’t need to know,” he tells you, when you ask what happened to them. And maybe you don’t.

- And yet, you love him. Love the way he makes you feel untouchable, love the way he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. But love is not enough to save a man like Brock Rumlow. And you do not know if it will be enough to save you.

ZEMO (HELMUT ZEMO)

- Helmut Zemo loves like a king loves his queen. Regal. Absolute. The kind of love that does not ask, does not plead—it commands. He does not need to raise his voice, does not need to threaten, does not need to demand. He simply looks at you, and you know. You are his. You always will be.

- He is not cruel, but he is not kind. He does not hurt you, but he does not comfort you either. If you cry, he does not hold you. If you are afraid, he does not reassure you. “Do not be weak,” he tells you, voice cold. “You are better than that.” And so you learn not to be weak. You learn to be strong. Because that is what he wants.

- He does not trust easily, but he trusts you. And that, perhaps, is the most dangerous thing of all. Because to be trusted by Zemo is to be owned by him, to be a part of his world in a way that cannot be undone. “You are the only one who sees me,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your jaw. And you wonder if that is a gift or a curse.

- He is possessive in a way that does not need words. There are no threats, no punishments, no rules spoken aloud. But you know, without question, that you are his. And if you ever forgot—well, Zemo has a way of making sure you remember.

- And you love him. Because how could you not? How could you not love a man who holds the world in his hands and still chooses to hold you?

MUSE (UNKNOWN NAME)

- Loving Muse is like loving madness itself. He does not speak often, does not whisper sweet nothings, does not fill the silence with promises. He only watches, eyes dark and empty, head tilted in quiet fascination. You do not know if he loves you, or if he simply finds you… interesting.

- He paints you. Again and again. In blood, in ink, in shadows cast against moonlit walls. Sometimes, you wake to find your face scrawled across canvases you do not remember posing for, your likeness stretched and twisted into something almost inhuman. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, fingers stained red, gazing at his work as though it is the only thing that exists. As though you are the only thing that exists.

- You are never afraid. Or perhaps, you have simply learned not to be. You have learned that fear does not matter. That love, to Muse, is not about touch or words—it is about obsession. About the way his hands shake when you are not near. About the way he does not kill when you tell him not to, even though you know he wants to.

- He is not jealous. But he is possessive. He does not threaten those who look at you. He does not hurt them. He simply… removes them. And when you ask, when you demand to know why, he only blinks. “They did not belong,” he says. And somehow, that is enough.

- And you wonder—if one day, you will not belong either.

[grace-winter]

"It's not just a song —it’s my first song, and it holds a meaning deeper than words can express.. It’s an anthem for every woman who has fallen and risen again. For every woman who has known pain but never let it break her. For Ariadne. For me. For us. Ariadne is the embodiment of this rebirth – a warrior with a heart that, despite everything it has been through, still loves. She has recreated herself, turned scars into art, and fire from the ashes. This song tells our story. Our strength. Our immortality. And it belongs to everyone who feels it." - @italianflame

[shizuturnspages]

It was fun to read part 3, but what if the reader khaenri'ah reached the breaking point and tried to commit suicide??? Since the poor thing has her entire life monitored 24 hours a day (The Curse of Khaenri'ah makes her immortal, but that doesn't mean she can't die or can escape death, I think)

The Chains You Cannot Break

Trigger Warnings: Suicide attempt, heavy emotional themes, psychological manipulation. Synopsis: You had never truly been alone. Not since they took you. Not since they decided that your survival meant ownership. Your every move was watched. Your every breath was monitored. They called it protection. You called it a prison. And one day, you finally understood. You would never be free. No matter how many times you ran. No matter how hard you fought. They would always bring you back. So… there was only one way out. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Dainselif, Pierro, Kaeya, Albedo, Capitano x Khaenri'ahn Child

The Act – Escape Through Death

You planned it silently. Carefully. Because you knew that any sign of distress would make them watch you even closer.

You played the role they wanted—the defiant child, but nothing too reckless. Enough to keep them blind to what you were really planning.

And when the moment arrived, you took it.

Maybe it was a blade to the throat. Maybe it was a leap from a tower. Maybe it was something slower, something they wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was finally being free.

But you had underestimated them.

Dainsleif – "Why would you do this?"

He had expected defiance. He had expected rage, hatred, rebellion.

But not this.

The moment he found you—bleeding, gasping, fading— something inside him shattered.

“You are Khaenri’ahn. You are supposed to survive.”

And yet, you didn’t want to.

He was so careful after that. Too careful.

Never raising his voice. Never leaving you alone.

Every time you reached for something sharp, he took it away.

Every time you sat near an open window, his hand gripped your shoulder.

You had broken something in him. And he would never let you try again.

Pierro – "Unacceptable."

Pierro did not panic. He did not scream, did not rage.

Instead, he erased the possibility.

Your room? Stripped of anything remotely dangerous. No windows. No doors that locked from the inside.

Your clothing? Checked for hidden weapons.

Your meals? Controlled, monitored, forced if necessary.

“You will not disgrace Khaenri’ah further.”

He never treated it as a tragedy. He treated it as a mistake that needed correction.

And he made sure it would never happen again.

Kaeya – "What the hell were you thinking?"

Kaeya’s hands shook when he found you. He had seen death before. Too much of it.

But not yours.

“Did you think I’d let you go that easily?”

Unlike the others, he didn’t tighten his grip. Instead, he made sure you never wanted to try again.

He held you longer, spoke softer, gave you something to live for—even if it was just him.

“Stay for me. If nothing else, stay for me.”

And you hated him for it.

Because it worked.

Albedo – "This cannot be allowed."

Albedo refused to let you self-destruct.

He removed all methods, all means, all possibility of you ever succeeding.

Alchemy sigils. Monitoring devices. Subtle sedatives in your food.

“You are not in control of this.”

You lost everything. Your agency, your ability to choose.

You were his experiment, and he would not let it end until he was done.

Capitano – "You foolish child."

He caught you mid-fall, his iron grip locking around you before you could even hit the ground.

His mask was unreadable, but his hands trembled as he held you.

The way he dragged you back inside, locking you in a room with nothing sharp, nothing dangerous—

“You will not die. I will make certain of it.”

From that day forward, you were never left unsupervised. Not for a single second.

You thought you had no freedom before? Now, you had nothing.

[honeykaes]

lustful vices

stelleron-hunter!sunday x stelleron hunter!reader II 3.4k

warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no pronouns, angst, mention of blood, corruption kink, virginity loss, fingering, cunnilingus, mention of blood, minor character deaths, switch!reader, switch!sunday, unedited

synopsis: what would you do for one wish? would you sacrifice everything just to see a glimpse of it? that's a question you posed to the newcomer of the stelleron hunters, sunday. As he tries to adjust to his new life, you suggest some new vices he can indulge in to cope.

Water dripped from the corner of the dark room. Golden eyes burned into the concrete ground, widened in shock and pity. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, he was sure his gloved nails dug into the wooden chart he was chained to.

Teeth gnawed down on his chapped lips, worried at what the Heartstone woman just said and left him with

“You’re free now. Someone made a deal for you.”

Despite years of being pruned, clipped, and groomed to become the Oak Family Head, he knew no one in the Family had his back. His heart ached knowing the one person who would sacrifice something to see him alive.

“Robin…” he grunted, narrowing his eyes. What did she promise that woman?  He heard of that woman’s dealings with the Bonnajade Exchange. An eye for an eye—something Jade seemed to relish in.

Would Robin’s life be in danger now she was ensnared by that woman? She was forever tied to that snake. How could he put an end to this when he knew Jade would amusingly keep them separated until the days they perished? 

He had so much he wanted to say to his sister. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to yell at her on her decision to help outsiders. He wanted to cry in her arms and convince her to run away with him, so they can start a new life together.

As Sunday grunted, his eyes lurched up hearing noises from outside. Muffled shouting echoed from behind the door, and the sound of bullets firing to whomever were their victims. 

Could this be the Astral Express and that strange Galaxy Ranger? He fought a sardonic laugh. He tried to kill them; those people would leave him to rot just as his ”family” did.

But who is causing all this chaos? He wondered if one fray bullet managed to lodge itself in Jade’s head, truly freeing him and Jade from the new cage she had made them.

As it became silent, the door slowly opened revealing yourself. Your lips were formed in a smug smile, blood smearing across your face. A taller man narrowed his bloodred eyes as he stood by the doorway. You leaned over as Sunday tilted back, wanting distance between you two Your amused yet calculating eyes lapped up his pitiful expression.

“So this was the famous Sunday? How the angels have fallen,” you teased. Sunday grunted, eyebrows furrowing. As he opened his mouth, you pressed her finger to his lips.

“Relax there, birdie. I was just teasing. Besides, we’re here to get you out. The IPC is temporarily…decommissioned, giving you enough time to leave and come with us,” you chimed. 

The man in the doorway grunted, flinging blood that was on his broken sword.

“Seems you picked up Kafka’s bad habits with nicknames,” the man grumbled. Sunday scoffed, lips curling into a cruel smile. His golden eyes narrowed, bearing into your own.

“They already promised me my freedom. A soldier was on their way to uncuff me.”

You clicked your tongue, hand drifting to the soft feathers of the wing’s on Sunday’s head as he purged back. The wings puffed up in frustration as you chuckled again.

“Perhaps but is that truly freedom Sunday? Would you like to know the deal your dear sister made on your behalf?” you offered. Sunday tightened his jaw, looking to the ground.

It seemed like yet another group is trying to prospect him to become their tool. First the Oak Family, then the Astral Express crew, now the Stelleron Hunters? Why was everyone insisting on him becoming a pawn?

He was so sick of being controlled, yet the image of Robin burned in the back of his mind.

With a sigh he looked back up to her.

“What.”

Your grin widened.

“Your pretty dove promised to, well, never see you again. Fate worse than death when you two were so close through thick and thin,” you murmured, crossing your fingers. Sunday looked at you shocked.

“How is that even possible? How would Jade even-”

“That snake knows how to wrap around her prey. Trust me, she would make it where your sister won’t even gaze in your potential direction the rest of this lifetime,” you murmured, a more somber response than the condescending tone from earlier.

His head ached from stress as his gaze faltered away from yours, leg bouncing anxiously as he racked his thoughts with the revelation.

Making this deal, Robin was susceptible to that schemer. She’s right in the clutches of a venomous snake baring their fangs at a meek sparrow. He knew he was right to try and keep her safe, only for this to happen.

How can he fix this?

Sensing his dilemma, you leaned back, lifting your gun up and examining the weapon. Your gaze was much colder.

“You have two options now. Join the Stelleron Hunters and follow Elios’ script which will promise a reunion between the two of you…or live knowing you’re the reason why your sister is now a victim of the IPC.”

“....”

He hated this. He hated everyone. How much more did he need to sacrifice…

You crossed her arms as your colleague grunted.

“Well?”’

He’d let the world burn if it would make his sister smile.

“Fine…uncuff me.”

It had been two weeks since Sunday joined the Stelleron Hunters. He had joined them for a couple jobs, following Elios’ script to a T. Elios seemed to be pairing you and him together, but he had met the rest of the team. He recalled seeing Firefly on Penacony. 

He had learned the intimidating man in the room when he met you was Blade. He had met yet another condescending woman who also called him ‘Birdie’ and the teenager with a bad attitude who only seemed interested in hacking and gaming.

You and him resided in a bar in a hotel of whatever planet you had dragged him to for the script. Tomorrow you two will be off yet again, raising the price of his bounty bit by bit with every action he followed the the script.

Sunday sipped on his wine, feeling unamused as he placed it down. His gaze wandered to you with a bit of scorn and superiority he still felt despite not being the Oak Family Head anymore.

“...I still never would have imagined in my life I would team up with the Stelleron Hunters,” Sunday sighed. You chuckled, taking a sip of your cocktail. You leaned your cheek into your hand, soft skin pillowing against it.

“Well, I didn’t either. We all have our reasons for wanting to join, being a slave to whatever desire we are looking for,” you murmured, swirling your drink around. You eventually stop, stumping your fingers to the edge of the bar. 

“You want to see and save your sister. Firefly wants to live, Blade wants to die. Kafka wants to understand what loss and fear mean. All of us are slaves to destiny,” you responded. Sunday narrowed his eyes, it seems you withhold something important from your statement.

“And what do you want?” he asked. You snorted.

“Me? Well…I guess love,” you replied. Sunday’s eyebrows narrowed, scoffing. His eyes looked down before up again, checking your body language. Although it seems you were being serious, he didn’t believe a word.

“You? You’re joking?” he replied. You smiled and shrugged.

“My home planet was wartorn thanks to the IPC. I admit, it wasn’t necessarily as bad as Firefly’s situation but my life has been all about strategy, battles and blood since I turned 18 years old. My civilization decided to fight against the beacons of the Amber Lord….only to be wiped out,” you sighed.

“What I wish is just to go back to normalcy. Find love, settle down, find peace or whatever. Act like these 8 years didn’t exist,” you murmured. Your lips were still curved in a smile despite your somber tone. 

“What’s stopping you?” Sunday asked.

“The IPC. Got a pretty big hit on my head even prior to joining the Stelleron Hunters. I can never find peace until they’re dealt with,” you grunted, rolling your eyes. Sunday looked away from you, gazing at his reflection in the deep red color of his wine. You seemed so adapted to this despite being fairly new to the Stelleron Hunters yourself.

They all did. Although he was getting the job done, the mental toll of everything tugged on him.

“...How do you, manage all of this? I don’t get why you all sacrifice so much just to follow a script you have no idea will end,” he asked. You paused finishing your drink before swiveling your chair, so you were facing him.

“You’re doing the same, Sunday. We’re not that different at all despite you insisting we are,” you chimed, narrowing your eyes. You let out a chuckle, lightening up once more.

“Besides, all of us do little things to cope. Silverwolf for one spends way too much on video games. You should look at Kafka’s wardrobe. I swear she has every outfit combination she can, and she still purchases crap. Blade just consistently fights and spars swearing he will defeat whomever the fuck…” you grunted.

“And your vice…?”

A smirk crept onto your face. You leaned closer to Sunday as his eyes slightly widened in shock, feeling your finger tilt his chin up. 

“Teasing unsuspecting Holovians for a laugh.”

Sunday’s cheeks momentarily redden before he grunts, pushing you off. You laughed again.

“Geez, tough crowd. And I thought you were known for your upbeat personality,“ you sarcastically added.

“Be serious,” Sunday demanded.

“Fine, fine. Occasional I might go home with someone,” you admitted. Sunday’s eyes narrowed in understanding. You found comfort in sex. He never really understood what was so appealing about it, but at the same time he didn’t have much time to even focus on it to begin with.

“So lust is your vice despite you searching for love? Seems counterproductive,” he replied. Despite the insult, you grinned.

“Ah, ah, ah, Sunday. Don’t put on a high horse when Penacony was known for indulgence,” you added. “What was the saying again: whatever happens in Penacony, stays in Penacony, hm?”

Sunday momentarily clears his throat, rose dusting at his cheeks.

“That was for others, not myself. I helped people to a higher path,” he said. Your face morphed to disbelief.

“...Without indulging in any vices? Tsk, tsk, tsk. No wonder you’re so high strung,” you muttered.

Sunday narrowed his eyes. 

You lifted your hand and brushed past his feather like you did the day you two met. The wings  shuttered but didn’t puff out like the last time you tried it.

“...Well, would you like to try? Experience what you missed out years on,” you cooed, tapping his golden earring. You leaned in closer, placing your hand on his upper thigh.

“And find out just what was appealing to those hundreds of people who confessed to you,” you whispered in his ear, Sunday’s body shuttered, eyebrows furrowed.

“So you’re more like a tempress huh? Coax people to do whatever dirty thing they can. Is that your role here? As much as you proclaimed you're a fighter, the softness of your hands tells me everything I need to know about you.”

Your smirk grows at his observation.

“So how about it, birdie? Mark this new chapter abandoning all you know and let yourself experience life’s indulgences…” you cooed, blowing cool air into his ear. His hand grabbed your own. Just as you leaned back taking it as a sign of rejection—Sunday scoffed—gloved hand digging into your own.

Your gaze caught to the tent developing in his slacks.

“...Alright.”

Sunday sat on the bed, his throat felt dry. Why was he so nervous? 

His heart seemed to be wanting to lurch out of his chest..

As much as he denied it, he was curious about lust and sex. He recalled numerous confessions where people had admitted wavering their eyes from their “beloved” spouses, but he never truly understood why.

Meeting you, he’s beginning to start to.

His breath hitched—feeling you sit down on his lap—gently rotating your hips. Your core grinded against his bulge as nails dug into the silky hotel bed sheets. 

Your hands made their way to his chest, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. With each pop of the button he could feel sweat beginning to cling onto his hair. His eardrums pounded as he gaze continued to flip to your expression, and to his slowly revealing bare chest.

Just as the final button was undone and you slowly pulled his top off. Your lips hovered next to his jugular, soft lips pressing down on the warm and tense skin. 

“You need to relax more. Are you sure you want this? We can stop now,” you suggested. Sunday shook his head, trying to snap him out of his timidness.

“No. I want this. I…need this,” Sunday admitted. He could feel the smile you made press against his nape.

“Oh, so the spoiled rich boy can tell the truth?” you cooed. Sunday rolled his eyes and was about to yell a retort only for his voice to hitch as your swipe swiped along his neck.

You guided his hands onto your chest. With hesitantly squeezed the mounds, as you chuckled.

“See, you’re doing good. Just follow your heart and instincts.”

You had eventually taken your shirt off, letting it fall to the ground with the other articles of clothing.Sunday rolled his thumb against your nipples, lips parted as he could feel them hardened against his touch.

With a quivering lip, Sunday leaned into the soft mouths pressing his lips to the plush breast. His tongue slowly darted out before skating around the perimeter of your nubs. 

As your hand reached down, cupping his cock, Sunday gasped, letting the nipple plop into his mouth. He sucked, eyebrows narrowed as you hand made way beneath his pants, pumping his cock.

His cock jolted. You could feel it pulsating at your touch. It seemed longer than you expected, with a bit of heaviness to it too. Just as your thumb grazed the tip, Sunday bit down on your tip of your nipple. You gasped and chuckled.

“Guessing you enjoyed that, huh?” 

Sunday lifted his mouth up, lips gleaming from his saliva.

“...Stop teasing me already and get to the point.”

“Ahhh you’re rushing the best part. I’m guessing you didn’t know foreplay typically makes things feel better for you,” you cooed. “But alas, I understand. You’re eagerness is showing former Oak Family Head.”

You shimmied Sunday's slacks and briefs off, as his cock plopped onto his lean and toned chest. It quivered, lolling to the side desperate for more of your attention. You had risen from your seat, taking your own pants off.

Sunday caught the strings of slick that connected the fabric of your underwear, thighs and cunt. He felt his mouth water, gulping slightly as he drank up your entire nude form.. His hand reached out and connected with your thigh. It wandered from up as he relished the touch of your soft skin, pillowy texture of your chest, to the district angles of your face.

This was lust incarnate, he knew it in his heart.

“Ready?”

You leaned on top of his lap, cunt hovering above his throbbing cock. You circled your click in preparation, slowly sliding it down.

Sunday swore he felt bells as soon as his tip connected with your velvety entrance. His hips intentionally bucked up, sliding himself deeper as you chuckled, finally gliding it down.

He sucked a breath in. wrapping your arms around you tight. His heart fluttered fighting the urge to plow inside. He could feel your tight cunt squeeze and coax him to slide deeper, if it was possible.

Just as you lifted your hips, about to ride him, Sunday’s grip on you got tighter, a loud groan reverberating throughout the room.

Thick ropes of warm cunt shot inside of you, as his hips meekly jolted up. His back arched, covering his moan of any further pathetic noises from escaping. His eyes slowly opened, feeling his high finally come down gazing at your slightly disappointed face.

He could feel himself softening inside of you.

“I-I…I don’t know what happened…” Sunday admitted. “I tried to control myself but”

You sighed but gave a supportive smile.

“I know. It’s your first time. I would have been surprised if you lasted longer to be honest. You never masturbated or have sex, right? This was bound to happen,” you murmured. You lifted yourself off of his cock, his eyes gazing at his cum leaking down your thighs.

“I won’t lie, I am a bit sad I won’t get my fill but there are other ways of that,” you murmured, laying beside him, looking up at the ceiling. The burn of arousal was beginning to shimmer between your thighs.

Sunday looked down, lapping up the view of your body.

“Like what?”

You grinned at the question, lulling your head to the side.

 “Curious still? Well, there’s different ways. Toys, but I didn’t pack any. And these guys,” you stated, wiggling your fingers.

“Show me.”

You hummed, letting your hands slide down the curves of your waist and thighs before settling at your cunt. Your finger slides along the slit a couple of times before you gaze a dramatic moan as Sunday tensed further, to your satisfaction.

Your thumb settled on your clit, beginning to rub circles. Sunday noted that was the same spot you did before getting on top of him.

“Doing this for a little while can get me to that euphoric feeling you just had. You can also slide your fingers in too, but the main focus should be right here.” you hummed. You continued, and closed your eyes, letting your other hand grip tightly on your breast.

Your hips began to grind down on your fingers, inching closer to your high.

“Wait! Let me do it!” Sunday grunted. You opened your eyes to see Sunday, moving your hands away. His long fingers followed the same movements, grazing your slit before letting his calloused thumb press tightly against your clit. His movements were slow but began to go faster as he felt more sure of himself.

You were squirming beneath him, and he couldn’t help smiling. It was so interesting, having him on top of you now. He liked it. He liked you under him, his touch being the ultimate desire of reaching euphoric highs.

He liked being in control.

His fingers sank into your cunt, drilling as his pace didn’t let up. He noted the way your nails harpoon against the bed sheets as his timidly once did. He noted the way your moans didn’t seem fake, they were as soft and pathetic as the ones he had made.

Your face leaned to the side, gaze half-lidded beguiling him further. 

He thought righteousness would save him. No, perhaps sin will instead.

After all, he can just ask for forgiveness later.

He leaned his head into your cunt, tongue beginning to swirl on the bundle of nerves as his fingers continued to plow against him. Your hands weaved their way into his silver hair, pulling him further into your core. He could taste your sweet arousal mixed with the saltiness of his cunt, an aroma that he knew would dream off once everything was settled in the early hours of the morning.

He felt your walls begin to clamp on his fingers, giving him a harder time plowing as quickly into you. Curling his fingers up, to try to slide deeper, he heard you gasp out his name loudly.

“There! Right there Sunday!” you shouted. He continued his ministrations there, watching your body spasm as his other hand connected with your thigh, spreading you out further.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you cursed out, throwing your head back. Your hips lifted up as Sunday’s eyes widened. He felt you clamp onto his fingers as he slurped up the excess essence drooling out of you. Your whole body rocked, with whimpers and whines falling from your lips.

As your body plopped down, Sunday lifted his head up from your core and slid his fingers out. He tongue lapped up the remaining juices clinging onto him, watching your tired eyes open again. Your chest was heaving, drool managing the drip down a corner.

“I thought you were just a virgin…” you muttered breathlessly. A new found but familiar confidence fell over Sunday As he crawled on top of you. His cock lurched, hardened and pulsating, eager to try again as it nudged against your burning clit.

“I’m a fast learner.”

Perhaps he can adjust to becoming a Stelleron Hunter better than he originally thought.

[feilien]

 Observe someone. He could do that. He'd done so many times before, that was something he was good at. But then the rest of the assignment followed, and Long Zhi could feel his stomach drop. Observing someone was easy, a skill he'd honed for many years now. But convincing someone to join was a whole different ball game entirely. Although fairly charming when he wanted to be, he'd never considered himself as very convincing. Especially when it wasn't something he was convinced of himself. Why would he want to convince someone to join an organisation he didn't even want to be a part of himself?

 Because you want Isen's approval.

 Letting out a sigh, Long Zhi stared at the folder, then slowly opened it to scan the contents. He considered his options, the implications of Isen's words, and just how monumental of a task this was. Finally, he lifted his head, though not his gaze. "But won't he see me coming one way or the other, if he can predict the future? Wouldn't it be easier to just try and take out the leader himself?" Cut off the snake's head, so to speak. Everything else would fall into place, and it would be easy to just scoop up the remnants. Very little convincing needed.

 "Wouldn't that be a win-win? You'd get rid of Jishaku, and have an easier time snatching up Nakama. I know you want him more as an asset than you want him dead."

Anytime he called Long Zhi into his office, there seemed to be an undercurrent of anxiousness, subdued behind a fairly convincing mask. As though he were expecting something, a lecture or even a punishment. He supposed he couldn't blame him -- Xiao Dan didn't exactly strike him as someone with the foresight to offer praise or a shred of respect to his men, regardless of Long Zhi's former position as heir. Isen had been the same way, once. Even so, it made things easier when the subject expected the bare minimum.

"Yes," he said, turning to face Long Zhi fully. "This will be a longer assignment. I need you to observe someone for me, someone I want to join the Blades. And when the opportunity comes, I need you to convince him...by any means necessary. Whether that be leverage you find or something more direct."

Now he crossed the room, where a file lay neatly on his desk. Isen handed it over. "His name is Shinsai Nakama, the lieutenant of The Ice Serpents -- they are destabilized since Takashi Jishaku took the place of his late father."

The image of Youichi Jishaku with a Isen's gun to his head came to mind. A leader was weak when a few threats, a short fight, could put him on his knees. It was disgraceful. But most of all, Isen blamed himself -- the solution to this particular thorn that had been in his side for decades had been right there, but the old man had been such a low priority...

"I don't intend to let the new leader catch his breath. However, both Nakama and Jishaku are Tensai -- making you the most qualified man for this job." Once the file was taken, he slid his hands into his pockets. "I warn you, this won't be easy. Nakama has the ability to predict the future. He's trained extensively, despite being blind, which is why I want you to take the time to learn his patterns and other weaknesses. You shouldn't underestimate him.

"If Nakama can't be convinced, I want you to eliminate him. Jishaku already has more power than I'm willing to allow."

[heliosunny]

Hello!

If possible, could you please write about Yandere Aglaea bathing her freshly acquired reader in a non-sexual manner. The reader could be scared or trying their best to be defiant towards her but they know it is futile due to Aglaea’s status as a Chrysos Heir and Demigod.

If this request is too uncomfortable for you, I completely understand.

Thank you and have a good day.

Yandere!Aglaea x Reader

The chains were gone.

Not because you had broken free, not because you had outwitted your captor, but because she had deemed them unnecessary.

"You look so much better without them" Aglaea had mused, tracing the marks she left behind on your wrists with an unbearable softness. "Did you truly think iron could hold you in place when it is my will that binds you?"

You had wanted to spit something sharp in response, to throw your defiance in her face despite knowing it was pointless. But standing there, in a place carved of gleaming ivory and gold, under the weight of her presence, words felt useless.

So you ran.

A pathetic attempt, really. The moment your feet touched the polished marble floors, you bolted, darting through opulent halls and gilded corridors that blurred together in your desperation. You didn’t know where you were going—only that you needed to move.

For a brief, foolish moment, you thought you had a chance.

Then, like a whisper of silk against skin, she was behind you.

"You wound me" Aglaea sighed as an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against her. Her voice was disappointed, but not surprised. As though she had been waiting for this. "Did I not tell you? There is nowhere you can go that I will not follow."

You struggled, but it was like trying to fight against the sun. Her grip did not waver—only held, unbreakable in its gentleness.

"You’re exhausted" she murmured into your ear, her breath unbearably soft. "Come. Let me care for you."

And now, you were here.

Seated in a bath of warm, perfumed water, your body unwillingly relaxing under the heat. Aglaea sat beside the tub.

"You act as though I’ve harmed you" she said, dipping the cloth into the water. "Yet, I have only ever touched you with kindness."

"You kidnapped me" you bite out, the only act of defiance you can manage in this moment.

Aglaea smiles. "I saved you."

You glare at her, but she simply presses a hand to your shoulder, gently pushing you further into the warmth of the bath.

"You may fight me in your mind" she muses, brushing damp hair from your face. "But your body already knows the truth."

You want to fight, to deny, to refuse her in every way possible.

But as her hands continue their reverent worship, as the warmth seeps into your weary bones, you realize—

Aglaea does not need chains to keep you here.

The water rippled as Aglaea cupped it in her hands, letting it trickle down your shoulders in a slow, deliberate motion. She hummed softly, a tune unfamiliar to you—one that belonged to ancient halls and golden spires, to a world far above your reach.

"You still resist" she murmured, more amused than displeased. "But in time, you will see the truth. You are exactly where you are meant to be."

"You talk as if fate had anything to do with this."

"It did" Aglaea said smoothly, dragging the cloth down the length of your arm. "Or rather, I did." She smiled at your silence, enjoying the way tension crept into your muscles despite the warmth of the water. "Did you think I took you on a whim?"

Of course you did

You were not important—not a royal, not a warrior, not even a scholar of great renown. You were no one. So why you?

As if reading your thoughts, Aglaea exhaled softly, "You still don't see it, do you? Why I chose you."

You refused to ask. Refused to give her the satisfaction.

Aglaea did not need your words.

"I have plans" she said, trailing her fingers along your wrist, tracing the veins as though mapping something precious. "The Chrysos Heirs are destined with divine missions. And yet…" She tilted her head, studying you. "We are not invincible."

Something cold curled in your stomach.

"So we need you."

Aglaea smiled.

"Oh, you thought I wouldn’t notice?" she mused. "That no one would notice?"

She knew about your blood. About the thing that made you different, that had always made you different. The thing you had spent years hiding. The thing that made you immune to the divine blessings of the Chrysos.

"You are an anomaly." Aglaea continued, dipping the cloth into the water again. "A mortal untouched by our gifts. By our power." She ran the damp fabric over your collarbone, her touch almost reverent. "How fascinating it is… that something so delicate could undo gods."

"You could be a weapon," she said, voice softer now, a lover’s whisper. "In the hands of another, you would be forced to bring ruin to my kin. To me." Her fingers trailed up your throat, curling just beneath your chin. "I could not allow that."

"So what?" you spat. "You plan to keep me locked away forever?"

Aglaea laughed—light, melodic, as if you had said something endearing.

"Why would I waste such potential?" She cupped your cheek, her warmth sinking into your skin. "You are mine. Not as a prisoner, not as a tool—but as something far greater."

Her grip tightened, just barely, as her eyes glowed with something final.

"You will stand at my side when I reshape this world."

The words settled over you like chains. Not cold, unyielding iron—but golden ones. Ones that would gleam under the sun, soft and beautiful and inescapable.

"So that’s it?" you bit out. "You take me, wash me like some delicate thing, and expect me to play along?"

Aglaea remained unfazed, "I expect you to accept your place."

"Accept?" You let out a sharp laugh, tilting your head. "You talk about reshaping the world, but all I hear is the same delusional arrogance the Chrysos have always had."

A flicker of something dark passed through her gaze. Not anger. Not offense.

"And what would you do, little one?" she murmured, voice softer now. Dangerous. "Would you fight me?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

She exhaled, dragging the damp cloth down your chest, the warmth of the water trailing in its wake. "You will understand soon enough."

That was the last thing you wanted to hear. The final thread of restraint inside you snapped.

"You act like you own me," you snarled. "Like I should be grateful that you stole me away. But what makes you any different from the monsters you claim to be above?"

There was only silence. Then, in one slow, measured movement, Aglaea dipped her hand into the water—

—and pushed.

The world tilted. Water surged over your head, filling your nose, your mouth. Your body seized, panic clawing at your chest as you thrashed, hands grasping for purchase. But there was nothing.

No hands holding you down. No weight pressing against you.

Just the water.

Just her will.

The moment your lungs screamed for air, the pressure eased. You shot up, gasping, coughing violently as water dripped down your face. The bath sloshed around you, ripples disturbing the once-calm surface.

Aglaea was gone.

No trace of her warmth, no lingering whisper of breath against your skin.

Only silence.

And a single note resting on the edge of the tub.

With shaky hands, you reached for it, unfolding the delicate parchment.

“You will understand soon enough.”

A shiver crawled down your spine.

Because you knew—this was not a retreat.

This was a promise.

[chuunai]

Dazai tightly holds you with the intention of never letting go. He’s haunted by unwanted thoughts that his savior—his reason for living—will end up with the others. The cycle of love and death has always been recurring throughout his existence, and there’s no reason why it won’t happen again with you. He knows he will crumble and die (literally) with your departure. It’s selfish to want to never let go. However it’s such an innate need that Dazai finds himself embracing you nonstop, just wanting one more.

Chuuya takes you in his arms delicately and with great carefulness. In his hold, you’re a baby bird. A fragile creature who could break with the slightest pressure applied by an inhuman body who wields a god inside. The very same hands that rub your back have easily taken dozens if not hundreds of lives. He couldn’t handle it if he accidentally hurt you in any way. At the same time, he feels like a protector. Nobody would ever dare harm you when he was around. If it came to it, Chuuya would gladly sacrifice himself for you.

Fyodor lays you in his lap as one would with a pet. Most of his hours are spent huddled in-front of his computer set-up making plans and cunning calculations. One hand is typing on the keys, and the other is scratching your head or stroking your arms. Over the centuries of existences he’s lived, he’s never truly loved anyone. He holds an affection for you, yes, but it’s more akin to the way an owner takes care of a kitten from the streets. Yet he never finds himself complaining about your love. Perhaps he could return it one day purely.

Nikolai practically suffocates you with his chest. Despite not having a lot of free time outside of terrorism and murders, he’s decently muscular with defined pecs. He’s quite aware of it too and abuses it whenever he picks you up and smothers you with affection—and man boobs—while tastefully asking if you want a tighter hug. Much to his beliefs, sometimes he does hold you too tight and listens to your shaky wheezes of breath. When the only chain holding him down is gone, he’ll truly be free. Nevertheless, you won’t be free from him (and his hugs).

Sigma hesitantly wraps his arms around you with inexperience. The warmth of another human was a new sensation unknown to him—he’s only ever been harshly striked across his body. He melts into a pile of gooey affection and nearly cries when enveloped in your embrace. Had the Sky Casino not been his purpose first, he would’ve been in your arms forever. Amnesia may rid him of whatever previous existence he had, but he has a new one with you.

Tags: @briarbabyxo, @little-miss-chaoss, @secretlyagoblin, @sinfulthoughtsposts, @starrs20, @twst-om-lover, @broken-spirit101

[headlinxr]

( 疼痛 ) CHXSE, N. NI-KI ، ꒱⸰ֺ ࣭•

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ i'll follow you every fucking day, just too see your face. ุ๋ ⸱ 𓄰

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ Ni-Ki wants you to be his, but you already belong to someone else ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 Ni-Ki x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ the reader is hee seung's partner, Ni-Ki can't stand seeing you with him, Ni-Ki deals with suicidal thoughts . 𓏲

٬ ៶ ૂ 通告 , This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ༉‧₊˚

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

His room was dark, the light barely dared to enter. Ni-Ki felt trapped. The walls, like silent guardians, seemed to close in more and more, pressing on his chest with an unbearable weight. With each heartbeat, his heart resonated like a war drum, marking a battle rhythm that freed his inner self. He felt enveloped in a mantle of fresh mist, making each breath feel like a failed attempt to free himself from his invisible chains. In his mind, images of you danced like in a ballet, recalling everything about you, and the little he truly knew. With trembling hands, he searched for that object; a small leaf, cold and shiny, that promised him temporary relief. He stared at it, as if it were a mirror. When the steel touched his skin, it was as if the silence broke the mantle that covered him. The sensation was bittersweet, as if each cut were a grain of sand falling from an hourglass, marking the time slipping through his fingers.

Twilight finally seeped through the cracks in the room, tinting the atmosphere with a cold hue that accentuated the chill of the wooden wall against which he leaned. Without a shirt, his skin bristled at the touch of the rough surface, as if each splinter reminded him of the harshness of his life. With an impulsive gesture, he lifted his gaze, and what he found was a mosaic of memories clinging to the wood; thousands of photographs of you.

Each image was a glimpse of your essence: Captivating smiles, looks that bestowed joy, and moments frozen in time. But in each of those snapshots, there was an element that drove him crazy, a piercing reminder of his tireless devotion: Hee Seung. his heart contracted in an act of rebellion, as if a serpent coiled within him began to squeeze with ferocity. Rage erupted within him, igniting his mind with a torrent of distorted thoughts.

─Why... Him?─ He wondered, as his gaze lost itself in the abyss of jealousy that slowly devoured him. The obsession settled in his chest, a parasite that fed on his despair. Your image, an intruder in the world he imagined, became a ghost that haunted him, a constant echo reminding him of his own inability to be the center of his own universe.

The wall, now a canvas of his torments, seemed to mock him. Each photograph was a poisoned dart, a vivid representation of the happiness he longed for and yet slipped through his fingers like sand in an endless desert. The helplessness enveloped him like a dense fog, and his mind spun in circles, trapped in a labyrinth of dark thoughts.

With a deep sigh, a silent scream of frustration, he stepped away from the wall, leaving behind the gallery of broken dreams. He knew that his obsession was a mirage, a distorted reflection of a reality that refused to be his. However, the echo of his desire resonated within him, and although the coldness of the wood reminded him of his loneliness, the image of her continued to burn in his mind, inextinguishable and desperately beautiful. He set the blade aside, and with trembling but determined hands, he tore down one by one the photographs that adorned the walls, images that, at another time, evoked laughter and shared promises. Now, each portrait became a piercing reminder of what once was and what could never be. The fragments of paper fell to the ground like withered leaves, symbolizing the death of a love that had blossomed in the garden of his heart, only to wither before the cruel experience.

In his mind, a storm of emotions was unleashed, a whirlwind of anger and sadness that threatened to consume him completely. He wished, with an almost visceral intensity, to erase from the map of his existence those who had dared to stand between him and his deepest desire. Your life, a beacon that once illuminated his path, had now become a darkness that enveloped him, and in his mind, a revenge was brewing that seemed as seductive as it was lethal.

Remember that sunny day, and the air infused with the fresh scent of spring. Jake said you were his sister, an ethereal figure dancing between laughter and dreams, dazzling in your innocence. Your laughter was a melody that resonated in his chest, and every word you spoke became an enchanting whisper that hymned in his mind. So irrevocably patriotic that it would make the national anthem stutter.

He wanted to trust in the sudden emotion he felt every time he saw you, he would trust that you would place perfectly carved sea crusts in the palms of your hands after searching for them for hours. He felt like a child, his heart racing, but fate was capricious, and you chose the young and handsome boy, finding yourself trapped in those nets that had ensnared thousands of girls like you. That betrayal, subtle as poison, was the stigma that marked his soul.

As the photographs fell, the echo of your laughter transformed into a lament, a symphony of what could have been. The anger turned into a fire that consumed him, fueled by memories that could not be undone. You were more than just a simple girl; you were a symbol of everything he longed for and couldn't have. He longed to be the protagonist of a forbidden story with you, where he imagined touching your soft skin and feeling the heat of your body against his.

With each passing day, Ni-Ki wished to become bolder, trying to let desire guide him down paths he knew were dangerous. Each chance encounter turned into a game of tension-filled glances, where he allowed himself to dream of an accidental brush, a whisper in the ear that would never materialize. In his mind, the line between admiration and harassment blurred, and his obsession became a thousand-headed monster that devoured him from within. The routine had become a sacred ritual. With a fixed gaze, Ni-Ki ventured into the streets you usually roam. His heart beat at a frantic pace, pumping a cocktail of adrenaline and desire. The city transformed into a labyrinth of possibilities, a stage where destiny seemed to whisper his name in his ear.

Ni-Ki tried not to be discouraged; for him, the possession of your heart did not depend on reciprocity, but on the fervor of his devotion. In his mind, you were his, a star in his personal firmament, and even though there were others around you, your essence remained unchanging, destined to join his in some corner of the universe.

Each chance encounter, each smile he managed to catch, was a brick in the construction of his obsession. Ni-Ki became a master of the art of invisibility, a ghost slipping through the crowd, always at the right distance, always at the right moment. His life turned into a dance of shadows and lights, where his only purpose was to be a silent witness to the joy you radiate.

The chase, for him, was not a mere act of following; it was a form of veneration. The mere act of contemplating you, of absorbing your essence, filled him with an almost mystical ecstasy. In his mind, each day was a new chapter in an unfinished novel, a story where the protagonist pursues a love that, though distant, beats with intensity in his chest.

Who would you call if he took you? When your back is against the wall, who would you turn to? He wishes he were the first one you thought of. When you are running down the corridor, it will be him who cuts the path. You will hear the sirens, but they will never hear you.

You splash through the puddles on the road, he hates running in the rain. You turn around, and see that he's coming for you. There's no one there for you, so you mustn't fall. Because you are his to take. Only from him.