#Light is blinding without the shade of shadows

[itstwoamandimcursingyourname]

Alina Starkov, the unwanted orphan who never knew her parents, the unwanted orphan who was abused by her foster mother, the unwanted orphan whose one friend drifted apart from her when they joined the first army, the unwanted orphan who nobody ever chose, the unwanted orphan with no one to call her own, finally finally finally being wanted and chosen and worshiped by someone(Aleksander Morozova)......

[steddieasitgoes]

Eddie helps Jeff and Grant move into their freshman college dorms. Eddie's not going to college; it took him six years to graduate high school. He's not about to put more time and now money into a dead-end education, but he respects the guys' decision.

They're upset the university's stupid roommate questionare didn't pair them together. They answered everything exactly the same, and yet they still got split up. It's bullshit. Eddie knows it, they know it, everyone knows it. But it is what it is. Jeff doesn't want to make waves with the school, and Grant's just happy they accepted his sorry ass, so they'll have to live with it.

Jeff, Gareth, and Grant are currently figuring out how they're going to smuggle a microwave into Grant's room. Eddie leaves them to it, already holding a box marked for Jeff in his hands. He saunters out of the elevator and down the hall toward Jeff's room, nodding his head at anyone who does the same to him.

College is weird, he thinks. No one has sneered at him -- not even the frat dude bro type who checked Jeff and Grant in earlier. Maybe it's true what they say, college is full of open-minded people. He'll let the boys be the guinea pig on that one.

Jeff's door is half shut when he gets there, which is weird because he knows they left it wide open. They still have to bring in his record collection, and even though he ditched hundreds at home, the box is still way heavier than it should be. Having to put it down to open the door is a no go.

Thankfully, the box Eddie is carrying now is rather light so he turns and uses what little ass he has to bump the door open before sliding inside.

He stops dead in his tracks as Jeff's roommate turns to meet his gaze.

Eddie doesn't believe in God, doesn't believe in angels -- he likes to think Demons exist, but that's more of an aesthetic thing than anything else -- but he's pretty sure he's in the presence of an angel.

No, he's certain he is.

The large window between the beds shoots rays of sunshine through the horizontal blinds, painting the guy in beautiful shades of yellow and orange. And jesus h. christ the shadow gives off the illusion of a halo around his gorgeous, lush, perfectly styled hair.

He's wearing a sweater -- how he's wearing a sweater in the sweltering heat, Eddie doesn't know, but he is -- with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Eddie can't help but let his eyes take in the miles and miles of sun-kissed skin, unmarked with ink like his own but decorated with freckles and moles that Eddie wants to trace, connecting them like constellations he spent decades staring at on the roof of the trailer back at home. And, okay, maybe a few other unholy thoughts also pop into his head -- sue him.

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at that. Of course Eddie's first thought upon stumbling on an angel is to wreck them.

"Hey, I'm Steve," the man says, extending a hand out to Eddie.

Jesus H. Christ, it's bigger than any hand has any right to be. Eddie's mind immediately wonders what else might be bigger than most. He can't help it.

"You must be Jeff," he smiles. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Yep, that's me!" Eddie says without thinking it through. He scrambles to put the box down and reaches out to shake Steve's hand.

It's a firm handshake, what Wayne would call "business-like," but it sends a burst of electricity coursing through Eddie's body. It's silly, really silly, but Eddie doesn't think his hand has ever fit so perfectly in someone else's before.

Maybe they're soulmates. He doesn't believe in those either, but he could if this Steve guys is his.

Steve smiles and drops his hand a second later and Eddie tries his best not to buckle under the loss of touch.

"What do you think of the place?" Steve says. His hands shoot to his waist, settling there as he gives the room a bitchy glance over. "It's a lot smaller than I was expecting."

"At least it's only a double," Eddie says. "My friend's stuck in a triple."

Poor Grant. As if losing out on rooming with Jeff isn't enough, he really got fucked.

Steve whistles lowly. "Damn, man, that sucks."

He squats then, digging through an already unopened box, and Eddie feels faint. His jeans were already tight, but with his new angle, they're stretched to the max, leaving very, very, very little to be imagined. And Eddie has no problem imagining anything, much less what the skin under those pale blue jeans looks like.

Steve's shirt rides up a bit as he leans over more, really sifting through the box now, and the tiny sliver of skin above the waistband of his boxers is enough to send Eddie into full-blown gremlin mode.

Maybe he should have applied to college.

"So, Jeff," Steve says, standing again and glancing between the two beds.

Neither has seemed to claim them yet. Jeff -- the real Jeff -- didn't want to be rude, and judging by the single box Steve's been looking through, he's only just started the move-in process.

"Got any bed preferences?"

Sharing it with you.

No, no! he scolds himself.

"Nope, have at it," Eddie says, casting his arms out wide and bending at the waist. He's not sure why he's done it, but by the time he registers how weird it might be, it's too late. So he commits to the bit, and it's worth it when Steve chuckles.

"Cool, cool," he nods. "I'll take this one, then." Steve shuffles over to the bed farthest from the door and tests the firmness with his hand. It gives just enough to make Steve smile. "I can work with this, if you know what I mean."

Eddie thinks he's really gone and died then because Steve honest to god winks at him.

Winks!

At. Him.

Eddie!

What the fuck.

"Yeah," he croaks, a little awkward and a whole lot aroused. He needs to get out of here before he jumps Jeff's roommate and accidentally gets him kicked out. Better yet, he needs to figure out how to get enrolled and kick Jeff out of his room himself. "Alright, well, I've got more shit to bring up, so I'll be back."

"I'll be here."

Eddie nods then bolts, ditching the elevator altogether and taking the three flights of stairs two at a time. Jeff's still arguing with boys when he gets down there, sweaty and out-of-breath.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" Gareth snaps.

"Oh no," Jeff winces. "Is my roommate a dick? Did he chase you out?"

"No," Eddie pants, shaking his head widly. He reaches out with both hands and slams them down on Jeff's shoulders way harder than he needs to. "Your roommate, Steve-- he's-- I think I'm in love."

The guys burst into laughter.

"Here we go again," Gareth says, rolling his eyes.

"You just met the guy," Grant adds. "How could you possibly be in love?"

"You can't be in love with my roommate," Jeff scolds, shaking Eddie's hand off of him.

"Jeff, Jefferson, Jeffery," Eddie rambles. "I am in love. He is the man I am going to marry. The one who will father my children. The one to tame this wild horse--"

"You've slept with two dudes, Eddie. I don't think that makes you a wild horse," Gareth scoffs.

Eddie ignores him. He doesn't have time to deal with Gareth. Not when Steve is upstairs waiting for him.

"I need to go back to him."

Eddie moves to step around the three, eager to grab another box with Jeff's name on it and get back to Steve. Back to the love of his life. But Jeff blocks him.

"No. No. Absolutely not," Jeff says, reeling Eddie back in. "I have to live with this guy for a year. You are not going back up there and making it weird."

"Well then I have good news for you," Eddie says, wicked grin already breaking out onto his face.

"This can't be good," Grant mumbles.

"You don't even have to go up there. He thinks I'm Jeff."

"Okay, but you're not Jeff," the real Jeff says, crossing his arms. "I'm Jeff and I'm going to go to my room and introduce myself to my roommate and you're going to stay far, far, far away from him."

Eddie shakes his head. "You can't do that! He'll think I'm a liar."

"You are a liar," Gareth butts in.

"Eddie," Jeff groans. "I have to go up there! I live here. I'm Jeff. He needs to know the truth."

"Or, or!" Eddie shouts, full of frantic energy now. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, mind reeling a million miles an hour as the plan starts to form in his head. This could work. It could totally work. "How about I pretend to be you for the next year and you can be me."

"Dude, no!" Jeff scoffs. "I worked my ass of to get here. I'm not trading lives with you so you can try to fuck my roommate."

"Oh, I won't have to try," Eddie says. "He might have already offered."

"Oh my god. My roommate thinks I want to fuck him."

"Your roommate doesn't even know you exist," Grant corrects.

"What were you thinking?" Jeff shouts.

"He clearly wasn't thinking with his head," Gareth says.

"This is a disaster."

"No," Eddie says, shaking his head. He doesn't know why they're being so catastrophic about this. It's fine. It's all going to be fine. "Okay, new plan, I'll pretend to be you but only in your dorm. You can still go to class and do all the college shit. I'll only be Jeff to Steve."

"And where am I supposed to live?"

"With Grant."

"Asshole! I'm already in a triple! We can't house another person."

"And you're not even enrolled!" Jeff adds. "What happens when the RA finds out? I'll get kicked out and you'll--"

"Go to jail."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I don't think people go to jail for impersonating college students, Gare."

"They might!" Gareth says, throwing his hands up. "Are you really going to risk going to jail just for a chance at fucking Jeff's roommate?"

"Well, I hope it would be more than fucking. I did say I was in love."

Gareth doesn't get it. The only thing he's ever loved is his drum set -- and he can't marry that. Not even in bumfuck Indiana.

He goes back to ignoring Gareth and focuses on Jeff. He braces his hand on his shoulders again and slinks down to his knees. He's not above begging. Not for this. Not for the angel that is Steve who is probably wondering where he is right now.

"Jeff," Eddie says, hitting the pavement. He retracts his hands from Jeff's shoulders and clasps them together in prayer. He's making a scene.

"Get up, you're making a scene," Jeff hisses, yanking him back to his feet. Eddie goes willingly and Jeff huffs. "Alright, alright. Let me think."

"You can't seriously be considering this," Grant chimes in. "Eddie's plan is shit. It'll never work."

"I know that!"

Eddie watches as Jeff paces in a circle with his eyes closed. If he wanted to, he could bolt right now. Grab a box and make a run for it. Lock himself and Steve in the room and not come out until he's sure Jeff won't rat him out. Holding Steve hostage might not be the best impression to give Steve though, so he stays put.

"Okay, how about this," Jeff says and Eddie gives him his undivided attention. "The two of us are going to go back to my dorm and we're going to set the record straight--"

"No! That's--"

"Eddie," Jeff says, firmly. "If you really do love my roommate or well, you want to eventually love him. You have to tell him the truth."

Jeff's right. He's always right that's why he's going to college on a scholarship and Eddie's not. But he doesn't like it. Steve's going to think he's a total weirdo and he'll never get a chance to see what's actually under those tight ass pants.

Still, Jeff's right.

"Fine."

Steve really is an angel because he doesn't even bat an eye at the truth. He does laugh, but Eddie doesn't mind that. He wishes he had his cassette recorder and a mic so he could record it. It's music to his damn ears, and he knows a thing or two about music.

Jeff and Steve hit it off and Eddie tries not to pout about it as he continues lugging in box after box. When Eddie's van is finally empty, Grant and Gareth meet up with them in Jeff's room. Steve introduces himself and Eddie can tell they're both silently judging him.

Yes, this is the dude he would risk going to jail for, Gareth. Eddie thinks, he hopes Gareth gets the message in the glare he shoots his way. He thinks he does.

It turns out Steve also has a best friend who just moved in, too. She's in a different building than them, but he's meeting up with her for pizza at the parlor down the street. He invites them all to go and Eddie says yes on behalf of all of them a little to quickly.

When they get there, Steve introduces them all -- Jeff, Gareth, Grant. He gets all their names right, even Gareth, but when he gets to Eddie, he smirks. "And this," he says, smiling as he slings an arm around Eddie's shoulder. "This is not-Jeff my not-roommate."

"Hi, Not Jeff," Robin says.

Eddie laughs and introduces himself to her with his real name and Robin nods before her eyes lock on with Steve. He can tell they're non-verbally communicating with each other. It's not unlike the way he is with the boys. One look is all it takes sometimes for them to know what he's thinking.

It's weird watching it happen from the outside and especially difficult when he's still stuck under Steve's arm. Not that he minds that part not at all.

Finally, her lips quirk up into a smile and she pulls her gaze from Steve, letting it land on Eddie. At the exact same time, Steve's name gets called and he excuses himself to get pizza, leaving the two of them alone.

Robin's smile falters just a bit as she takes a step closer to him, replacing the spot where Steve just was. "Just so you know, I'm obsessed with Murder, She Wrote. If you hurt him, I know where to hide your body."

Eddie doesn't have time to even think of a retort before she's scampering off to help Steve with the pizzas.

He might not be enrolled in college, but he has a strange feeling he's going to spend a lot of time up here from now on.

[alavestineneas]

Losing dogs

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader

summary: His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return. warnings: not really canon-compliant, mentions of minor violence, blood and shitty relationships word count: 4k

Part 2 is here!

author's note: remember kids, manipulators and sick bastards are only hot in fiction - don't do them (and drugs) in real life!

The polished toes of his new shoes reflected everything in the grand hall—they caught glimmers of lamps adorned with gold, colourful drapes on the enormous windows, and the kaleidoscopic dresses of women around. The chatter filled the room, almost too loud to hear the music—not that he would enjoy it either. Some things require focus.

''Mister Fabius, Missis Fabius.''

Corialanus's face melts into a smile-like expression at the sight of the older couple.

They look like lice in the large building—rich lice, that is. The golden and platinum rings on Missis Fabius's fingers shine with every gemstone known to man, mirroring the bright lights. The jewels look ugly on the wrinkly hand, he notes. What a waste.

''Mister Snow, what a surprise! I was just telling Livia of your prodigious success in your new position. Incredible work, Mr. Snow; simply incredible! ''

The man's face radiated with excitement, getting closer in shade to his burgundy tie. The gold threats on it piqued more interest for Mister Snow than the words of the old man—after all, it's not every day you meet such luxury in person.

The man's wife, however, seemed less enthusiastic; her cold, bored gaze circled him up and down, stopping only after getting the satisfaction of an undoubtedly unpleasant conclusion. 

Coriolanus mentally went over his outfit, hairstyle, and anything else she might have noticed. Nothing was out of place; the holes in his coat were a thing of the past. Still, it was something—that thought found its place in his brain, drilling a small hole in its way. 

''When will we know of your decision, Mister Snow? We gave you time—a lot of time.''

''This evening, Mrs. Fabius. After the play, I promise to give you my answer tonight.''

He has to look first. What fool buys a horse blind? Sure, the horse came with immense fortunes and, most importantly, connections, but still. He couldn't afford to make a hasty decision, especially when the stakes were so high. After all, he was one of the most desirable bachelors; Fabiuses had to thank him for even considering the offer.

''There is no agreement until tomorrow, Mister Snow. We will have you for breakfast at nine o'clock sharp,'' Mr Fabius said, placing a hand on his wife's back and leading her towards the entrance. They could afford not to make one's adieu.

The opera was popular among the richest; all of the seats were taken. He would have lied if he said the golden rails and red velvet didn't make him feel a bit out of place. Nobody paid him any attention, although this time it didn't hurt him as much as usual. He could hide in the shadows of his box seat without being concerned about making an impression.

Not the stage, of course. It was the least of his worries, although he did pay a high price for a ticket. No, he looked at her. 

The golden gown on her was a shimmering masterpiece. Layers and layers of the most expensive fabric covered her body like soft waves, crashing down at the round neckline with their gilded ends. She wore diamond earrings, just like her mother did, although they suited her better. 

Coriolanus remembered her from the academy; she always sat near the window, gazing out at the world with a longing in her eyes. She wasn't a very bright student but rather a dutiful one. always on time, always prepared with her assignments, and always eager to please her teachers. The heiress to the jewellery empire. The flower of the elite social scene. Her presence attracted attention, yet she seamlessly blended into the background, never stealing the spotlight. YN Fabius was everything he needed her to be—a picture, but never a spectacle. 

-

The manor was grand and opulent, showing the wealth and status of the Fabius family. Its sprawling gardens and delicate architecture were a testament to its esteemed position in society. Collums, paintings, and endless staircases stood as if frozen in time. It was as if there was no war just a decade ago. 

''Mister Snow,'' the butler called out, his voice echoing through the grand foyer. ''Breakfast is served in the blue dining hall; if you would please follow me.''

Thousands and thousands of steps and passages lined the walls, leading to various wings and chambers of the mansion. It was warm, even during the cold autumn season. Only keeping the fireplaces always lit must cost a fortune.

When they finally reached the needed room, Coriolanus was slightly out of breath. The blue walls reached the high ceiling, painted with pictures of half-naked gods and goddesses frolicking in fields of flowers. It created the illusion of a smell wafting through the air as if the vibrant colours had come to life. 

The table was served for four, not three, suggesting that someone else was expected to join them. The silverware gleamed under the soft rays of sunshine, casting a shimmering glow across the room—pure silver, nothing less. 

The door behind him opened with a gentle creak, revealing Mr. Fabiuse's humble figure. His simple, at first glance, shirt was another of the perfectly constructed illusions—Coriolanus knew the fabrics like the back of his hand. The shirt, though seemingly plain, was made from the finest Egyptian cotton, woven with intricate patterns. 

''Mister Snow, how good that you came on time. Excuse my ladies, the girls are such girls at every age. Take so long to get ready,'' he laughs. ''Please, take a seat," Mr. Fabius said, gesturing towards a plush chair covered in velvet. 

''There is no point in all of those paints once you hit sixty,'' Mrs.Fabius said, appearing right behind her husband. She circled the table before taking a seat herself, her eyes glancing disapprovingly at the young man. "Let's begin before the food grows cold," she added with a sigh, her tone tinged with resignation. 

''Of course,'' Mr. Fabius nodded, lifting the lid on the first dish. The aroma of it filled the room, and Coriolanus couldn't help but feel his hunger grow. He didn't have the habit of eating so much in the morning—another thing he needs to adjust about his routine. 

When Mr.Fabius finally placed the fork down, Coriolanus knew it was time. ''Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Fabius. I must say, I thought a lot about your proposal, and after careful consideration, I have decided to accept it.''

''Good.'' Mrs. Fabius answered instead, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear that, Coriolanus. I believe this union will bring great delights to both of us." 

Mr. Fabius seemed not to notice the interruption. ''I think a winter wedding would be absolutely perfect. Everybody seems to be getting married in the spring, but in the winter? Oh, it's definitely going to be a hit. Ah, and here's the lucky bride-to-be!''

She stood beside the just-opened door, her eyes following his expressions. Her hands, adorned just with one small pearl ring, were gently clasped together in front of her. She looked nervous, like a child standing in front of the full class on the first school day. Her dress, a delicate lace creation, clings to her figure like a second skin. 

He smiled at her. YN looked like an antique statue, as if she just stepped out of the ruins of the Panem. Coriolanus wasn't even sure she was breathing—her stillness was so deep. 

''Let's leave the lover birds to chirp,'' Mrs.Fabius said, standing up. She walked towards the couple, her heels clicking against the floor, and extended her hand towards YN. "Congratulations, my dear," she said with a warm smile before leaving, her husband following after her.

''It's time for a ring, isn't it?'' Coriolanus cleared his throat. Everything is to be done appropriately; there is no reason to avoid traditions. He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a small box. White, of course—who is he, if not a romantic at heart?

''Mr. Snow,'' YN watched him stand up and come closer with the same expression she always bore—a mixture of melancholy and worship. ''Grant me something.''

He paused. Coriolanus didn't like to make promises. He would have to make it clear to her later, after the wedding—the fact that he took her for a bride was enough of a promise. Still, he needed this engagement to work, and he was not about to lose it to a crude lie. With a sigh, he softly replied, "What is it that you desire, Miss YN?"

''Promise me you will be kind to me. All of our marriage, promise to be kind to my heart.''

Coriolanus almost laughed in her face. Oh, what a lovely, clueless fool. "I will do my best to treat you with kindness, Miss YN."

''Good,'' she smiles. ''I think we will make a great couple then, Mister Snow.''

''Coriolanus, my dear. Please call me Coriolanus." 

He couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was sealed. His golden prize, his future wife, was now bound to him by the ring on her finger. Of all of his investments, this one had the potential to yield the greatest return.

-

Mr.Fabius didn't lie—his daughter was the perfect bride. She never spoke to him unless he did first; she never questioned him. She simply followed his lead, like a well-trained pet. A pretty, lovely YN. She knew what to do, how to dress, and what to say. He searched for one—at least a slight imperfection—and couldn't find one; it was as if she wasn't a human, which, to him, she wasn't.

''What are you going to do today?'' he asks, without bothering to look up from the newspaper. He doesn't wish to hear her answer, but he still asks out of courtesy. Coriolanus knows that her daily routine is made up of attending charity events, dinners with influential figures's wives, and shopping for designer clothes. It's a predictable pattern.

''Well, the trees I ordered came in today; I'll have to chat with the new gardener about them. Are you meeting with anyone important later?" 

''As a matter of fact, I do. Larry Tremblay wants to include me in a business deal he's been working on." 

It's partly true, but she doesn't need to know more. Just a familiar name was usually enough for his wife to hum in satisfaction and assume that he was still climbing the social ladder. Not this time, evidently.

''You shouldn't accept.''

He looked up from his cup, trying to guess if she had gone out of her mind. YN looked like usual, her eyes meeting his without a care in the world. Why today, of all days, she decided to question his decision was beyond him. He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. "And why should I decline such a good-looking opportunity?" 

''He beats his wife. Just yesterday, I saw her with bruises. ''

Coriolanus fought hard to keep a smile from forming on his lips. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference. He knew his wife wasn't the brightest, but this? "Is that so?" 

''Don't you understand what it means? The man only beats his wife for two reasons. If he has always enjoyed those types of things, which Larry did not, or if he loses power and control in other aspects of his life. The business isn't going as well as he wants it to,'' YN lowers her gaze, losing confidence in her voice. ''I thought you would want to know that.''

He would, very much. Her conclusion was the dumbest thing he ever heard, based on some black and blue marks and a twist of her imagination. Still, it was interesting—his wife's head wasn't always empty like he hoped. She thought enough to notice something, and she listened enough to remember his partners. 

''I will keep that in mind,'' he replied, his tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. What harm could it do to entertain her thoughts? It was even slightly amusing to see her try to piece together a puzzle that didn't exist. 

-

It wasn't so fun anymore when Larry Tremblay was fired exactly two weeks later. Surely, it could be a consequence, but Coriolanus Snow didn't believe in them. There had to be something, anything, to explain his wife's sudden knowledge—she couldn't have acquired it on her own, about that he was sure.

YN looked unfazed by his questioning gaze as she lay on the dark olive-coloured sofa in his office, continuing to play with a snow-white kitten on her stomach. It was his wedding gift, one of many—the pricy creature with a diamond collar. He thought it was rather symbolic—two caged animals who were once considered sacred.

''How did you understand that Tremblay was about to be fired?'' Coriolanus asked, his voice laced with suspicion. It could be that she overheard the woman talk about it, or even that she had some inside information from her connections. What bothered him more was what she could know from the same source about him.

YN paused, her fingers gently stroking the kitten's fur as she met his gaze. "I didn't know that. I simply knew he had trouble at work. Evidently, they were big enough for him to lose his position." 

''Really?'' he chuckled. Maybe she was telling the truth. ''Then, what can you say about my work?''

YN's eyes narrowed slightly. "Your work doesn't matter; how you present yourself does. Can I give you some advice?'

 "Sure.'' Coriolanus bit his tongue, fighting the urge to snap back at her. After all, it is what he married her for—to fit in. He took a deep breath.

''Buy a new car, but not the most expensive one; it will give off an impression of stability, like you know the job isn't going anywhere. Your shoes are always too polished; it's like you wore them right out of the box. And throw away that hideous tie you always wear—you look like a student." 

''Something else?'' Coriolanus mustered a weak smile, trying to hide his frustration. 

''I don't want to offend you, Coriolanus. But I want you to do well. After all, you are my husband now, and your success reflects on both of us. Why not help where I can? You know I love clothes.''

''Good, '' he replied, forcing a more genuine smile. "Now get away from that cat before it scratches you. I'll figure out the rest on my own." 

''Of course you will. You are the smartest man I've ever met.''

-

He was. It was because of his intelligence that YN married him, because of his ambition. Well, that and something else. 

From her earliest childhood, YN knew what she was destined to be. She was the child of late parents, the only child, and a girl; she would inherit everything the generations of her family worked so hard to achieve. And YN was no fool; she needed a man. Driven, proud, and cold-blooded. The one who was not afraid to get his hands dirty while she spent her time leisurely in his shadow. Oh, no—YN never minded her place, much like her mother did. She taught her to bet on the finest horses, and Coriolanus Snow was no exception. 

From the time she saw him in his ridiculously tight shirt in the academy, she knew what she wanted. Him. The top of every class, the charmer with pretty eyes—a catch, really. Her mother said there was darkness inside her dear Coriolanus, but YN knew. That's why she now sits in the opulent living room, waiting for him to get home. Mr. Snow was a horrific, ruthless man. But he was still, at his core, a man. 

And men never listen. That's how she got him and got him good—a silent, fawn-eyed creature that he thought he could control. An obedient wife and a lovely lap dog. It was funny to see his gaze twitch slightly when she said something she wasn't supposed to—how long would it take him to figure it out? 

It's time—his tall figure appeared in the corridor leading to the living room. YN watches silently as he takes off his shoes and coat, placing them on the rack by the door. Home at seven p.m. sharp, just like any other day. Just like any other day, dinner is at the table. 

He never said thank you. Instead, her closet grew bigger with countless dresses, bags, and shoes—sometimes even brand-new jewellery. YN didn't mind it; she loved it—the jealous whispers of other women at the events about how lucky she was. She didn't have to sleep with a big, fat old man to get the latest fur coat or the most exquisite diamond necklace.

At least a few times a month now, Coriolanus would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. This night was one of those: YN woke up from the constant turning and tossing in the bed. She doesn't know how he didn't figure out why; it was easy to guess his food contained something to make his sleep far worse—YN made sure of that. Maybe he just didn't have the heart to admit his weaknesses, even to himself.

''Hey,'' she whispered, getting out of the warm covers. YN tiptoed over to Coriolanus' side of the bed, careful not to bump into anything in the dark. ''Hey, wake up. Are you okay?" she asked, gently shaking him awake. 

Coriolanus jolted upright, his eyes wide with fear as he gasped for breath. He wasn't; of course, he wasn't. Yn would have lied if she said she didn't find it hot to see him like this—sweat glistening on his forehead, his chest heaving. 

''You were having a nightmare again.''

He looked at her with the eyes of a lunatic, still not over his dream. ''What did I say this time?"

''You were mumbling something about birds and songs, I think? It didn't make much sense." 

He doesn't recall that she mentored the 10th game too. Without much success, of course, but one thing she did remember was a girl from District 12 who liked to sing. Coriolanus remembered her too; it was evident from the fear that crossed his eyes.

''Excuse me,'' he said, his voice still shaky. ''I need a moment.''

YN watched as he stumbled towards the bathroom, his hands twitching. As much as her husband wanted to hide those parts of himself, he couldn't. Not from her. 

There was nothing else to do but wait. YN climbed on the bed, turning her back to the bathroom door. Coriolanus would only come out when he thought she had fallen asleep. She learned to control her breath when she was just a little girl; it saved her life once, when a rebel pointed a gun at her small frame, meaning to shoot. He didn't—what use was it to waste a bullet on a non-breathing child?

Surely, after some time, the blonde man stepped out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, he listened to her steady breathing before sliding under the covers and pressing his body against hers, his large hand covering her shoulders. Coriolanus wasn't gentle; YN wasn't sure he knew what the word meant anyway, but he was careful. His arm around her chest wasn't tight—just enough for him to bring her closer.

As much as YN wanted to turn around and face him, she didn't. There was no point—like any other human, he hated the feeling of vulnerability. Instead, YN focused on the warmth of his body. Coriolanus Snow was a god more than a human, and real gods were never kind. The only currency they recognized was blood.

-

The annual party for the victor of this year's games. The first year Coriolanus Snow worked as a head gamemaker, his creation was a bloodbath, a spectacle of violence and despair. He did a good job—an excellent one, even—and one of the greatest stars of today's celebration was him.

They needed to dress the part in clothes that exuded power. And so they did. Coriolanus's suit was ample—purple velvet with gold embroidery—the colour of Roman emperors. The colour of the winners. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, suiting his white hair. Gold cufflinks, gold rings—he looked like a sovereign among men. It was risky to do so right in front of the current president, but who was Coriolanus Snow if he was not confident in his success? 

YN wore the gown from the matching collection, a floor-length masterpiece. The deep purple colour was a stark contrast to her skin tone. And jewellery, of course—she came from the Fabius family for a reason. The lavender diamonds on her necklace and earrings. They were rare—the rarest—even. Only a few violet diamonds have been mined in the past seventy years.

It was all anyone talked about behind their backs. Whispers, rumours, and so much venom dripped from the mouths of Panem's elite—that's what they were hoping for, anyway. The Snows were just as shamelessly rich as they were powerful. 

That's why they now sat at the President's table, just a few faces away from them. Coriolanus smiled to himself - not even the President's wife could compare to YN. Not in fashion, not in elegance. He had an impeccable taste - even a person far away from politics could see that.

''A toast!'' the President stood up with a glass in his hand, turning to face the Coriolanus. ''I am sure many of you know who was the mastermind behind the games this year - it's my pleasure to introduce Coriolanus Snow to those of you who don't. However, not many know his story of success. From a dirt-poor background, when his greatest possession was his family name, he worked hard to achieve the position he holds today. Let us raise our glasses and celebrate his remarkable journey to success and the country of Panem - the land of opportunity!''

YN cursed under her breath as she listened to the crowd cheer for her husband. He remained stoic - the only thing that gave away his fury was his eyes - they grew as dark as the sky outside. She didn't bother to calm him - this fire was impossible to put out. The President made a fatal mistake with his speech - she knows. But the true fear crept into her heart when she saw the President's wife pass Coriolanus the dish. 

Cabbage.

Under a fancy sauce, it could be transformed into a delicacy fit for their circle. But tonight, it was his last straw. The colours changed on the face of Coriolanus, from white to all shades of red. His fists clenched, and veins pulsed on his temples. The room fell silent as they observed.

''Oh, I am so sorry,'' YN chipped in. Quick, something. ''I have a terrible allergy to cabbage.'' 

The President's wife looked concerned. ''Oh, I didn't know.''

YN made her eyes water, throwing a coughing feat for more dramatic effect. ''I think I need to step outside for some fresh air." 

She felt a warm hand on her back. ''Let me accompany you, just to make sure you're alright." her husband announced, carefully leading her towards the exit. 

-

The first thing he did when they reached the women's bathroom was break the mirrors in a fit of anger. Shards of glass scattered across the floor as he paced around the room like a caged animal. YN watched as shouted and hit the walls, sitting on the bathroom floor. Beautiful one - the tile was a lovely shade of pink, contrasting with the chaos unfolding before her. 

After a good few minutes, he finally calmed down and sank to the floor beside her, his face buried in his hands. Her husband, her hauntingly beautiful, pathetic husband - oh, what a sight. He looked mad, maniac, even; his blonde hair was far from its usual perfectly styled form, falling on his tear-stained cheeks.

"What do you think of me?"

His voice is hoarse, a few notes down from a honey-like. She likes it better, YN thinks - nothing of the fasçade he was trying so hard to uphold. No, just a raw hunger with a mix of equally raw despair.

"I think you are an animal, Coriolanus."

She smiles, watching his expression change. He suspected it, of course - her husband was a smart man. Still, he can't believe it - his head twitches in her direction, his gorgeous bottomless eyes shining under the weak light of the only surviving floor lamp.

"What?" he asks with such a loss in his voice YN has to fight the urge to bring him close. Not now, she thinks. It's not the time. 

"A hungry, desperate, sick, sick animal with nothing to lose."

Coriolanus gets closer abruptly, clearly angered - she can't let him leave now. His arm shouts to find its place on her neck, long, slim fingers forming a circle around her throat. "You think I am after money, don't you?"

"No, no," a yelp escapes her lips, bordering a hysterical laugh. "Only fools are after money, Coriolanus, and you are no fool."

YN watches as he loses his grip a little, calmed by her words. What a pitiful, fascinating creature was her husband - one word of reassurance and he is willing to let thousands of cursings slide.

"What is it, then? What did you fantasize about in your small dull head?"

He still doesn't believe her. YN is surprised at how quickly it becomes boring. 

"You want power."

Clap - the grip on her neck is tight again.

"That's why you choose the fear. People forget the hand that feeds them, but the one who beats? Never."

The frown on his face falls a little, and through the gritted teeth escapes something like a curse. "You talk an awful lot about me," he notes. "What are you hungry for?"

"You."

He laughs. That was a deep, chest laugh - YN thinks she never heard him laugh so sincerely. "You want my love? Don't lie to me, YN," he taunts, pressing a little harder on her neck.

"Not love. Love is easily swayed, is it not? No, I want you."

Coriolanus looks at her as if he never done so before. Well, he looked thousands of times, but he didn't see. His eyes study every expression in hers, every part of her face. "A hungry dog is not a loyal dog," he finally masters.

There is a certain silence after his words. YN gulps, desperatly trying to help her dried throat - the blood from his hands ran down her neck onto her exposed chest, leaving sticky, dark trails behind.

"Feed me, then."

He kisses her. He puts a force behind it, watching her hands fall on his chest for some kind of support. Coriolanus kisses her until there is no air in YN's chest anymore, and she has to push him away to take a rushed breath. 

They were going to be just fine.

After all, they both never bet on losing dogs.

[strungnews]

WHAT WOULD I DO WITHOUT YOU?

It’s the same question Mark always asks when he’s in a pinch. Always seemingly there when he needs you most, covering his ass multiple times because of his recklessness.

“What would I do without you?”

He asks then again, feeling your fingers brush and dry the tears away from his face.

“Probably burying your head into a pillow and making a terrifying print of your face on it.” You joked. He always appreciated that about you. Light hearted at the best of times, even if it seemed inappropriate for the moment. He never cared if you were blunt like a bad knife, he’d rather you were straightforward than be full of twists and turns.

“Dick.” He sniffles. And you give him that old comforting smile, an infectious thing you have that always makes him smile back.

“What would-I do without you?” He says breathless. Dry heaving onto damp sand, coughing up more of the salty water. His lips feel chapped, despite being soaked to the bone.

“Dead, bloated in the water. Fishes wouldn’t even eat you with how much hair gel you put on.” You pat his back, harder this time. And he coughs up violently and grips at the grains below. An appreciative grin graces his face when he finishes, looking a lot better than earlier.

His hair flops to his forehead on queue, he opens his mouth in defense, but only shakes his head slowly. The droplets of water flickering on your face and knees.

“Yeah, probably.” He agrees hoarsely. The sun beats down on him when you stand, the shade of your shadow now gone to comfort him. “Let’s get you some water, real ones.” You say, offering your hand as he looks up to watch you, the sun blinding him.

He takes your hand, gripping at it tight, and you pull and pull for him to stand. Clashing back down to the sandy ground when you fall back with him; laughing.

“You were supposed to lift me up!”

“You’re too heavy!”

“What would I do without you?” He says, quietly. Leaning his head on your shoulder while the two of you look outside the window of his room, the moon being the only source of light.

You wrap your arm around his shoulder, and let him lean to your chest as he gently breathes. His hair devoid of product, only the smell of fresh laundry clinging on him as you inhale.

You shrug lightly. Hand rubbing his arm up and down in a slow motion, your cheek mushes on the crown of his head when you answer. “Lots of things,”

You feel him shake his head. Sighing deeply.

“Thats a lie.” He mumbles.

“Why would I lie?” You ask, quick and genuine. Now watching his chest rise and fall while he plays a circle on your leg. A heavy shrug against you.

“Dunno, to cheer me up I guess?”

“Well. Is it working?” He bristles, silently laughing and he shakes his head no.

“You suck at this.”

“Better than nothing.” You kiss his head, an act you’ve done on numerous occasions in the time you became his best friend. He moves and faces his body completely towards you, wrapping you in a hug.

“Thank you.”

“What would I do without you!” Mark cheers, jumping up and down in joy with you in his arms. You jostle and stumble in his hold, a bit sick from all the movement.

He lets go, and spins around. Taking the letter of acceptance and pointing at it with a huge smile on his face.

“I can’t believe it! Im going to college with Amber!” That stung. More than the time you were bitten by the beetle he found on the side of the road.

Still, you shrug it off. A sly smile and jab to his arm.

“Well, let’s just say you’d be out there working at Burgermart till the smell of grease stuck to you till death.” You and him laugh.

“Still, if you didn’t help me with the studying, i’d probably have to go someplace else! No thanks to William for the help.” He grumbles, putting it back down on the counter, a bit more tired than his usual energetic personality a few moments earlier.

“I can’t screw things up with Amber, not this time.” He says, more to himself than for the both of you. You lean back on his cabinet, nodding.

He talks some more, but you don’t listen. Your ears going fuzzy and hazy while staring down at the ground. He’s recalling moments and times that you’ve already heard of before, it seems like he’s got it all figured out.

“What would I do without you?” He smiles, taking Eve’s hand in his. His face is practically beaming, expression screaming ‘i love you’ when he looks at her.

He used to say that to you.

Mark finally introduced Eve to you, but you already had a feeling about her before everything. The missions, the attacks, you already knew who it was with the way he spoke with such fondness.

Why couldn’t he do that with you?

“Shut up, dork. Are you gonna order or what?” Eve’s gaze flitters to Mark, then you. Giving a big warm smile that you have a hard time giving back.

“Fine, fine. I’ll just get my usual, same with you?” He asks, you. Eyes finally peeled away from Eve, staring at you.

“Yeah, you know my usual.” You say, and smile. Closing the menu and sliding it to the middle of the table. Watching Mark handle the waiter to order everyone else’s food.

“So, tell me. Is Mark as much of a geek as he is now?” Mark sweats at her prying tone, a pleading expression as he looks over at Eve and you.

There’s nothing you can do, nothing to do. Only to fake it till you make it, hopefully on the other side.

“Man, wait till you hear about that one time he blamed me for leaving dirty laundry in the bathroom. He had the gall to say those dog printed boxers were mine!”

Eve’s laugh bounces in your head like an echo chamber. It kind of makes you smile, having this effect on him and her.

“Please, stop.” Mark begs, and you lean in to the table to continue.

“And after that, he made up a whole complicated story to try and get off scott free. Can you believe that? Him throwin’ me under the bus because he can’t admit those were his?” Eve’s in hysterics. Something about the way you spoke and told the story, made it out to be funnier than what had actually happened.

“Oh my god.” Mark’s red, from embarrassment or shame, you don’t know which it is. But you’re cherishing the moment each second.

“What do I do without you?” You sob. Ugly crying right beside his unconscious body, shaking like a leaf battling against the violent winds.

It’s been day since he’d last woken. A day since you saw his broken arms and bruised body. Blood covering him like it was his skin.

You haven’t cried this much since he had told you about him and Eve, haven’t cried this much since you fell on your bike as kids. With Mark bandaging you up with stickers to try and cheer you up. It hurt, so much.

Each day passing by, you could feel him slipping. Slipping from your memories, from your routine, from your heart. He was outgrowing you in more ways than one. He’s more now, not just that awkward teenager you once knew, always holding your hand when going from place to place. Not that light hearted boy you knew and grew up with.

He’s more, and you’re just less.

“Im scared, Mark. Can you even hear me?” Your voice trembles. Gripping at the white blanket that covers his lower half. Too scared to actually touch him, too scared to even look at him.

He doesn’t reply, can’t. The constant sound of his heart monitor beeping and beeping further solidifies something you didn’t want to come to terms with. Something you didn’t want to face. So you pull away, wanting to be gone from the now suffocating room.

“I would have died without you.”

No one’s visited him today, thats what you thought at least. You were always the first one to come and visit him, and the first one to leave. Not wanting to take up too much time for the other people who’d visit, you were considerate like that.

But the room has voices inside, muffled. And that sentence, that one sentence. It was as clear as day. You couldn’t even make out the rest, but that one, that was the only thing that reached your ears.

You shouldn’t be eaves dropping, shouldn’t be sad, or angry. Shouldn’t feel entitled to Mark at all. But why did it hurt?

“I guess I’m doing this without you.”

You stopped talking or contacting with Mark all together. A month had passed-and nothing. Not a peep or even a word from Debbie. You were nothing to him now. Thats what it felt like.

But thats a selfish way of thinking. He had a life now, a half brother, a girlfriend even. He had responsibilities one person shouldn’t even be burdened with, and you’re here throwing a pity party for yourself.

You knew that, fuck you knew that. But you didn’t want to know it. Refused to acknowledge it. Knowing it now clearer than ever, was gut wrenching.

The old and worn photo album your mother had put together was nostalgic. You can recall certain moments when she’d stick these on, watching and recalling the events while she glues it on.

It spans to birthdays and events, to milestones and your many few ‘firsts’ in life.

Even that one time where you had boldly kissed his cheek for a photo, now it was forever captured on the book.

There’s a reason this was hidden away in the back of her closet, but it came beckoning to you like a voice.

Landing on a memorable photo, you trace the edges of the page. It was Halloween, dressed up as a typical sheet ghost with jagged holes for your eyes, and Mark as ‘duct-tape man.’ You smile. Fond of the memory of having to help with removing it in the bathtub, making sure he didn’t end up bald and ripping his skin off.

You shut the book. It smells like old memories and childhood.

“I guess I know what you’d do without me.”

a/n: haha jonathan I am questioning my mark

[octaneink]

Who gets to love me after you?

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: Will finds himself fixated on a question he can’t shake Warnings: Possible heavy topics of mortality and ageing. Notes: This is hella indulgent, I hope people like😘

The evening light spilt through the blinds, painting the living room in streaks of gold and shadow. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of the lavender candle you’d lit earlier, its flame flickering softly on the coffee table. You were curled up on the couch, your socked feet propped on Will’s lap, the fabric of his joggers soft against your skin. Your phone was in your hands, the glow of the screen illuminating your face as you scrolled through your feed.

Will’s hand rested on your ankle, his thumb tracing small, absent-minded circles over the fabric of your sock. His touch was warm, familiar, and grounding, but there was something different about it tonight. His movements were slower, more deliberate, as if his mind were somewhere far away. The gold band on his ring finger caught the light, glinting softly as his hand moved. You glanced down at it, a small smile tugging at your lips. It still felt surreal, seeing that ring on his hand—knowing it matched the one on yours.

You glanced up at him, catching the way he was staring at you. Not in the way he usually did, with that cheeky grin and raised eyebrow that always made your stomach flip, but with something quieter, heavier. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes—those bright, mischievous eyes that usually sparkled with laughter—were clouded with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you said, tilting your head. Your voice was light and teasing, but there was a note of concern underneath.

Will blinked, as if pulled out of a trance, and offered a small smile. It was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, the kind that made your chest tighten. “What? No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you insisted, pausing the video and setting your phone aside. The room felt quieter without the sound of laughter from the screen, the silence stretching between you like a thread. “You’ve got that look. Like you’ve just remembered you left the oven on when we've left for the shops.”

He chuckled softly, but it was hollow, the sound fading quickly into the stillness of the room. “Nah, I’m just…thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to your feet in his lap. His fingers stilled, the circles he’d been tracing coming to a halt. For a moment, the room felt too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen suddenly loud, the ticking of the clock on the wall echoing in your ears.

“Will?” you prompted, sitting up straighter. Your voice was softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something more tender.

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. The golden light from the window caught the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows under his eyes. “When you’re old and gone… who gets to love me after you?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, like a crack in the quiet of the evening. You blinked at him, your brain scrambling to process the words. “Wait, what?”

Will’s face didn’t change. He was serious. Deadly serious.

“You’re the one who’s always on about your dodgy hip and bad diet,” you said, trying to laugh it off, but your voice wavered slightly. “If anyone’s going first, it’s you.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, his hand tightened slightly around your ankle, his grip firm but not painful. “I’m serious.”

“Why are you even thinking about this?” you asked, your voice rising slightly. The room felt colder now, the warmth of the evening sun replaced by a creeping chill. “We’ve been married six weeks, you pillock. What made you get all morbid on me?”

Will’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on the fading light outside the window. The golden hues were deepening into shades of orange and pink, the day slipping away. “I just… I need to know.”

“Know what?”

He turned back to you, his eyes searching yours. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that made your chest ache, a rawness you weren’t used to seeing. “If you… who’s going to put up with me after?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, the weight of his question pressing down on you.

“Will,” you said finally, your voice breaking. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re the one who keeps me grounded. Who puts up with my shit? Who… who loves me, even when I don’t deserve it? If you’re not here—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your voice sharp but trembling at the edges. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. His skin was warm under your palms, his stubble rough against your fingertips, a familiar texture that grounded you even as your heart raced. His jaw was tense, the muscles flexing under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into your hands, his eyes closing for a moment, as if he were drawing strength from you.

When he opened them again, there were tears glistening in the corners, though he quickly blinked them away. The golden light from the window caught the sheen in his eyes, making them look almost amber, and for a moment, you could see the fear he was trying so hard to hide. It was raw and unguarded, a side of him he rarely showed to anyone—even you.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like the words were being dragged out of him. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s not,” you said, your voice breaking. You shifted closer to him, your knees brushing against his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. “You don’t get to decide when I go, Will. You don’t get to sit here and act like you’re already planning for a life without me.”

He flinched, his hands moving to grip your wrists, his fingers trembling slightly. “I’m not planning for it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… scared.”

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting. You stared at him, your chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. This wasn’t the Will who made sarcastic jokes to deflect or the Will who laughed off his fears with a cheeky grin. This was the Will who had stood at the altar six weeks ago, his voice cracking as he promised to love you for the rest of his life. This was the Will who had whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” in the dark of your bedroom, his arms wrapped so tightly around you it was as if he thought you might disappear.

“You think I’m not scared too?” you asked, your voice softer now. You slid your hands from his face to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. “You think I don’t lie awake sometimes, wondering what I’d do if I lost you?”

He shook his head, his eyes searching yours. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re…” He trailed off, his throat working as he struggled to find the words. “You’re stronger than me. You’d figure it out. You’d… move on.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you sucked in a sharp breath. “Will,” you said, your voice trembling. “Do you really think that little of yourself?”

He looked away, his jaw tightening, but you didn’t let him retreat. You cupped his face again, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Listen to me,” you said, your voice firm despite the tears welling in your eyes. “You’re not some… some burden I’m putting up with. You’re not someone I’m just tolerating until something better comes along. You’re it for me, Will. You’re my person. And if something happens to me—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice cracking. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. “Don’t say it.”

“If something happens to me,” you continued, ignoring the way his grip tightened, “it’s not because I wanted to leave you. And it’s not because you weren’t enough. It’s just… life. And yeah, it’s scary. It’s terrifying. But we can’t spend every day worrying about it, or we’ll miss out on what we have right now.”

He stared at you, his eyes wide and glassy, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, his hands trembling where they gripped your waist.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“You won’t have to,” you said, your voice just as soft. “Not for a long time.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes closing again, and you pressed a kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering against his skin. “You’re stuck with me, remember?” you murmured, trying to lighten the mood. “For better or worse.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound wet and uneven, and when he opened his eyes, there was a flicker of his usual self in them. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “For better or worse.”

The house felt too big now.

You stood in the hallway, your fingers brushing lightly over the frames of the photos lining the wall. Each a snapshot of a life well-lived, a moment frozen in time. There was Will, holding your firstborn in the hospital, his face a mix of awe and terror, his hands trembling as he cradled the tiny bundle like it might break. You, laughing as your youngest blew out the candles on their fifth birthday cake, frosting smeared across their cheeks and a look of pure joy on their face. And there, in the centre, was your wedding photo—the two of you grinning like idiots, so young and so in love, your hands clasped tightly together as if you already knew you’d never let go.

The sound of Will’s footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts. You turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hair streaked with more grey, a mug of tea steaming in his hand. The lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at you, soft and familiar.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and warm, the way it always was when he was trying to comfort you without making a big deal of it.

You nodded, though your throat felt tight, like the words might get stuck if you tried to speak. Instead, you gestured to the photos. “Just… looking at these. It’s weird, isn’t it? The house feels so quiet now.”

Will stepped closer, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. He set the mug down on the side table, the faint clink of ceramic against wood breaking the silence. His free hand came to rest on your shoulder, his touch grounding and familiar.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “But it’s not a bad quiet. Just… different.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes tracing the lines on his face—lines that hadn’t been there when you’d first met. The faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the deeper grooves around his mouth from years of laughter. He was still so handsome to you, even now, even with the grey in his hair and the way he sometimes groaned when he stood up too quickly.

“Do you miss it?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “The chaos? The noise?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “Sometimes,” he admitted, his thumb brushing absently over your shoulder. “But I don’t miss the sleepless nights or the endless laundry.”

You laughed, the sound echoing in the empty hallway, and for a moment, it felt like the house was alive again, filled with the noise and energy of the life you’d built together.

Will reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His palm was warm, his grip firm but gentle, the way it was always when he was trying to anchor you.

“We did alright, didn’t we?” He asked, his voice soft, almost tentative, like he needed to hear you say it out loud.

You looked at him, your heart swelling with love. “Yeah,” you said, your voice just as soft. “We did.”

He pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him—the faint hint of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the lingering trace of tea on his breath.

“Still got you, though,” he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “That’s all I need.”

You leaned into him, your hands gripping the back of his shirt like you could hold onto this moment forever. “Always,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The house was quiet, but it wasn’t empty—not really. Not as long as you had each other.

The hospital room was sterile and quiet, the hum of machines filling the silence. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a cold, clinical glow over everything. Will sat in the chair beside your bed, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline, his fingers trembling slightly despite his firm hold.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his voice firm, though his eyes betrayed his fear. They darted to the heart monitor, its steady beep a small comfort, before returning to your face. “The doctor said it’s nothing serious. Just a scare.”

You nodded, though your chest still felt tight—not from the health scare, but from the look on Will’s face. He’d aged ten years in the past hour, his shoulders hunched, his eyes shadowed with worry. His free hand raked through his hair, leaving it dishevelled, and the lines on his forehead seemed deeper, more pronounced.

“Will,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a knife. “Look at me.”

He did, his gaze meeting yours. There were tears in his eyes, though he blinked them away quickly, his jaw tightening as he tried to hold himself together. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small, repetitive motion that felt like an anchor.

“I’m okay,” you said, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a shaky breath, his free hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, his fingers lingering against your cheek for a moment longer than necessary. “I know,” he said, though his voice wavered. “But for a minute there… I thought…”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off. Your hand tightened around his, your fingers lacing through his. “But I’m here. And I’m not leaving you.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, his eyes closing as if he were trying to memorise the feel of you. “You’re my forever,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Don’t you dare forget that.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks. His words echoed in your mind, a quiet promise that felt as solid and unshakeable as the man sitting beside you. “I won’t,” you whispered back, your voice trembling.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the steady beep of the heart monitor and the quiet rhythm of your breathing, syncing together in the stillness of the room. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of Will’s cologne, a familiar comfort in the midst of the sterile environment.

Then, slowly, Will pulled back, his hands framing your face. His palms were rough against your skin, calloused from years of work, but his touch was impossibly gentle. His eyes searched yours, dark and intense, filled with a love so deep it made your chest ache.

“I love you,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “More than anything.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love. Your hand reached up to cover his, your fingers curling around his wrist. “I love you too,” you said, your voice steady now, filled with the certainty of years spent together.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were glistening, but he was smiling—a small, fragile thing that made your heart clench.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you said, your voice teasing but soft.

He chuckled, the sound wet and uneven, but genuine. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, catching the silver in your hair as you spun around the room, laughing. The song playing in the background was one from your wedding—a cheesy ballad that Will had teased you about for years but secretly loved. The melody was soft and familiar, filling the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight.

Will sat at the table, his hair streaked with more grey than black, a cup cradled in his hands. The steam curled upward, disappearing into the golden light that bathed the room. He watched you with a soft smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your heart skip a beat, even after all these years.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, though there was no bite in his tone. His voice was warm, tinged with amusement, and his eyes followed your every move like he was trying to memorise the moment.

You grinned, spinning one last time before collapsing into the chair across from him. The wood creaked softly under your weight, and you reached for the mug of tea you’d left on the table, the ceramic warm against your palms. “You love it,” you said, your voice teasing but soft.

“I do,” he admitted, his voice low and warm, like the sunlight streaming through the window. His fingers traced the rim of his cup, his gaze never leaving yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sunlight bathed the room in gold, the scent of coffee and toast filling the air.

Then, unexpectedly, a question the hadn't thought of in a while crept back into Will’s mind.

Who gets to love me after you?

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked himself that. He remembered the first time he’d brought it up, years ago, when you were still newlyweds. You’d been curled up on the couch, your feet in his lap, and he’d blurted it out like it had been burning a hole in his chest.

“When you’re old and gone… Who gets to love me after you?”

You’d laughed at him then, teasing him for being morbid, but he hadn’t been able to shake the thought. It had haunted him, the idea of a life without you, the fear of being left behind.

Now, as he watched you across the table, your hair streaked with silver and your eyes still bright with laughter, the answer came to him easily, without hesitation.

No one.

Because your love had been enough. It had filled every corner of his heart, every crack in his soul. It was in the way you laughed at his stupid jokes, even when they weren’t funny. It was in the way you held his hand when he was nervous, your fingers lacing through his like they were made to fit there. It was in the way you looked at him now, your eyes soft and full of love, even after all these years.

He didn’t need anyone else. He never had.

Will reached across the table, his hand covering yours. His skin was warm, his touch familiar and grounding. “You’re my forever, you know that?” He said, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled, your fingers curling around his. “I know,” you said softly. “And you’re mine.”

I wanted to make something light hearted and soft; I think I kind of hit that? Not sure… I know some parts left me sad. This was inspired by one line of a song I listened to on the way back from work, After You by Daily J. I think that the song asks the question from a breakup's perspective, and I thought, 'Hm, what would that be like if it were someone imagining their partner being gone after a marriage?' And boom, the fic got made ☺️☺️

[nhmkhnh]

⋮ ⌗ ┆badge & backbends.

✄ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: abby x fem!reader ✄ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄: she’s a decorated officer and you’re the reason her self-control gets dishonorably discharged. ✄ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: haiii i'm back with one of my drafts for tlou! umm it was quite freaky but, enjoy!  ✄ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): lowercase, partly explicit content (minors & men dni) ⤷ 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: possessive!officer!abby ;; office siren!reader ;; power play ;; age gap (a: 35 ;; r: 25) ;; oral (r. receiving) ;; overstimulation ;; public teasing ;; manhandling ;; light choking ;; dirty talk ;; hair pulling. ⤷ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.3k

navigation.

the precinct isn’t made for this kind of distraction.

abby leans against the doorframe of your shared office space, arms crossed, her uniform half-unbuttoned and sweaty from the midday patrol. her tactical belt creaks slightly when she shifts. the ac is broken again, which means you’re in that slinky little blouse with the buttons that gape when you breathe too hard—something she’s painfully aware of.

and that skirt?

fuck. that skirt should be illegal.

"you wearing that on purpose, sweetheart?" she drawls lowly, eyes dragging down your legs. "or am i supposed to believe it's just a hot day?"

you smile without looking up from your laptop, lipstick a shade too dark for company dress code, fingers tapping leisurely.

"i don’t recall you being part of the dress code committee, officer," you murmur. "unless enforcement suddenly includes staring like that."

abby steps in. closer. enough to block the light from the window. her shadow swallows your desk, one hand bracing beside your keyboard.

"don’t start with me today," she says, voice rough. “i’ve got three reports overdue, a perp screaming bloody murder in the next room, and now you—sitting there like a goddamn problem i actually wanna deal with.”

you tilt your chin up slowly. "maybe i’m just being helpful. a little… stress relief?"

her jaw flexes. you catch the twitch in her arm like she wants to grab you. pin you.

instead, she huffs through her nose, backing up—barely.

“careful,” she mutters. “keep acting like that and i’ll take you in for interrogation.”

you bite your lip, then whisper as she turns:

"only if you promise to cuff me yourself."

she stops mid-step.

and that’s the first time abby anderson slams the door to the breakroom so hard the blinds fall off.

you’re laughing. again.

and it’s not with abby.

no, it’s with that new transfer—kyle something. the one who’s been hovering around your desk all week, dropping compliments like paperclips. today, he brings you coffee. your coffee order.

abby watches from across the bullpen, jaw tight, the knuckles on her crossed arms turning pale. her badge glints like a warning. the vein on her neck says more than any internal memo could.

you thank kyle. lightly touch his arm.

that’s the last straw.

when you turn back to your desk, abby’s already there. leaned over like a stormcloud, eyes flat, jaw locked.

"making friends?" she asks, voice syrupy but sharp. "didn’t realize the new guy was so… generous."

you blink innocently. “he just brought me coffee. it’s nothing.”

"nothing," she echoes flatly, stepping closer. the desk groans slightly under her palm. "you smile at me like that, and it means something. he gets it for free?"

you swallow. her jealousy is loud—a thunderstorm wrapped in muscle and badge authority.

"abby, we’re in the middle of the office," you whisper. "people are watching."

"let them," she says darkly. "let ‘em watch me remind you who’s been burning for you since the first damn day you strutted in here smelling like sin and paperwork."

your breath catches.

her voice dips lower. “you’re not his.”

"no," you murmur. “i’m not.”

a beat.

"but i’m not yours either."

silence.

then she leans in—too close, her breath hot on your cheek, her voice nothing more than a promise dipped in threat:

“keep teasing me, and i swear, i’ll change that by the end of tonight. badge on. lights off. you’ll forget his name by the time i’m done.”

you don’t smile this time.

you shiver.

it’s after hours.

the station hums low and empty, fluorescent lights buzzing like flies around secrets. you’re still at your desk—lipstick faded, hair slightly undone from a long day of looking irresistible without trying.

abby appears in front of you, a silhouette wrapped in midnight blue and frustration. her jaw ticks.

“come with me.”

you raise a brow. “what for?”

her eyes drag across you, from your smudged makeup to the slow cross of your legs.

“questioning.”

you laugh. “i haven’t committed a crime.”

she doesn’t blink. “not yet.”

she leads you down the hallway, boots echoing, until you’re in interrogation room b—a place made for confessions and heat. she flicks the lock.

you sit slowly. “so? what am i accused of, officer?”

abby leans on the table. her forearms tense. her voice drops like gravel over ice.

“being a damn menace.”

you tilt your head.

“menace?”

“you walk in here like you don’t know what you do to me. talk sweet to every cop in this building but look at me like i’m the one you want. you’re trying to make me lose control.”

your mouth parts.

“i’m just doing my job.”

her laugh is low. bitter.

“you know what i’d do if i didn’t have this badge between us?”

you don’t answer. you wait.

abby steps closer. real close. her thighs brush the table. she plants her hands beside you, bracketing your body in.

“i’d have you on this table so fast you’d forget your last name.”

you exhale shakily.

“there’s no camera in here, you know,” she murmurs. “no witnesses. just you, me… and all the questions i wanna ask your body.”

you grip the edge of the table.

she doesn’t touch you.

yet.

but her voice is all heat:

“tell me what you’ve been thinking about. say it. or i’ll make you beg for the right to say it.”

your voice is barely a whisper.

“you. i’ve been thinking about you.”

she exhales like that word hit her like a bulletproof vest cracking at the seams.

“good,” she growls. “now don’t move.”

you should’ve known she’d make you pay.

flirting all day. whispering honey-coated threats in her ear every time she walked past your desk. accidentally-on-purpose dropping your pen when she was nearby.

and now?

now she’s got you in the precinct’s gym after hours, sitting on the bench like a guilty little thing while she presses weights like it’s her full-time job.

tank top clinging to every flexed muscle.

skin glistening with sweat.

hair tied back in that messy bun that makes her look like she could lift the whole department if she wanted to.

she glances at you between reps, breathing heavy. “keep your eyes on me.”

you do. oh, you do.

"you wanna tease me during work hours," she pants, voice gruff with exertion, "then you're gonna sit there and learn what patience feels like."

you cross your legs tighter, squirming.

abby smirks.

“i see you fidgeting,” she says, not pausing. “should i tie you down next time so you stop moving?”

you choke slightly. “you wouldn’t.”

she drops the barbell onto its rack, steps toward you, looming with that slow, stalking walk of a lioness after her prey.

“oh, baby,” she murmurs, brushing sweat off her neck. “you have no idea what i’d do if i stopped pretending to be good.”

you breathe, sharp and needy.

she leans in, one hand beside your thigh on the bench.

“i could bend you right here. between sets. make you thank me for every second of it.”

your voice shakes. “we’re still on duty.”

she tilts her head, eyes dark with heat.

“i am on duty. you? you’re under it.”

it’s almost 2am.

the station lot is empty—except for her patrol car and the two of you inside it. she hasn’t turned the engine off yet. the low hum of the vehicle fills the silence between you like static.

she’s watching the road ahead, knuckles pale on the wheel. you’re sitting in the passenger seat, legs crossed, her jacket draped over your thighs like a makeshift boundary.

she hasn’t said a word in five minutes.

"you gonna keep brooding, anderson?" you tease softly.

she finally turns. looks at you.

“no,” she murmurs. “just trying to be good.”

you smirk. “since when?”

a sharp breath.

“i’m trying not to kiss you.”

the car suddenly feels smaller.

“you afraid it’ll ruin your badge?” you whisper, voice playful—but your chest aches a little.

“no,” she says. “i’m afraid it’ll ruin you.”

silence again.

you shift slightly, the jacket sliding off your lap. her eyes drop. she sees how your skirt’s ridden up. how your thighs press together.

“you sure,” she growls, voice lower now, “you wanna say goodnight here?”

you lean closer. "depends. you gonna cuff me again?"

her hand flies to the gear stick—but she doesn’t drive off.

instead, she throws the car into park, turns sharply, and grabs your jaw gently but firmly.

“ten seconds,” she breathes, lips ghosting yours. “that’s all i’m giving myself.”

you don’t even have time to respond before her mouth crashes into yours—hungry, hard, helpless.

nine.

eight.

her fingers thread into your hair.

seven.

your seatbelt is undone.

six.

her hand slides up your thigh.

five.

her badge clinks faintly against your cheek.

four.

you’re moaning.

three.

you’re grinding into her hand, barely thinking.

two.

you whisper her name like a sin.

one.

she pulls back, panting.

and drives you home in silence—hand trembling on the wheel, yours still on her thigh.

“locker room’s restricted, sweetheart.”

abby’s voice slices through the steamy air like a blade, low and ragged from her patrol. you’re halfway through the door, paused, holding a pen you swear you needed from her locker.

but it drops from your hand.

because she’s standing there—just standing, hair messy, skin still flushed from the field, wearing nothing but a black sports bra and regulation briefs. her abs flex when she shifts. there’s a towel slung over her shoulder like she’s been waiting to be worshipped.

you blink.

“i knocked,” you say weakly.

her eyebrow raises. “did you?”

a pause. she smirks.

“guess i was too busy getting out of my gear to notice. that why you really came in? to catch a show?”

you open your mouth—nothing comes out.

she steps closer, slow, predatory. her body glistens slightly under the overhead light. steam from the shower still curls through the air like temptation.

“didn’t know you had clearance for this room,” she murmurs, stopping right in front of you. “unless you’re trying to get yourself in trouble.”

you stare up at her. your voice is small.

“maybe i am.”

her eyes flicker. something shifts. dangerous. dark. delicious.

“careful,” she breathes, nose brushing yours. “you play like that, i’ll start thinking you want to get caught.”

a beat.

her fingers ghost over your waist, not quite touching.

“i could press you right up against these lockers,” she whispers. “no one would hear.”

you tremble.

but she pulls back. doesn’t touch. just grabs the towel off her shoulder and wipes her jaw with it, muscles flexing.

then—casually—“you can take the pen.”

you blink, breathless.

she walks away, hips slow and smug.

the conference room is silent.

chief is talking. some boring report about precinct logistics, budget reallocations, something-something narcotics division. you’re seated across the long table, innocently taking notes—bent forward, elbows resting, blouse slightly open from how you moved earlier.

and abby?

abby’s gripping her pen like a weapon.

her thighs are spread just slightly too wide for comfort, her knee bouncing with every word you don’t say. her jaw’s tight. you haven’t looked at her once in twenty minutes, but you know—know—she’s watching.

then you stretch.

just a little.

her grip tightens.

you finally glance up. eyes meet.

she mouths, slowly, like a promise:

“fix. your. buttons.”

you smile. purposefully don’t.

she breathes out hard through her nose. her hand fists the folder in front of her.

when the chief calls for suggestions, you speak.

soft, measured. head tilted. tone sweet as poison.

“i think we should ask officer anderson’s opinion. she’s very… attentive.”

abby coughs. loud. everyone turns.

she clears her throat. “i—uh. i think we need… backup.”

people nod.

you cross your legs slowly. her eyes snap to the motion.

when the meeting ends, she stays seated. everyone leaves. you linger last.

as you walk by, she grabs your wrist under the table. hard. hot.

“you expect me to focus when you sit like that?”

you lean down beside her ear, whispering:

“you like that i test your control.”

she doesn’t let go.

but she doesn’t pull you closer either.

she just breathes like she’s been holding it the whole damn hour.

rain’s coming down in sheets.

you and abby slam the back door of the precinct shut, breathless and soaked, rain dripping off your lashes, your clothes clinging to skin like second skin. her uniform shirt is plastered to her chest, revealing every line of sculpted muscle beneath. your blouse? practically see-through now.

you’re both panting.

you giggle, wiping your arms. “that was fun.”

she looks at you.

hard.

like you just handed her a loaded weapon and dared her to pull the trigger.

“i should arrest you,” she growls.

you blink. “for what?”

she steps closer. water trailing down her neck.

“for being out in public looking like that.”

you laugh. “you act like it’s my fault the rain hit me harder than you.”

she corners you against the wall, dripping, breathing heavy. her hand lands on the wall beside your head.

“you’re doing it again.”

“what?”

“that thing where you pretend you don’t know how bad i want you.”

your smile fades.

her eyes dip to your chest, your lips, back to your eyes.

“i’ve been good,” she whispers, voice trembling with restraint. “so good. but right now, you're wet, cold, and looking at me like you want me to fuck up.”

you whisper, “maybe i do.”

and then she slams the side of her fist against the wall beside you—not in anger, but in desperation. holding herself back.

“you think i don’t want to touch you right here, right now? press you against this damn wall, make you scream my name while the rain drowns out the noise?”

you shiver.

“i think you do.”

abby leans in.

hot breath, cool air.

“but if i start,” she whispers, lips brushing yours, “i won’t stop at just warming you up.”

and then?

she backs away.

walks off.

leaving you wet. cold.

and aching.

the couch in abby’s office isn’t comfortable.

but her sweatshirt smells like her, and her jacket is warm, and you’re exhausted. so when she said “just crash here if you want,” you didn’t argue. just curled up like a kitten and knocked out.

now it’s 2:37 a.m.

you wake to soft breathing.

the office lamp’s still on. the rain’s still falling. and abby—

abby’s sitting at her desk, legs spread, arms resting on her knees, just watching you.

eyes unreadable.

"you always breathe that soft when you sleep?" she murmurs.

you blink. “how long have you been—?”

“long enough.”

she leans back, eyes dragging over you like she’s memorizing the curve of your sleep-rumpled body.

“you talk in your sleep too,” she adds, voice quieter now. “said my name.”

your cheeks flush. “maybe i was dreaming.”

“yeah?” she rasps. “were you dreaming about me touching you?”

you don't respond.

she stands slowly. walks over. kneels beside the couch, face close, breath hot on your cheek.

"you know what i hate the most about this game?" she whispers. “that every time i don’t touch you, it feels like i’m losing.”

you whisper back, “then lose.”

her eyes flutter shut for half a second.

but then she pulls back.

barely.

her voice is hoarse when she says:

“you’re lucky i’m still trying to be good.”

you reach for her hand, wrap your fingers around hers.

“maybe i’m not.”

her grip tightens.

she doesn’t kiss you.

but she doesn’t leave.

she stays there.

holding your hand.

breathing like she just ran a mile.

it starts with the door clicking shut.

no warning. just the quiet snick of the lock sliding into place.

you glance up, startled—only to find abby standing with her back against it, breathing like she’s been holding something in for months. her eyes are wild. jaw clenched. her badge is still clipped to her chest but her shirt’s unbuttoned halfway down, collar tugged wide like she couldn’t breathe right.

“i’m done,” she rasps.

your pulse spikes. “with what?”

“with pretending i don’t want to pin you against this fucking desk.”

she crosses the room in three strides, every movement heat and tension wound to the edge. you try to speak—something coy, something deflecting—but she grabs your waist and lifts you effortlessly, slamming you down onto your desk with a thud that rattles the pens.

“i’ve been good,” she growls, voice like gravel. “you know how hard that was? watching you strut around like some office siren with no leash on?”

her hand wraps around your throat—firm, not tight. just enough to make you freeze.

“you wore that blouse on purpose. you leaned over the copier on purpose. you bit your lip in front of me on purpose.”

you moan softly. “maybe.”

her eyes burn. “you asked for this.”

she leans in—kisses you hard. it’s teeth and heat and breathless hunger. her tongue claims yours like it’s been aching for weeks. her hands slide down, gripping your thighs and yanking you forward so your hips hit the edge of the desk, sharp and needy.

“take it off,” she snaps, tugging your blouse apart. buttons scatter.

you gasp. “abby—”

“off.”

you strip quickly. she watches. her jaw twitches when your bra hits the floor. she drops to her knees without a word.

“open.”

you hesitate—she slaps your thigh, sharp but not cruel. just enough to make your legs fall open on instinct.

and then?

her mouth.

warm. wet. ruining.

her tongue works with ruthless focus—slow licks at first, then faster, relentless, building. you grab at her hair. she groans into you, arms wrapped under your thighs to lock you in place. you’re whining now, trying to hold it in—until she sucks your clit like she’s punishing you for every smile you ever threw at someone else.

you come fast and hard, trembling against her face, gasping her name.

but she doesn’t stop.

you push at her shoulders—“abby—please—too much—” and she just growls against you:

“not done.”

she rises, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. her lips are swollen. her eyes feral.

“you gonna be good for me?” she says low, already undoing her pants. “or do i need to teach you what happens when you tease a cop for ten fucking weeks?”

you nod—wrecked, dazed.

too late.

she grabs your hips, flips you over the desk.

bends you.

and pushes in.

you scream.

she’s big. thick. filling you with one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. her hands pin your wrists to the desk, her chest pressed to your back.

“you wanted this,” she growls in your ear, slamming into you again.

“i know,” you whimper.

“say it.”

“i wanted you—”

“louder.”

“i wanted you—so bad—abby—”

she pounds into you, fast and punishing, the desk creaking beneath your weight. your breath fogs the cold surface. her hand sneaks between your thighs again—circling your clit, keeping you right on the edge while her hips hammer you deeper.

your second orgasm crashes into you like a bullet—loud, soaking, shaking.

but she doesn’t stop until she’s buried inside, pulsing, groaning your name against your shoulder as she empties herself into you.

silence.

just breathing.

your legs barely work when she pulls out. she catches you before you collapse, cradles you back into her lap on the floor, still trembling.

she brushes damp hair from your face, kisses your temple, and murmurs:

“next time? don’t wait so long to beg.”

[chvoswxtch]

part one: the call

[series masterlist] | [part two]

pairing: billy russo x fem!reader

summary: a ghost from the past has returned.

warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of murder, creepy sleazy boss & brief mentions of sexual harassment, billy being the cocky lil shit he is

word count: 3.8k

a/n: ahhhhhhh! i've been working on this for the past few months & i'm so excited to finally put it out. I really really really hope y'all enjoy it. this is only 6 parts, so it will not be a slow burn. it's gonna get intense fast. also, there is an oc name mentioned, but it's just for the backstory of the plot. this is still a self insert, & y/n will be used for the rest of the story! without further ado, let's get this spooky slutty season started. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

This was a bad dream. It had to be. There was no other logical way to explain why you were currently sitting in an interrogation room at a precinct, being questioned by police about a man that you had gone on a blind date with not even twelve hours ago, who had been found stabbed to death in an alley two blocks away from your apartment building.

It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. All you had to do was open your eyes, and this would all go away. You knew how to deal with nightmares. You knew how to escape them. You’d been running and hiding from them your whole life. All you had to do was open your eyes, and the sinister shadows wouldn't be able to sink their claws into your subconscious to trap you in the dark. Just open them, and this will all disappear. 

Just open your eyes.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

The detective’s voice swiftly brought you out of the trance of denial your mind had wandered into, and your eyes snapped open. To your dismay, nothing changed. The two detectives were still sitting across the table from you, the metal cold against your sweaty palms, one eying you warily while the other regarded you with a more sympathetic stare. The chair beneath you was still stiff and uncomfortable, the light above was still a harsh shade of artificial brightness, and the large piece of glass to your right that reflected your terrified expression still made you feel unsettled knowing there was someone watching you just on the other side of that two-way pane.

“I…I’m sorry. What was the question?”

The waver in your voice gave away how shaken you were by the whole ordeal. When the police had shown up at your office an hour ago stating they needed to bring you in for questioning regarding the murder of Adam Mercer, shock had instantly shot through your entire nervous system, chilling the very blood in your veins with an icy sense of dread. 

This was the kind of thing you heard about happening in the news. A tragedy that struck someone else’s life. A nameless, faceless person whose existence you were unaware of. It was the kind of thing nobody ever thought could happen to them, until it did.

The older detective, the more commiserating one, had said they thought it was some kind of mugging gone wrong. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in New York City, unfortunately. The dazzling city was also dangerous. But since you were the last person to see Adam alive, they needed as much information as you could give them about the last few hours of his life. For some odd reason, it filled you with a sense of guilt that his final moments had been spent with you, a complete stranger, instead of someone else. 

Adam had been a really nice guy. He’d seemed to enjoy the date. He’d thrown his head back and laughed like a little kid at a stupid joke you’d told. He’d flashed you a charming smile when you’d nearly knocked your glass of wine over into your pasta. He’d animatedly told you about his family’s tradition of selecting a perfect tree together at a local Christmas farm back in his home state of Jersey every holiday season. He’d been sweet and gentle and respectful. But had he been happy? 

Had he succumbed to the inevitable fate of death at his attacker’s hands without a fight? Did he even see it coming? Had he had that moment, where everything flashed before his eyes, all his mistakes, all his regrets, all the would’ve, could’ve, should'ves? 

You knew what that feeling was like. You’d been there, once before. Nothing makes you want to live more than Death deciding to show up at your door and pick the lock with its cold, bony fingers to collect a bounty early. 

Thirteen times. Adam had been brutally stabbed thirteen times. It was excessive for a mugging. It felt more personal, that kind of anger and passion. As morbid as the thought was, you hoped the first one had killed him. You hoped he that went into shock swiftly and bled out just as fast so he hadn’t suffered through the next twelve.

Holding his pen in his right hand, the tip hovering over his worn yellow pocket sized notepad, Detective Craven repeated his question.

“How well did you know Adam?”

“I…I didn’t. I’d never met him until last night. My roommate um…she knew him. She’s the one who set us up.”

“Your roommate being Miss Riley?”

Detective Williamson had his hands clasped together in front of him on the table. He lifted one of his brows while waiting for you to answer his question. Swallowing thickly, you gave a faint nod of your head and dropped your hands to your lap, fidgeting with them under the table anxiously. 

“Yeah, Annie.”

Detective Craven cleared his throat, reading over his notes with his honey brown eyes as he continued his questioning.

“Now, you said he picked you up at your apartment around eight-thirty, the two of you had dinner at Maureen’s, and then he dropped you back off at your place around eleven. He left right after that?”

“Yeah, he…um…we said goodnight, he said he’d like to see me again, and then he told me he’d call me tomorrow.”

“He didn’t come up to your apartment at all?”

Detective Williamson didn’t bother hiding the skepticism in his voice, or the implication behind his words, his icy blue eyes locked on you in an almost unsettling way.

“No, he dropped me off at the front steps of the building.”

“And you didn’t see where he went when he left? Didn’t give him one last look after a goodnight kiss?”

A flash of annoyance broke through your stunned disbelief at the invasive second question. You hadn’t said anything about a kiss. The younger detective seemed to be fishing for a crack in your alibi for some reason, trying to catch you in a lie that didn’t exist. A flicker of defensiveness crept into your voice when you spoke.

“No, after we said goodnight, I went inside.”

Before Detective Williamson could ask another thinly veiled judgmental question, Detective Craven stood up, shooting his partner a silencing look. Glancing down at you with a warmer expression, the older man gestured towards the door with his hand.

“That’s all the questions we have for now. We appreciate you speaking with us. I’ll walk you out.”

The precinct was bustling. Various murmurs of conversation buzzed in your ears. People were breezing past in every direction, but amidst the sea of chaos, you spotted a familiar head of blonde hair. Annie jumped up from the chair she’d been sitting in and forced her way through the waves of people, not once muttering an “excuse me” or waiting for someone to move out of her way. A true New Yorker.

Detective Craven placed his hand on your shoulder to get your attention and held out a white business card that had all of his information on it in embossed black text.

“If you can think of anything else that might be helpful, don’t hesitate to call.”

Taking the card into your hand, you looked up at him and forced a tight smile onto your lips, giving him a faint nod of your head.

“Of course.”

After giving your shoulder a light squeeze, Detective Craven gave Annie a nod of acknowledgement before turning and disappearing back inside the interrogation room. As soon as you turned to face her, Annie’s face contorted into an expression of pity and concern. She immediately pulled you into a hug, and it took everything in you not to crumble under the weight of your own overwhelming emotions.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

»»———　　———««

Annie had swiftly shot down your plan to go back to work before the words could even fully leave your lips. All you wanted to do was dive head first into a distraction, to immerse yourself fully in the piles of paper and black ink sitting on your desk that were waiting to transport you to another universe and into the body of someone else whose world hadn’t just been flipped upside down. Again. 

Instead, she brought you back to your shared apartment, uncorked a bottle of wine for each of you, and did her best to help you sort through the shock and the ripples it caused within you. She didn’t understand that your instinct was to run and hide, and that was because she didn’t understand you, not really. But that wasn’t her fault. She could only understand what you allowed her to, and there were huge pieces of yourself you kept hidden from her and everyone else beneath carefully crafted layers.

Pieces you were not ready to uncover and face yet.

The following morning when you showed up to work at the publishing house, it felt like everyone was looking through you instead of at you. Everyone had heard what happened, had seen the two detectives escorting you out of your office, but none of your coworkers said a word. Not to your face, anyway. You could feel the weight of their lingering stares, their hushed whispers floating past your ear like a cold autumn breeze. It was a familiar territory you’d already escaped once.

To your relief, you hadn’t been harassed by reporters wanting an exclusive on the story. Unfortunately, crimes like what had happened to Adam were a dime a dozen in this city. You felt guilty for feeling grateful for that, but not having cameras shoved in your face to be broadcast on news outlets that circulated on social media worked in your favor. You had come to the city that millions of people called home for a reason. You came here to disappear, to be invisible. The last thing you needed was to be thrust into a spotlight that would attract attention you’d gone to great lengths to avoid.

In the midst of trying to drown out the white noise of suspicious gossip and ignoring the way the stares penetrating the glass windows of your office made your insides twist in dreaded knots, you almost missed the sound of a knock at your door. Lifting your head, you were met with the sight of the last person you ever expected to see standing in the doorway.

Billy Russo.

He was significantly more dressed up than the last time you’d seen him, looking every bit the illustrious CEO, although that signature arrogant smirk of his seemed to be missing for once. His tall frame was covered in a deep navy blue three piece suit with a crisp white dress shirt beneath the matching tie, a dark charcoal gray thick coat layering over top. His raven hair was gelled back perfectly, just like it was that night at the bar, but the gleam of mischief in his dark brown eyes was absent. As he stood in the doorway of your office, nearly taking up the entire frame, he seemed to be looking at you in an expression of something that resembled concern.

“Billy.”

The surprise in your hushed tone rang clear in the quiet of your office. Billy removed the black leather gloves from his hands, slipping them into the pocket of his overcoat.

“This a bad time?”

Your lips parted slightly as your eyes flickered down to the open manuscript on your desk before looking up at him again.

“Um…no. No…I…what are you doing here?”

Billy took a step forward into your office and quietly closed the door behind himself.

“Just came by to check on ya.”

“Check on me?”

“Derek told me what happened.”

Billy kept his eyes locked on you as he explained the reasoning behind his unexpected visit, watching you closely.

Derek Becker was a friend of Billy’s. They had served in the military together, and he now worked for Billy’s private security company, Anvil. Derek also happened to be Annie’s boyfriend. A few months back, the two of them had tried to set you and Billy up. The four of you had gone out to a bar for drinks, but instead of hitting it off with Billy, you’d found him narcissistic, and you’d had no interest in pursuing anything romantic with him. Although, based on how he had interacted with you that night, it had seemed like he hadn’t been looking for anything romantic either, just a night of physical release.

Because Annie was your best friend and roommate, and Derek was often around, you’d seen Billy a few times since then, but it wasn’t like the two of you were friends. Needless to say, the fact that he’d made the trip to your office to check on your mental wellbeing was a bit of a shock.

“I’m fine.”

Billy arched one of his dark brows, and the ghost of a smile graced the edge of his lips.

“You almost sounded like you meant that.”

You opened your mouth to fire back a retort, to protest the underlying accusation in his words, but your defense got stuck in your throat. Seeing the look on your face, Billy’s faint amusement quickly disappeared, and he let out a deep exhale through his nose as he took a few steps closer towards your desk.

“I’m sorry, I’m not here to be a dick. But it’s alright if you’re not fine. Normal people wouldn’t be fine in this situation.”

“Normal people?”

Billy stared down at you for a moment silently before turning his head to look out the glass window of your office, rubbing his large palm over his mouth and perfectly trimmed beard. Looking down at you again, a flicker of amusement was back in his gaze, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“I got a real good habit of sayin’ the wrong thing with you, huh?”

The self deprecation you detected in his smooth voice surprised you. You’d never heard him say anything that didn’t have an undertone of superiority or didn’t sound prideful. The guy standing in front of you wasn’t acting like the cocky rich playboy you were used to, and it made you wonder for a second if that’s what it really was; an act. A flicker of newfound curiosity had you wondering if Billy’s persona was as carefully crafted as your own.

“I don’t know if I’d call that a good habit.”

Billy let out a puff of air past his lips, giving a faint shake of his head in faux disapproval.

“Kickin’ a man while he’s down? That’s ruthless, sweetheart.”

“I think your ego can survive being knocked down a few pegs.”

Billy let out a deep chuckle at that, and his lips spread into a wolfish grin.

“Between you and me, it’s a bit more fragile than you think.”

You looked at him in faux shock, an overly dramatic gasp leaving your lips.

“What? You mean the ego you overcompensate for with designer clothes and fancy cars is delicate?”

Billy rolled his eyes and held his hand up in a gesture of surrender.

“Alright, alright. I get it. You’ve kept me humble enough for one day.”

To your surprise, and to Billy’s, you smiled. It was small, but it was real and genuine. Billy’s impromptu visit was the last thing you expected to provide a lighthearted distraction to the whirlwind of chaos that had been plaguing you since yesterday. 

As much as you hadn’t been able to stand him the night you met him, you couldn’t deny that the banter between you came effortlessly. Within the first five minutes of meeting him, you’d called him a ‘self obsessed dumbass’, and instead of getting offended, he’d smiled. It had quickly launched into a battle of wits, who could come up with the more clever retort faster, and it only took half an hour for Derek and Annie to become exhausted, realizing they’d made a huge mistake and miscalculated their match making skills. Billy seemed to enjoy antagonizing you, and you couldn’t resist putting a man like him in his place.

Everytime the two of you were around each other, it was exactly the same. Just an endless cycle of unrequited flirting and unrestrained snark.

“Humble is not exactly a word I’d use to describe you, Russo.”

Before Billy could respond, your office door suddenly opened and your boss walked in, glancing between you and Billy in a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed displeasure. He seemed to size him up before turning his attention towards you, not so subtly letting his eyes roam over your figure sitting behind your desk in a way that made your skin crawl, which wasn’t missed by Billy. John gestured his head in Billy’s direction.

“Another detective?”

There was clear annoyance in John’s voice that didn’t go unnoticed by you. It wasn’t lost on Billy either, and his posture seemed to go rigid.

“No. No, um…friend.”

Friend. Using that word to describe Billy tasted foreign on your tongue, but Billy didn’t appear to react to it. His dark brown eyes sized John up in a similar fashion as your boss had done to him, only Billy didn’t even attempt to hide his judgment and lack of impression.

“You know, most people knock before just walkin’ in.”

Both yours and John’s heads turned towards Billy. You were momentarily stunned by the way Billy had so casually called out John’s abrupt intrusion, and John looked visibly irritated, but he turned to face Billy with a forced smile on his mouth.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m John Altieri. I own this publishing house.”

Unlike John, Billy didn’t plaster a fake smile on his face for politeness, or speak in a faux friendly tone. Maintaining eye contact, he reached out to grasp John’s outstretched hand with more firmness than necessary as he shook it.

“Billy Russo. I own the building.”

That bombshell had you sitting up straighter in your chair and blinking a few times in surprise. Billy owned the building? Since when? That was definitely news to you.

The smile on John’s face faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered and nodded, trying to appear unphased by that revelation.

“Pleasure. If you don’t mind, I have some important things to discuss with Y/N/N. In private.”

Billy outwardly looked calm and collected, but you swore you saw a flicker of anger in his dark brown eyes. He didn’t seem to like hearing your boss refer to you with a nickname that was spoken with too saccharine of a tone for a superior to speak about their employee. Not that you liked it either. John seemed to always maintain a balance on that tightrope of not being inappropriate enough to report him to HR, but being too friendly for you to not feel uncomfortable. 

The bastard was clever, you’d give him that. He knew what he was doing. He was careful and cautious enough that it couldn’t be classified as textbook harassment, and could be argued as a simple misunderstanding. It made you want to stab him with your pen every time you caught him staring at your chest or your legs.

After letting a purposeful uncomfortable moment of silence pass, Billy looked down at John, that signature smirk you were used to seeing on his lips spreading slowly like a sun rising over the skyline.

“Of course.”

Turning his head to look at you again, Billy gave you a faint nod of his head and a wink.

“See ya later, sweetheart.”

Giving John one last final unimpressed and cold side eye, Billy pulled his leather gloves out of his overcoat pocket and turned to leave your office with a confident stride, leaving you and John alone in your office, and your mind swirling with a flurry of questions about Billy Russo.

»»———　　———««

By the time you walked through the front door of yours and Annie’s shared apartment, all you wanted was a hot shower and a few hours of sleep. You’d spent last night tossing and turning, haunted by the nightmare your life had once again turned into, and you felt the exhaustion in every cell of your body. Tossing your keys into the little green bowl on the side table by the front door, your footsteps were slow and sluggish as you headed down the hall on the left towards your bedroom.

Dropping your purse onto your bed, you sat down on the edge of it and slipped off your shoes, letting them drop on the hardwood floor with a soft thud. Letting out a deep exhale, you closed your eyes and hunched over, covering your face with both of your hands. The muffled noise of your ringtone began to sound from your purse. Dragging your palms down your face, you slipped one of your hands into your purse to dig for your phone blindly, absentmindedly hitting the answer button and bringing it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello Y/N.”

The voice that sounded on the other end of the line wasn’t one you recognized. Pulling your phone away from your ear, you looked down at the lit screen and read “unknown caller”. A furrow creased between your brows as you brought your phone back up to your ear, running one of your hands through the roots of your hair to push it back.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I guess your new boyfriend didn’t make the cut.”

Immediately your hand froze, and your eyes widened. A mix of confusion, disbelief, and anger coursed through you, but the latter won out.

“Excuse me?”

Your tone quickly shifted from one of puzzlement to pure fury as you sat up straighter. A sinister chuckle from the deep mysterious voice on the other end of the line further incensed you.

“Did you really think I’d let anyone else have you, Cassia?”

The phone slipped out of your hand, dropping to the floor below with a harsh sound that didn’t even register in your ears. A pit of dread opened up in your stomach, and fear trickled down your spine as if someone had started to trace the frozen sharp tip of an icicle along the back of your neck. Panic spread through your nervous system like a lit match to a dehydrated forest, and the four walls of your bedroom began to close in around you, squeezing the last breath of oxygen from your lungs.

No one in New York knew that name. 

You’d left it back in California, along with your past. The past that had forced you to run to the other side of the country and bury every trace of who you were before. The past that you tried so hard to forget and cover up with a new identity and a new life. The past that was taunting you from the other end of the line.

The past that had come back, and murdered Adam.

He’d found you.

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @ferns-fics @danzer8705 @to-thelakes @simonsgirl @sweetserendipity65 @zomtart @day-dreaming-goddess @caroblogsthings @thomasshelbyswife @snowkestrel @hallowedtangerine @ameliaswife @dreadfulxives18 @ebsmind @lllla717 @slumnit

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[irisbleufic]

REVIEW

Gatsby: An American Myth (Welch, Chavkin, Bartlett, Majok, & Tayeh; American Repertory Theater)

Something that most adaptations of Gatsby get wrong, whether film or stage, is the treatment of characters as archetypes rather than individuals. Symbolism drowns out most genuine attempts at capturing emotional connections and conflicts of personality. They forget that this story is not only a failure of the so-called American Dream; first and foremost, it’s a tragedy of failed roles and relationships. Almost every one of the players is attempting to be someone they are not, and even as they reach for what they believe they should want, they reveal with increasing fervor what they actually want. This is the heart of what makes Welch’s new adaptation so devastatingly, disarmingly unique, so true to its source.

The set design is literal wreckage. Crushed and warped automobile chassis scaffold the moving staircases, and concealed trap doors. The backdrop shows no clear incorporation of the infamous Eckleburg billboard; rather, it is made up of a dotted grid resembling headlights. These play out effects ranging from a downpour to camera flashes to, briefly and only once, a pair of eyes that make no effort to hide behind the owlish frames of glasses. The only thing infusing this jagged framework with meaning is the people who move through it.

The lighting design works with the set’s incongruences, deepening or excavating shadows as needed. The brightness, when it flares, is blinding. Jewel tones either enhance or diminish a costuming scheme that is composed of either very pale or very dark shades, no in between. And whether it’s the post-apocalyptic black and gray cabaret garb of the ensemble or the wealthy protagonists’ pale suits or the gunmetal and gray denizens of the wasteland, everyone’s trouser and skirt hems are conspicuously rimed with reddish dust. The visual effects are nearly impossible to describe without sounding like I had some kind of desperate fever dream.

So far, I realize that these descriptions of the set and lighting design sound like this production is about to fall into the trap of overplaying symbolism, but please bear with me. With all of that established, I can focus on what’s truly extraordinary here, what’s meant to and does shine unhindered. The acting, musicianship and vocals are all so precise that it was hard for me to believe this show is still in previews. It feels Broadway ready, West End ready, major international tours ready. If I was the production crew, I’d turn this loose on a massive scale from the get-go without a second thought.

Much like with Hadestown, the musicians are not down in an orchestra pit. They’re characters in their own right, present on the stage from start to finish on tiered risers that run up from the center on each side from one of the catwalks. I’m sure Chavkin’s involvement as director has everything to do with why this show feels so much like, moves so much like Hadestown. The company is on an equally small scale, about 23 - 25 people including the principals.

Costuming among the ensemble is delightfully gender agnostic. I mention a cabaret aesthetic earlier in this review, and I’m not kidding. If you had shown me the ensemble costume designs without showing me the principals’ designs, I would have assumed I was looking at a Cabaret revival. They’re the most talented dancers I’ve seen occupy one stage in more than a decade. The choreography relies on movements in eerie unison for a significant portion of the show, but not without allowance for individual flair within those constraints. The guy sitting next to me, when I spoke to him at the intermission, said he works as a choreographer in regional theater, and he’d never seen anything like this. I couldn’t agree more; the dancing is singular, and as impressive as the musicianship is, the dancing and unusual body movement are maybe the greatest achievements of this show on the living, breathing end of things. I could have watched the dancers for those three hours without any dialogue or vocal intervention and still understood the story. That takes so much fucking doing.

As for the principal cast, they’re constantly among the ensemble; when I say these are all triple threats in the purest sense of that terminology, I really mean it. You always expect a few of the principals to be less dance and movement focused, more polished on the acting and singing side, but this show gives you terrifying proficiency from every angle. Even the guy playing Meyer Wolfsheim is at the center of what I think is the most memorable dance number in the piece. I’ve just never seen such versatile principals all in one production. What’s even more extraordinary is that I had never heard of or previously seen any of them, and that takes some doing given how much live theater I’ve consumed in several decades of life.

Ironically, the musical composition is the one aspect of this production on which I’ll be spending the least time. I need not tell you why Welch and Bartlett were perfect for this job. They understood the assignment, and then some. There’s not a single weak number among the track listings, and I desperately hope they release a recording soon. The standout numbers all have something in common: they showcase Soleia Pfeiffer as Myrtle Wilson. You can tell that’s the role where Welch sank most of the sound that’s considered her signature style. I don’t even need to describe it; you already know what I’m talking about. What’s impressive otherwise is the restraint, the lack of over-reliance on that signature style.

The principals are fucking perfect. I’ve kept this review tautly professional without meaning to thus far, but from here on out is where I start bleeding feels all over the post. If you don’t already know who my blorbos are due to my writing history with a Gatsby-related novel (The Pursued and the Pursuing, 2021), you’re going to know by the time you’re done reading this. You’re going to know exactly who I love and why, who I hate and why, who I ship and why. But you’ll also know that I approach all three of those elements from a place of enjoying every moment of those characters, even the ones I hate. Nobody’s performance put me off or struck the wrong tone when taken in context of the novel and how the tragedy of how their relationships play out.

For a long time, I’ve been saying that there are certain support roles, certain sidekicks, that make or break the higher-profile person to whose side they’re stuck, ride or die, until the bitter end. Horatio is a great example that I’ve ranted about before; if your Hamlet production has a lackluster Horatio, then it doesn’t matter how good the Hamlet is. You have nothing if you don’t have the binary star system at the heart of that harrowing universe. I’ve seen other adaptations of Gatsby consistently fall apart because Nick Carraway is treated like the kind of voyeur who doesn’t matter, the kind of voyeur who serves as the audience’s eyes and ears, and nothing else. Anyway, this is all to say: Ben Levi Ross as Nick might be the most compelling argument I can make for the fact that the creative team behind this show understood the assignment. He’s awkward, warm, sincere, and reactive in all of the ways you need Nick to be. He’s not a passive observer; he’s in the middle of everything, and he knows it. There’s a self-deprecating response he makes when one character, Jordan if I’m not mistaken, quips that maybe he’s the reason for Gatsby’s parties for all he knows. “Maybe I am,” he says, and the tongue-in-cheekness belies a gutting meta-sincerity. We believe Daisy is the point, Gatsby believes Daisy is the point, but what’s borne out every breathtaking moment of this production is that Nick is the point. He always was. He’s also given his due as a gay man in context of the story for the first time ever. I might make some folks mad when I say Nick has always been gay; I’m going to point you to Myrtle’s apartment party and the hookup with Mr. McKee as textual evidence in the novel. The kiss with McKee, the hookup with McKee, is unapologetically here. His lack of belonging everywhere else he’s ever been, because he is gay, is unapologetically here. One of the most memorable numbers in the show hinges on the hope feels at being able to be himself in New York. Queer fans of Gatsby have been waiting a long time for this. Anyone who’s read the text closely and understood him has been waiting a long time for this. I’ve been waiting several decades as a reader, and I would’ve waited forever to have Nick so fully, lovingly realized.

One of the other things that Gatsby adaptations have persistently gotten wrong is the titular character himself. The invention of Jay Gatsby hides the underlying James Gatz, makes it feel as if that old self is truly subsumed, as if it never mattered. But Isaac Powell gives us a Jay who’s exactly as he should be, who can’t hide beneath his own attempt at artifice and reinvention worth a goddamn. He’s young (as young as Nick; they’re 32 and 30 respectively both in the novel and here), painfully earnest, and just barely keeping a handle on the criminal shit he’s had to do in order to get where he is. When he says old sport to Nick, it’s not an affectation; when he says it to Tom, it becomes a biting insult. This is a Jay who knows where and why he’s vulnerable; he latches onto Nick like a not because he sees a man close to Daisy that he can exploit, but because he sees another young man who’s equally vulnerable, equally an outsider, equally haunted by the things they had to do in the war. From the moment they meet, they are almost always touching—a hand on the shoulder, on the back, getting in social harm’s way for each other, eyes seeking each other without cease in the most crowded of settings. When Jay takes Nick to lunch to meet Wolfsheim (who has in this production taken on the function of Dan Cody as well), it’s not to have somebody else vouch for the artifice of who Jay Gatsby is. It’s taking Nick to meet his fucking father-figure, and all of the messy, sincere “if you hurt my boy, I’ll kill you” sentiment that Wolfsheim aims at Nick was the moment I knew just how much the Nick’s loss by the end was going to hurt. Jay’s love for Daisy is a ghost of itself, even if as painfully earnest as everything else about him. Meanwhile, his attachment to Nick is so disarmingly genuine from the start that you understand the true tragedy you’re about to watch untold: these men who need each other, maybe even were made for each other, each prove unable to step outside their parallel distractions from what they truly are to each other. Jay’s interactions with Daisy and Nick’s interactions with several male and/or gender ambiguous members of the ensemble have something in common, which is a shocking level of physicality. This show had an intimacy coordinator; that’s the level of no holds barred we’re talking about. When you look at Tom and Myrtle, you can see why that was merited, too.

Speaking of Tom (Cory Jeacoma), the treatment of him here is every bit as scary as it should be. There’s no attempt to make him palatable, unlike what I’ve seen done with him in other adaptations. He towers over everyone else in the cast, I mean everyone, to a physical degree that’s uncomfortable. The way his wife, lover, and friends all flinch when he gets too close to them speaks volumes to the fact that he’s an abuser in every sense of the term. Even Nick, the prodigal college friend from Yale, is on eggshells around him (which, by the hotel blowup at the end of the show, becomes a sneering, reckless contempt, one of the driving forces that drives Nick to put himself between Jay and Tom whenever real harm is on the table). At the same time, this is a Tom who sincerely loves his wife and was only ever using Myrtle as a fling. You can tell he never meant any of the promises he made Myrtle. When Daisy tells him she didn’t stop the car on purpose, it’s as if his wife’s unapologetic act of manslaughter (“It was her or me!”) is the thing that wins him back. They aren’t careless people; they are people who consciously choose, day in and day out, to use others until they’re bored or done with them. The ruthlessness of Tom and Daisy as a couple is impressive, played up to a level that I feel more adaptations should do without fear of exaggerating the text.

As mentioned above, Daisy (Charlotte MacInnes) is no delicate, nervous creature who can’t help her actions under duress. She knows what she’s doing every bit as much as Tom knows what he’s doing. They use people, hurt people because they get bored and restless and enjoy it. I respect a Daisy who’s in control of her actions every step of the way even if I don’t like her; it’s better than trying to depict her as weak and at the mercy of the men around her. She’s a pragmatist and a survivor. So many of her songs are about choices and being conscious of those choices. She is a person you should fear every bit as much as you fear her husband, and even Jordan knows she’s not safe in Daisy’s orbit.

As Jordan, Eleri Ward is one of the neatest personalities on stage. Like Tom, she’s noticeably taller than most, which gives her a commanding physical presence. She has no romantic interest in anyone; I fucking love that this production show her and Nick bonding on the basis of being queer and tired of everyone else’s shit. This is a more likable, relatable Jordan than I’ve seen in the past. This is a Jordan whose relationship to Gatsby is much more familiar and warm, much more akin to the friendship she forms with Nick. In fact, the queer-and-tired vibes that roll off several of the principals in this production are palpable.

Myrtle and Wilson (Matthew Amira) aren’t always played as effective foils for Daisy and Tom, but here? They unquestionably are. They do actually love each other in spite of the things they’ve done to hurt each other, and it’s a constant dance of daring each other, challenging each other. The most memorable duet in the entire show is between them, during Act II. The confrontation is positively electric. These are two people with deep, complicated history. Of all the couples in the show, they feel the most real, the most alive. It makes the loss of Myrtle so much more wrenching; she’s not just a plot device emblematic of the bad choices they’ve all been making. She’s not shallow or frivolous or anything like that. She’s a shrewd woman with complex motivations, and for the first time ever I find myself loving her and caring what happens to her. She’s thrust even further into the action in that one of her part time gigs is working as a maid at Gatsby’s parties, a conceit that works shockingly well and hastens the devastating consequences of her affair with Tom.

I’ve made mention of Meyer Wolfsheim’s (Adam Grupper) uniquely enhanced role previously, so I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on him again. This is a man who does, in fact, seem to give a shit about Jay above and beyond using him as a tool in his criminal empire. It’s not necessarily a healthy father-son dynamic, but Wolfsheim is usually played as ruthless, opportunistic, inhumanly calculating. Here, he’s a charming, but unquestionably dangerous man moved by a young soldier’s plight. He seems conflicted between his love for Jay and his need to have Jay continue to hold the party line within their business relationship. Wolfsheim is deeply conflicted about Jay in a way that I haven’t seen any Wolfsheim be played previously. And, as I mentioned earlier, the actor has a showstopper of a song and dance number. That may be the #1 “I wasn’t expecting that, but I’ll take it!” moment for me in this show. And I say “may be” only because the moment that truly stopped my heart, will stay with me until everything else fades from memory, is perhaps only understandable in the context of my engagement with the text of Gatsby as a writer of transformative works.

Daisy’s and Tom’s daughter, Pam Buchanan doesn’t always appear in adaptations because she’s a toddler. Even in the novel, she a throwaway mention plus a single scene near the end where the nanny brings her out to meet Jay and Nick. She’s most often left as a throwaway mention without even grave of the scene where she appears. The scene in the novel, however brief, is memorable—and has been captured in all its fragile beauty for the first time in this adaptation. Jay and Nick both pay bewildered, wondering attention to this kid when she’s brought out. Jay drops to his knees and takes her hand when she greets him while Nick looks on in a moment of singular focus on both of them. The child who plays Pam here has a spark, an expressiveness that made me choke up even though she’s only on stage for a few minutes, if that. The tableau is one in which you can feel the shock of reality, however brief, touch on these men—Daisy’s and Tom’s reckless actions may yet do harm to someone who’s barely even begun to live her life, but who is just conscious enough to be a participant in it. They recognize that they, like this child, are probably in for a word of ruin—and that they have let it go on for so long that there’s now nothing they can do about it. For me, the deepest tragedy was watching Nick and Jay throw off that moment of heartbroken, horrified recognition prompted by Pam and return to the parts they’d decided to play out until the moment one of their hearts stopped.

Speaking of grief, of Nick’s grief since he’s the one who loses so much: there is only one person who loses more, and that’s Mr. Gatz, Jay’s father. They preserve his arrival at the house when Nick is the only person who stays around to carry out Jay’s funeral and burial. And when he arrives, the visceral shock of seeing his dark skin, braids, and beaded elements of Native regalia in juxtaposition with his otherwise period-typical Western garb underscore the tragedy of what young Jay was running away from, of what he never quite succeeded in erasing from himself. The burial scene shows Nick reverently bringing several of Jay’s folded shirts from the house and handing them down into the grave to Mr. Gatz, who places them reverently as possessions to accompany his son into thereafter. The cultural ramifications are all at once understated and devastating. Nick has moments with each of Jay’s father figures that are among the most complex and moving in the show. The program does not make clear the name of the ensemble member who takes on this most memorable of all Mr. Gatz appearances, and this erasure in and of itself is both unfortunate and telling. This is a world that never belonged to the majority of those who inhabit it, and Nick realizes it with heartbroken clarity after having this final interaction. Even though he’s an outsider, he’s part of a world that has erased and betrayed the man he loved so much at every turn.

The closing number, “We Beat On,” felt like it needed something more, but it utilized the final line of the novel to a deeply moving effect. The lights go down suddenly as the last word is sung; it feels like the song is half finished. When the lights came up, Nick and Jay were center stage in each other’s embrace, just withdrawing from each other as the entire company transitioned into final bows. That’s how I’ll remember them, always: touching even when they’ve already lost each other, borne ceaselessly back into each other’s arms. If Nick is Orpheus, then I have no doubt that he, too, will tell this story again and again until someday, somewhere, something gives.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Demon's Thrall

Incubus Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: noncon/dubcon elements, demon!Simon, incubus!Simon, accidental summoning, deal with a demon, descriptions of future sexual acts, power imbalance, master/slave, witch!reader

Word Count: 2k

A/N: Requested by @coffeecaketornado for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Summon a Demon)

Attempting to return what has been lost, you seek the Void, with the hope that someone will reply. What responds is a creature from hell. They return what you’re asking for but the price for such an ask is your soul.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

There is fire in the air. Salt on your tongue.

Power surges through you, heating your blood, and lifting you into the air. Words, old and ancient, drip from your lips. The grimoire in your hands glows, the pages tinged in blood-red. Its cover is leathery, made of human flesh and lined with animal teeth.

You've been searching for years, delving through dimensions to seek a spell that might return what you've lost. The pentagram on the floor radiates yellow light as the candle flames around you go out.

This is your last hope. A final attempt.

Little witch.

The voice is deep, whispering in your ear. It is not one you recognize.

Ignoring the voice, you remain focused on the spell, chanting until the air kicks up and roars in your ears. The pentagram's glow increases, almost blinding in its intensity. There is a heavenly bright quality to the light, and hope swells in your chest, spurring your chanting to a louder crescendo.

Little witch.

A dark form takes shakes within the light. It’s slightly round in shape, like a hunched figure. You are so close. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Everything you’ve lost will be returned.

You will be whole. You will be happy.

The final words fall from your lips, and a sense of completion settles over you. The ritual is done. It is complete. You’ve finally succeeded after years of trial.

The wind dies, the air calming, and your feet return to solid ground. The pentagram’s glow dims, revealing the figure crouched within. Whatever dark shadow obscured them within the light melts away in tendrils of black sludge, revealing…wings.

Leathery, bat-like wings.

They ripple. Shake.

Expand.

As the bat wings unfurl, the first thing you see are stone grey horns. They curl slightly out and back, the sharpened tips pointed upward toward the ceiling. They are connected to a man, his skin flushed a subtle shade of red. His legs and torso are bent, his arms crossed over his knees protectively.

Behind the thick, muscled arms is movement. The man lifts his head, and you’re met with eyes so black they resemble bottomless pits. They are consuming and yet empty, begging you to fall inside and tumble forever without ever knowing the relief of death.

Staring directly at you, he blinks slowly like a contented cat. Some of the darkness bleeds away in his eyes, revealing fiery pupils. A wickedly cruel smile forms, stretching across his face in a way that unsettles you.

The quiet after the ritual is drowned out by his power, the intensity of it slamming into you like a wave. It is immense. Suffocating. You feel no pain. No hatred. It is violent arousal, so pure and unfiltered that your body shudders as if in ecstasy.

Incubus. Demon.

"I did not summon you," you growl, fighting through his demanding presence. It wants to wiggle in, you twist around your heart, to make you orgasm to feed his infernal desire.

"Oh, little witch. You did," he purrs.

With a languid, hypnotic sway, the naked demon before you revealing himself completely, standing tall and proud in the middle of the pentagram.

He is solid muscle—all strength. Broad shoulders give way to a firm chest and abdomen. Scars pepper his skin. They are not haphazard or random. There is a pattern. There is a purpose. The scars on his chest and abdomen spiral downward, circling the base of his erect cock in a mandala-like pattern.

Your gaze lands on the hardened appendage. It is ribbed and pierced on the underside. The base is slightly rounder, the skin a bit loose as if it could swell. His testicles are heavy and large. There are scars there, too.

He is terrifying, yet entirely alluring.

"I didn't call for a sex demon."

The demon smiles, showing his fangs. "You asked for something to be returned to you.” He extends his arms in a placating gesture. “And I have granted it."

Bitter hope blooms in your chest though you know that demons enjoy a good lie. "You grant me nothing."

The demon's smile doesn't fade. "If I could not grant your request, I'd be in your thrall. Trapped within this pentagram. Unable to touch you.”

"You are in my thrall, demon.”

He shakes his head. "No, love. You are in mine."

With a snap of his fingers, a heavy weight seizes your neck. Instinctually, you claw at your throat, dropping the grimoire. Your seeking fingers find solid metal.

A collar. A fucking collar.

“What have you done?” you ask, panic rising in your voice.

The demon does not reply. He lifts his hand, palm upward, and then brings his fist together as if he holds an invisible robe. He tugs that transparent tether and you jerk forward, falling onto your face.

The wooden floor slams into your stomach, pushing all the air from your lungs. The demon tugs again, and you’re dragged across it. Gathering your wits, you flip onto your back, your own hands clawing at the air in front of you to find the invisible chain.

“No!” you screech, finding the connection. “You are contained!”

A sob quickly rises with the panic, threatening to burst forth from your lips as you dig your heels in. Every tug draws you closer and closer to the pentagram.

Glancing over your shoulder, you seek the grimoire where you dropped it. As if sensing your intent, the demon pulls on your chain harder, yanking you back around to face him. With a snarl, you jerk back against the chain to put distance between the two of you.

The demon is stronger, and with a final tug, you’re yanked onto your feet and hauled over the pentagram. You slam into him, but the incubus is a solid wall, and his hard cock pokes at your stomach like a demanding prod. It’s a threat of what’s to come.

You've heard the stories. Incubi love witches. They last longer in hell, and their wombs can carry demon spawn easier than any human. For them, witches are a treasure. Human women are shared. Witches are hoarded. At least this one won't share you with others. He'll keep you for himself. He'll keep you alive and healthy but only for his own ends.

"You asked for revival,” he purrs, breath warm against your skin. “The one you sought dwells in my realm. I granted your request. Now you're mine. Forever."

The incubus snaps his fingers and the grimoire ignites, consumed in flame. With a roar, you lash out with all the power you have.

Nothing swells. Nothing ignites.

You are empty. Hollow.

Your magic does not answer your call.

"What have you done?" you gasp, staring down at your hands before turning your threatening gaze on him.

"It's only silenced," he murmurs. "Not gone."

You pound your fist against his chest but the demon does not falter. It's like hitting a brick wall. You use your other fist, striking out repeatedly but the demon is unfazed.

"Are you done with your tantrum, little witch?” he asks, bored.

"You've made me your slave," you hiss.

The demon's pleased purr only tightens the leash further. "Your words. Not mine."

"You've put a collar around my neck."

"We made a bargain."

"We did no such thing,” you insist.

The demon’s head tilts slightly, amused. “You called out to the Void. You asked for help. Any help. And I granted it. If you didn’t want something to answer, then why do it?”

Because I want everything to be as it was.

You remain silent, jaw tense as you grind your teeth. You will not justify yourself to this monster. Your actions are your own.

“I have nothing to say to you, demon,” you reply slowly.

"Ghost," he corrects with a cocky smile. "That is what you are to call me. Or," he shrugs.

"Master. Since you seem to prefer that."

"You're foul," you mutter.

Ghost's smile is almost mocking, as if you're a petulant ignorant child who knows nothing of the world. "Oh, little witch. You'll change your tune. I guarantee it.”

You lean as far back as you can which isn’t much. Ghost’s hold on your chain is unrelenting. "What is worse than being at the beck and call of a demon?"

Ghost’s head dips intimately as if to kiss you. You jerk back, but wince when the metal of the collar bites into the nape of your neck.

"Any hellspawn might have answered your call,” he whispers gently. “Would you like one of the Grand Dukes? They’re an…interesting bunch. Their harems are vast, but a witch to add to a collection? You’d have them all fighting over you.” Ghost chuckles softly. “Exchanging beds constantly. Satiating their every appetite.”

Your nostrils flare in anger. Jerking on the chain does nothing, and Ghost does not move away from you. He remains close like a lover.

“Or perhaps a Lord of pestilence? Can you imagine yourself in one their laps for all eternity? Constantly sick. Constantly ill. A new disease to test on your flesh whenever they please.” When you don’t reply to his remarks, Ghost continues. “What about a Torturer from one of Nine Circles?”

"You're teasing me,” you growl.

Ghost shakes his head. “I am merely telling you the truth.” He lowers his voice, a menacing promise. “They will take. They will hurt.” His gaze drops to your lips, observing your mouth. His hand upon the chain gives a little tug, and that one little pull almost closes the distance. His thumb traces your chin, the sharpened nail lightly pressing against your bottom lip.

“I am a demon of pleasure,” he purrs. “You’ll spend your waking hours keeping my cock wet and warm. All you’ll know are the orgasms I give you.” Ghost’s head lowers further, lips brushing against your cheek as he continues. “You’ll look beautiful in my lap. Naked. Skin glistening with sweat from hell’s fires. Cunt full of my cock.” The corner of his mouth twitches with amusement. “Promise you’ll enjoy the piercing, little witch.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

He sighs. “You think me cruel now. But I promise, little witch, you’ll be begging for me.”

“I don’t beg.”

“For my cock you will.” One muscled arm comes around to your back, blocking escape. “You will resist. You will hate me even. But in time, you will want me. I’m a patient demon. I can wait.”

“Then you’ll wait for all eternity. You are no different from your brothers and sisters”

He exhales, lips tracing against your cheekbone to move to your ear. “I cannot wait to fill your holes. To gift you with my seed. To know what you sound like when you orgasm with my cock inside you.” Deep in his throat comes a rolling groan. “You will want no others.”

“I will never want you,” you whisper, but even your strength is wavering.

Ghost’s grip on your leash tightens until the metal digs into your skin. He draws you in until there is no space between your bodies. His hard cock digs into your abdomen. Through your clothes, you can feel the ribbed shaft. Though you abhor the idea of spreading your legs for this hellspawn, you’re also curious about how he’d feel inside you.

The corner of his mouth quirks in amusement. "Already you lean in my favor."

"You're delusional."

Ghost traces the curve of your ear with his forked tongue. "I can smell your arousal, little witch."

Against your buttocks, Ghost’s tail traces a trail downward. It ventures between your legs. You stiffen as the tip slips between skin and fabric, toying with your entrance. For a moment, you think it might dip inside, but it retreats.

The tip of his tail appears before you. The two of you observe it. It is glossy with your arousal.

In stunned silence, you watch as Ghost licks the slickness off. A pleased groan escapes him. "Beautiful. Tasting you properly will be an honor." The middle of his brow creases slightly, and that wicked smile returns.

"Ready to descend, little witch?”

[aviiarie]

♡ — GENSHIN GIRLS AS CHAPPELL ROAN SONGS !

cws & notes. no warnings. various genshin girls x fem!reader. 750+ words. they're all sapphic in my heart. if you like this you might enjoy my good luck babe! inspired furina fic :D

— FURINA · good luck babe!

she can't call it love. the word is on the edge of her lips, lingering on her tongue, but she never speaks it out loud. she just wants to keep things the way they are, keep you close to her without that word hanging over her head. it's nothing serious, so why bother to call it anything at all? she'll ignore the way her heart flutters and her head spins as long as it takes to keep you by her side.

but it isn't enough, is it? because you leave anyway, and she is left with the shadow of your figure chasing the corners of her memory for the rest of her life. in the years to come, she will forget your favourite colour and the way your lips tasted, but she'll always be haunted by the echo of your voice sounding in her head: 'i told you so.'

— CHIORI · red wine supernova

falling in love with you is like falling into a supernova. she was never too interested in pursuing love on her own, but with you, she just seemed to fall into it so easily. it was like you were a star, burning brighter and hotter than the sun, filling her days and nights with light. when she kisses you, she can almost feel fire spark against her lips, like your touch is enough to ignite. it's almost overwhelming, the amount of emotions that brew so quickly, but that doesn't chase away the thrill.

there's something that's so bright about you it's almost blinding. your smile sends her heart beating a mile a minute, your words make her brain fry. no one else has ever made her feel so much that it almost scares her. but if this was love then she would gladly let herself fall for you.

— NAVIA · casual

hearing you call it 'casual' kills her. she smiles and laughs it off, like it's all light-hearted, pretending you're just teasing. it's easy to pretend, to close her eyes and picture the two of you moving into the same apartment, dancing in the kitchen like a couple in a cheesy romcom. it hurts, every time you remind her not to get attached. can't you see she already has, already is? can't you see the adoration in her eyes? can't you see how much she is in love with you? nothing about you is casual, but she bit her tongue until it bled and held back her tears.

she's sick of it. after all the nights of tears she shed, after everything you've been through together, if you won't call it what it was, then she would. she doesn't care what your friends say, anything is better than calling it casual. she's done with letting herself be stifled, letting her love be wasted. she's sick of hating herself. call it casual all you want, she knows the truth and she'll make sure everyone else does too.

— YELAN · super graphic ultra modern girl

she can't deal with another cheap date with a man who doesn't care about her. what she needs someone refreshing, someone fun. she needs a girl who is as dazzling and exciting as she is, someone who can keep her on her feet and send her heart racing. no more wasting perfectly good friday nights on guys who didn't have a single interesting bone in their body, she's after something new.

and that's you. you, who arrived in her life like a firework and continued to crackle and spark ever since. she's transfixed by you, the way you move, the way you speak, the way you laugh. every part of you is mesmerizing, and she can't seem to tear her eyes away.

— KOKOMI · kaleidoscope

it's impossible to describe what you meant to her. there weren't enough words in the dictionary to explain how she felt, not enough colours in the rainbow to paint every shade of love that filtered through her vision when she looked at you. and yet now she was left with a painful monochrome, missing the one person she loved more than anything else in the world.

she's not going to make you stay. she cares about you too much for that. and she'll never fault you is you end up falling in love with someone who isn't her, but part of her does break every time she thinks of it. she doesn't know how love works, it's a mystery to the both of you. but she knows she loves you, and that has to count for something.

© aviiarie 2024. do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai

[d-dantes]

Dante x reader. 1.8k

Modern / nondemon au. Use of pet names (honey / sweetheart) Sfw but minors don’t interact. Unedited and not betaread, I haven’t slept lol

Sleepless nights wouldn’t be so bad as Vergil and Dante’s neighbor, inhabiting a duplex with a shared backyard that Vergil’s done a fine job manicuring and maintaining.

Solar lights he’d staked into the ground lining and lighting the way of the stone pavers he settled to create a path from the storage shed, around the pool to the recently shaded patio that connects both of your backdoors.

Usually you like to sit on the front porch on nights like these, sipping at your cup of coffee and watching some of the early risers ready for work. Enjoying the silence of the world before the sun peeks over the horizon and with it comes all the noise.

But tonight you’re restless, uninterested in a view of your surroundings and looking for a serenity only the sound of frog calls and cricket legs competing with the splash of water from the pool filter can curate.

Sighing as you forgo your cup of coffee and pleading with whatever god will listen that this camomile Vergil recommended will actually help ease you into the slumber that eludes you.

Idly wondering if you’ll find the man himself stiffly postured even in private solitude in one of the cushions seats reading one of his novels or collections of poems by porchlight as your tea steeps.

Glancing to your glass back door but you don’t see any warm yellow lighting slipping between the blinds so you figure even that insomniac is getting some sleep.

Good for him.

Recalling how prominent the shadows beneath his eyes are growing while you blow on your tea, carefully sliding open the door. Praying the track you’ve oiled countless times doesn’t squeal and wake your roommate, you know she’d likely only just gotten to sleep herself an hour or so ago.

Relieved when you’ve successfully pried the door open silently with one arm before stepping out with your back to the yard first to close it just as quietly.

Only to practically leap from your skin and nearly drop your favorite mug onto the concrete at the sound of a soft strum of an electric guitar without its amp followed by Dante’s unmistakably playful, “occupied.”

“Christ Dante,” you hiss with little malice, willing your heart to cease its hammering with your hand settled over your chest, “it’s three in the morning.”

“Sorry honey,” exhaled in a lighthearted, breathless laugh with a tilt of his head, “and here I thought I wouldn’t wake the light sleepers if I didn’t use the amp.”

You settle into the chair adjacent to his own as he gestures towards it in invitation. Adjusting his posture and turning slightly more towards you as you take a sip of your drink, “what’re you doing out here, usually I only run into your brother this early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dante sighs as deft digits twist the tuning pins, calloused pads of his other hand grazing over individual steel strings absently. Unsatisfied with whatever sound is produced but he isn’t fully focused on the task anyway as he tilts his gaze towards you again, “yourself? Early shift?”

“No, just restless,” you’d tried for hours to fall asleep, tossing and turning that bled into mindless doom scrolling before you couldn’t stand the mattress any longer. Padding quietly through your side of the home, cleaning up here and there before resorting to tea and basking in the night air.

“Got a lot on your mind?” Brow quirked as he affords you with his attention more overtly than moments prior. Scoffing slightly and playfully scratching his chin, “besides this handsome devil of course.”

It makes you laugh against the rim of your cup, which was exactly what Dante hoped to achieve as you reposition to get more comfortable. Settling into the cushions of the lawn patio furniture as you bring your legs up to tuck beneath you, “what gave me away?”

“Could see the guilt of whatever spicy scenario went on in your head the moment you stepped outside sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes but the smile is evident on your pretty features, sighing as it melts away into a passive expression. Taking another generous sip of your drink as you lean more towards Dante, always naturally gravitating to him, even more-so over the last few months it seemed.

“What about you?” You question, brows furrowing as you watch him closely. He never was one to show when something troubled him, always more concerned with those around him but who did that for him? You, perhaps, Vergil too in his own roundabout and covert ways, “feeling okay?”

You wonder if he’s having nightmares again, you’re aware he has them more than the average person. The circles under his eyes aren’t as bad as Vergils but there are signs even if Dante tended to bury them.

But you could tell, understood it wasn’t laziness whenever Dante slept his day away, hearing through the thin drywall how Vergil wakes him jarringly only to find Dante dozing on the front porch swing with a magazine over his face.

You don’t pry, but you do gently prod, allowing him some sort of tenderness where his brother’s hand is firm.

“Just fine,” he heaves a sigh, an expected answer but he doesn’t seem troubled beneath his cheery exterior. Strumming randomly to produce muted sounds from the strings, no hollow interior to resonate in to produce something more melodic.

Still, though, you extend your hand to touch tentatively at his knee, silently conveying a sense of safety to him before you opt to soften the exchange. Holding your cup out next, carefully shaking it teasingly, “could try some camomile. Your beloved big brother swears by it.”

That makes him scoff again, brow quirked as he leans forward after setting his guitar to the side, “really now? Give me his raving review then.”

You giggle in turn, taking a heartier swig now that it’s cooled down enough to do so. Brows furrowing as you tilt your head this way and that to find the words, “oh you know, he was super animated about it. Really expressive hum and barely a clear of his throat before he turned a page of his book.”

Dante exaggerates his reaction, brows creeping high and forming wrinkles in his forehead, “damn, no wonder he didn’t tell me. He’s keeping it all to himself like that book he stamped his name on.” A book Dante always stole when they were kids, a story you’ve heard told in two different ways with different inflections from both of the twins.

“Mhm,” you hum, stifling a yawn already as you wave your hand at him playfully, “it’s like his version of strawberry sundae’s for sure.”

Dante leans back, bracing himself on the arms of his chair before gently slamming his fist on it, “that bastard. Knew he was holding out on me, needs a proper ass kicking for that for sure. Been too long anyway.”

You reward him with your wind chime of a laugh, finishing off your cup once the sound subsides into petering giggles. Placing the empty dish on the table between you both as you curl further into the cushioned seat, “just be careful not to come careening through our living room wall again, okay?”

His lips curl up over his teeth with a hiss, “c’mon, it was one time. And I fixed it before you got home from work, wouldn’t have even known if my dear older brother hadn’t told you.”

“The paint didn’t match,” you retort. Dante snaps his fingers like he’s been had, “you keep it too dim in your house, I told Vergil I thought you had an electrical problem.”

You can only smile at that, propping up your arm to rest your head in your hand as you both fall into idle conversation. He asks you about work, you do the same and enjoy tales he regales you with of everything that happens to him during his sequence of odd jobs.

Steadily you yawn more and respond less but you listen to him with an obvious engagement. Slow blinks growing longer until your eyes no longer even open and Dante makes it easier for you to drift off to sleep as he consciously lowers his voice, gradually devolving into a low sound until he isn’t speaking at all.

Glancing over at you as you sit serenely in slumber just before the sun starts to stain the sky’s midnight blue with muted violets and vibrant pinks as he begins to rise. He taps his knees softly, grunting quietly as he rises and carefully scoops you into his arms without jostling you too much.

“Up ya go,” whispered after hoisting you into a princess carry, careful to rest your head against his collarbone so it doesn’t loll about uncomfortably. Easily sliding open your door only for it to squeal slightly like you’d managed to avoid earlier, causing you to whine at the sound only to tuck your face into his throat.

Comforted and soothed by the smell of Dante’s deodorant and whatever cologne still lingered in his skin from the day. Sighing as the tension bleeds further from your body as he opts to settle you onto your couch in the living room instead of risking encountering your roommate upstairs to take you to your room.

Heaven fucking forbid she see him leaving your room at this hour. She was nice but he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about him in regards to you.

That he’d slip away before you even woke up after getting you into bed. Especially after she’d teased and taunted him playfully about his ‘love sick gaze’ (something he’ll insist that’s exaggerated despite how expressive he really is) whenever you retreat indoors after any sort of interaction with him.

He exhales at the thought as he crouches just in front of your plush furniture, his hand coming to cradle your skull as he transfers you from his arms. Positioning you in a way he thinks will be comfortable, at the very least it’s better than sitting curled up with your head against your hand outside.

Still though, your face scrunches cutely at the slight disturbance, Dante’s hands hovering over your body as if to will you to stay in the sweet embrace of sleep. You lament the loss of his warmth and touch subconsciously but you settle just as quickly, making Dante’s features soften with a lopsided smile quirking up the corner of his lips.

“Sweet dreams sweetheart,” tone soft, voice a hush as he near reflexively presses a kiss to your temple after brushing your hair backwards. Standing as he takes the throw blanket from over the back of your couch and fluffs it over you thoughtfully. He takes a final survey of you, lingering just a moment longer before slipping back to his own side of the duplex before Vergil can haunt the halls again.

[commandershepardvasfuckit]

An Arranged Marriage, part 7

(This is the second part posted on the same day! Make sure you didn’t miss 6!)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

M!troll x f!reader

1.2k words (tw for mention/suggestion of assault)

Zen’jan’s secret left you reeling and without a plan you left the city, but is the wilds really any better?

————

All the air left your lungs at his words, you want to scream but could not even manage that.

“It is alright” Zen’jan said trying to reassure you while getting up and taking a step towards you, finger still bleeding and dagger still in hand, “You are safe here, I promise! Please just sit and listen to me” he took another step towards you and reached for your hand.

“Don’t touch me!” you screamed at him, finally finding your voice. The clawing panic was rising in your throat, threatening to strangle you into silence again.

You looked at the man in front of you, the man who had been taking care of you and watching over you, it was like he was a complete stranger all over again. A follower of the Shadows, and avatar of the God of Shadows!

He looked visibly hurt and took a step back, “I am so sorry, I know I should not have sprang this on you, but please just listen to me, to Tsov’ka” slowly he reached his hand back out to you.

“No! Leave me alone!” you scrambled away from the shrine, away from Zen’jan. You did not know where you were going, but you had to get away. The brighter lights of the other shrine rooms and then the daylight blinded you, but once more being in the light comforted you and shook the deep chill out of your bones.

You kept moving, putting as much distance between yourself and the shrines, and hopefully Zen’jan. Nowhere felt safe, not home, not anywhere in the city, no one to talk to.

Out of the city it was then. You passed under the main gates that lead out of the ravine and into the surrounding grasslands. A few times you came out here with Bira, you knew it was pretty safe, especially if you followed along the small mountain ranged that housed the city.

For hours you walked, at first occasionally seeing people or passing by farms until they got fewer and fewer until you truly were alone. You did not have a plan, all you knew was that going back to the city was not an option.

You walked until your legs nearly gave out, collapsing into a sobbing mess, leaning against one of the very few trees in the grasslands for a needed bit of shade. It was a bit before midday when you had left, now the sun had moved fairly far along its path and would start in set in the next hour or so.

You curled up, maybe a nap would help you clear you mind a little.

“What’s a human doing way out here?” came a man’s voice that jolted you awake.

“Isn’t she the Lord Admiral’s daughter? The one that got married off?” came a second voice.

“Lucky day if she is” said the first one again.

You cracked your eyes open just enough to check your surroundings. Several human men stood around you, still not aware you had woken up.

“Whatcha figure she’s doing out here?” asked another.

“Who knows, who cares. You know the reward on her if anyone gets her back to her father? Set for life” answered the first.

Your father? None of it particularly made sense, you were tired and dehydrated, but at least this could be your way out.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she? Shame she’s been ruined by a fucking monster” another chimed in.

“Speak for yourself, I’d still fuck her” the second piped up.

“Isn’t the reward for either bringing her back or for making it look like the monsters killed her?” came one of the previous voices.

“It is, it’s anything they can use to righteously start this war again. Get her home and let her father spin some horrible tales, or just kill her now and make it look like the monsters turned on her” answered the first again.

The War. It had only ended a few months ago. The death toll on both sides had been horrific, though most of the fighting all happened on the seas and grasslands surrounding the city here, and you had seen just how bad it was.

“Seems like a lot of effort to bring her back, another mouth to feed and supplies are already low. I say have a little fun with her and the just kill her” one suggested.

Your heart was racing, suddenly things were going sideways very fast. There looked to be six or so of them and only one of you, not good odds. You weighed the chances of bolting, though you were not sure if you could get away fast enough.

“Fine, it’s all the same in the end. Grab her and bring her back to camp at least though”.

You decided to take your chances, it looked like either die for sure soon or at least try to live. With whatever strength you could muster you leapt up and booked it, only making it a few steps before you were grabbed by your wrist.

“Now where do you think you’re going, little thing? And how much did you hear?” asked the first. He was an imposing man, the quintessential bandit looking type, as were the others.

You screamed, loud as you could until he placed a hand over your mouth.

“Screaming isn’t going to do anything, you’re miles and miles from anyone else, and you’re going to give me a headache with all that. Someone, knock her out”.

Before you could register anything else you were hit with a blinding pain on the back of your head, then blackness.

You awoke with a splitting headache and to the muffled sounds of voices.

“…in a bit, where’s she going anyways? Her hands are tied” one said.

It was dark, you had been tossed in a tent with your hands tied and left alone for now. Tears streamed down your face. You ran from the shadows, you heeded the teachings of the Light, why didn't the Light protect you?

It was getting cold with the sun down now, you could see the shadows cast by the fire poking under the tent, but its warmth could not reach you.

“It’s fucking cold, isn’t it?” one of the men asked.

“Toss some more wood on the fire then” another replied.

“And it’s fucking dark” the first speaker said.

“It’s nighttime, of course it’s dark you f-” he was cut off.

Everything was eerily silent for a moment, then the world was plunged into inky black darkness.

Screaming and snarling pierced through the stillness. Bloodcurdling screams of dying men and the snarls of something else. You held you breath and squeezed your eyes shut while you tried to block out the sounds of death. Fear gripped you and you just hoped whatever was out there would miss you.

Moments dragged to minutes, to what felt like an eternity until nothing but silence remained and the glow of the fire returned. Cautiously you peered under the edge of the tent, nearly retching at the sight. Blood soaked the ground in shiny puddles, men lay in shreds, mauled to the point of being unrecognizable amongst the viscera.

“I am so sorry” came a familiar voice at the door of the tent.

You looked up to see a figured cloaked in shadows, but it was a familiar one.

“Zen?”

And once more the world was black.

Part 8

[aixeko]

──────‹𝟹 SINNERS SAVAGERY ༄ Ѽ✧

IF I'M YOUR SALVATION, WELCOME TO HELL.

2024 Halloween Event | Art credit: Efferwescent on Twitter

𖤐 SINNERS SAVAGERY | or ERISETOBER  is an event that is a mix of Kinktober, Whumptober and Flufftober in a nutshell SMUT, ANGST & FLUFF with Halloween aspects. All prompts are made by me but some of the ones that inspired me are whumptober ofc, and this list. 

𖤐 ONLY HONKAI STAR RAIL AND GENSHIN WOMEN For this year

𖤐 This will be my first time doing the October prompts stuff + I have another event going on so bare with me haha.

𖤐 !! WEEK 1 starts 6 to 13 !! !! WEEK 2 starts 13 to 19 !! !! WEEK 3 starts 20 to 26 !! !! WEEK 4 starts 27 to 31 !!

WEEK 1 | MONSTER AU | | ONESHOT

| Film | TILL DEATH DO US PART | Starring | Kafka as alien symbiote “Venom” x Host!Reader  | Synopsis | A livelihood ripped away by the greed of humankind and faced with impending doom, an alien symbiote by the name of "Kafka" entered your life and made you her host. Originally, the monstrous being harbored one goal: to destroy everything planet Earth had to offer, but plans changed upon meeting you and thus, with her power, you both do whatever it takes to save the planet. Loathing was all that was bestowed toward the extraterrestrial parasitic, but as time passes, a long-lost feeling resurfaces, one that hasn't manifested since your heartbreak; of course, you would rather be brutally killed than confess your endearment. Unbeknownst to you, the woman has suspected you of such intimacy and, with her incredible adaptability to the complex human emotion, has a ploy to make you profess those three special words.

| Film | YOUR LORDSHIP | Starring | Yelan as Leviathan x Mortal!Reader | Synopsis |  When the tempestuous waves crash against the shore and the sky turns a foreboding grey, human shells cower in fear as the mighty lord of the seas, Leviathan, awakens from the darkest pit of the deep, seeking for a human companion to aid her lonely voyage.

WEEK 2 | MYTHOLOGICAL AU | | ONESHOT

| Film | BEYOND THE IMAGINABLE | Starring | Clorinde as Medusa x Blind!Reader | Synopsis | Despised and misunderstood by the world, she was a victim of a scandalous man's wrongdoing, unfairly punished by heaven despite her innocence. During one fortunate day, the woman whose heart had turned to stone melt under the accursed spell of love, wholly captivated by a blind mortal who fell in love with her for who she truly was; even without sight, the virtuous human saw the very essence of her, the beauty within her soul.

| Film | OFFERING OF PURITY | Starring | Raiden Ei as Hades x Mortal!Reader | Synopsis | The townsfolk tell tales of a legend that speaks of how, once in a century, the moon would adorn itself in a deep crimson hue and illuminate its shade onto the world. Under its wrathful light, the god of hell emerges to wreak havoc, and the only way to banish such evil is to offer a youthful virgin mortal; only then will humankind live in another century of prosperity and peace.

WEEK 3 | ANIMATRONICS AU | | SMUTSHOT

| Film | FIVE NIGHTS AT STAR RAIL | Starring | Kafka, Himeko, Blackswan, and Acheron as the FNAF Classic Animatronics x Night-guard!Reader | Synopsis | A newspaper arrives at your doorstep, featuring a job opening for a night guard position at the famous Star Rail Pizzeria. Struggling financially, you quickly seize the golden opportunity. The job's only requirement is 5 nights of work, and if you succeed, you'll be hired as an official employee; what could possibly go wrong?

WEEK 4 | SLASHER/SERIAL KILLER AU

| Film | MINDFUCK | Starring | Slasher!Arlecchino x Investigative-Psychologist!Reader | Synopsis | Demons linger where shadows play; in silence, hearts betray, whispers echo, and desires catch fire in the haunting depths of the night. With every kiss, a scythe may cut, in which terror envelops one's gut; together they dance on the edge of fate, finding beauty in a love that is too late. So let the night weave its spell, for in the dark they know so well, and though demons are whispering fright, in their twilight, the lights are ignited.

[magicalbats]

Glory in Wrath

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 11,197

Warnings: Afab!reader, incest (half siblings), stalking, panty stealing/sniffing, premature ejaculation, femdom, high heels, cock stepping, dry humping, pussy job, just the tip, excessive orgasms, sex work, reader isn't really a prostitute but more like a professional dominatrix 🤭

A/N: This is the first comm from the current batch and I'm honestly so, so happy the lovely @reideux brought me this project! I had a lot of fun working on this as an appreciator of dominant women making proud men snivel, and also as someone who has been lucky enough to have their support for such a long time. 🥹 Thank you again for always reading and commenting on my fics, Rei. It really does mean the world to me!

⭐

He watches. He observes. And you notice nothing. 

Just as it should be, just as it was always meant to be.

Some would call it fate or destiny. 

He preferred to think of it like a hero’s curse. 

Hugo is a creature of the night and encroaching shadows, more at home shrouded in darkness than bathed in the light of day. The world of the waking has always felt like some place he did not belong though, something he wasn’t privileged enough to be a part of or worthy of calling his own. But as far as midnight wraiths go … well, he was perfectly in his element there. 

“I think it’ll go off without a hitch so I wouldn’t dwell on it much. You know how untouchable these rich and powerful types like to think themselves.” Vivian drawls into his ear through the wireless bud, sounding largely disinterested in the topic at hand. Likely painting her nails or applying a face mask at home, if he had to guess. “By the way, where are you?”

“Oh, just out for a little late night stroll, that’s all. I thought some fresh air might do me some good.”

She hums a noncommittal sound at that, clearly willing to accept his answer at face value. 

Still though, there’s some faint edge of curiosity in her voice that seems to suggest she’d noticed how many of these walks in the middle of the night he’s been taking as of late. Oh, well. There wasn’t much he could do about that. 

Leaned back against the rough brick wall of a butcher's shop, he looks out over the road at the apartment complex in front of him. A few windows are lit up from within by the warm cast of electric bulbs to allow any nosy passersby a brief glimpse into the lives of the strangers inside. Some are covered with blinds or shades, their occupants much more reticent to share their private moments at home with unwanted interlopers, while others were darkened out, either already in bed for the evening or still out and about. 

Of the few that were left wide open there are a number of different scenes playing out before him that Hugo could choose to focus on. A  family of three sitting down to eat, a shameless bachelor jerking off to porn on his computer, an old woman putzing over the stove — but it’s only one window that has his full and undivided attention. 

You’ve just finished up your dinner and are now going through the motions of cleaning up after yourself, entirely oblivious to his presence outside as you carry the dishes to the sink to be washed. It was impressively self-sufficient for a member of the Ravenlock family, if he did say so himself. 

Except you weren’t really a part of that noble family, were you? Poor thing. 

“You know,” Vivian says with practiced nonchalance. “There’s a new art exhibit opening up in Lumina Square next weekend. I was thinking maybe we could go check it out together, if you were interested.” 

“Mmm, and what, pray tell, is going to be there that’s caught your attention? You’re not usually one for stuffy exhibitions.” He murmurs, earning a faint scoff from the girl even as he continues to watch you through the window. Nothing could ever hope to tear his attention away from the singular object of his obsession though, not even dear Vivian. 

“That’s not true and you know it, Hugo. I just … I heard some rumors, that’s all. That the art broker hosting the event is on the shady side. Something about stolen heirlooms or something.” 

Putting his head to one side, the Phantom Thief considers that for a brief moment. It was certainly a good thing he could multitask. He would’ve been beside himself if he’d missed the way your t-shirt rides up to expose a tantalizing strip of your belly when you reach overhead to put away a bowl in the cupboard. It was easily enough to distract him from anything else but what Vivian was saying also had his interest too … 

“Why don’t you send me his name and I’ll do a little digging on this end when I get back home. If he’s the sort of person who would take precious heirlooms from those less fortunate, well, it would be remiss of us not to make an appearance, wouldn’t you agree?” 

But he couldn’t do it right this moment. Not when he was much too focused on you, entirely unawares and naive to his laser focused attention, and oh so very ripe for the taking. 

Hugo had done all the research. Uncovered every stone and tracked every possible lead no matter how small it may have been in his tireless pursuit of tracking down every known Ravenlock. Even distant cousins and uncles hadn’t been far removed enough to avoid the brunt of his scrutiny, though most of them were unknowingly lucky enough not to draw his vengeful ire when they weren’t close enough to the center of the family tree to matter much in the grand scheme of things. He still liked to keep tabs on all of the moving chess pieces regardless. But you, on the other hand, were much too closely related to the source, that damnable wellspring in the bloodline, to escape his sights. 

His sister. Younger by three years and only half related, but a direct product of that hateful bastard he called a father nonetheless. You’d been practically a babe when he killed one of his siblings in cold blood and evidently too far down the hierarchal line to be considered for the position of heir, because he’d never met you before. Not face to face, anyway. Not yet. 

And although he’s never spoken to you to confirm this Hugo is relatively certain you have no clue he ever even existed in the first place, which suited his purposes just fine. You’d been cast off and thrown away, excommunicated from the family shortly after his own time with the Ravenlocks came to an end. For this reason you were technically innocent and his call for revenge was more than just a bit misguided when directed at you. But that didn’t change the blood in your veins or the fact of whose loins you’d been conceived from. You were a direct progeny of the Ravenlock’s regardless which meant, on some level, you still had to pay. 

Perhaps not with your life, no, but there were other, equally important things he could take from you instead. 

Mismatched eyes twinkling sharply in the dark, Hugo watches you meander from one side of the kitchen to the other to deposit something into the garbage. Your apartment is on the third floor to give the impression that you were safely out of reach up there, and lucky for him you don’t seem to have any presence of mind to close the curtains to block him out. He’d been looking at you from afar for quite some time now so he was intimately familiar with your routine. After cleaning up from your meal you’d start to get ready for bed, just like clockwork. 

A smirk tugs at his mouth in the shadows when you move to do just that, such a creature of habit that you don’t deviate from the worn path even now. He follows you with his gaze while you make your way out of the kitchen and further into the apartment where he eventually loses sight of you. That was alright though. There would be plenty of time for him to admire you in the coming days, weeks, months. Perhaps even years, if he decided to drag it out for that long. 

“I have to go now, Vivian. I’ll keep you updated on anything I find out and we’ll plan our next move from there.”

“Alright. Have a goodnight, Hugo.”

“Goodnight, little love. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The line disconnects with a small beep and Hugo pushes off from the wall, confidently sauntering across the street to come up alongside the apartment complex. No one even notices him at this time of night to question his presence there as he makes his way further down to the fire escape at the corner of the building. A quick jump and the powerful flex of his arms to haul himself up quickly has him making nimble work of the steel enforced stairs leading up, up, up to the third floor where he’s then able to silently creep along the platform until he reaches the end of it. From there it’s an all too simple matter of stretching his long legs out to find footing along the closest ledge, going from window to window as quick and unseen as any passing ghoul, until he at last reaches the entrance to your humble abode. 

He’s done this about a dozen times now, and just like every other instance he does not find the windowsill locked when he tests it. You really had no idea you were being haunted by a vengeful spirit from your past … or perhaps hunted was the better word. 

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Hugo quietly eases the window up so he can slip inside, climbing carefully over the counter to plant his expensive shoes on the tile flooring before turning to shut the entry point. Didn’t need to let a draft and whatever else in while he was here. Mosquitos were particularly bad this year and he’d already long decided that if anyone was going to be feasting on your blood it would be him. 

The apartment he now stands in is perfectly still yet comfortable with the feeling of being lived in and occupied. He can hear the shower running in the bathroom as he moves deeper inside, catching a glimpse of wafting steam coming out from under the closed door when he steps into the short hall. You would be in there for at least another twenty minutes or so, which gave him plenty of time to do what he’d set out to accomplish. 

Further he skulks, making sure to tread lightly as he makes his way up to your bedroom door. Left ajar, all he has to do is nudge it open and it swings wide to grant him entry. The smell of you immediately overwhelms his senses as he steps inside, pausing there just over the threshold to take in this space. 

It’s virtually unchanged since the last time he invaded your privacy like this, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to commit it all to memory again. Your untidy bed which you never bothered to make as far as he could tell, the small collection of plush animals and knickknacks dotting the corners of the room, your best clothes hung up on a dainty rack against the wall. They were altogether humble furnishings for someone with such esteemed family ties but still quaint. Cozy even. 

A very real part of him wanted to take a match to it and burn it all to the ground. 

But he's not actually going to do that, of course. Hugo had other plans for you, much grander ideas that were far more fitting for a member of the once esteemed Ravenlock family, making do instead with shuffling over to the laundry basket near the foot of your bed. Here he bends down to quickly rifle through the clothes awaiting wash day until he finds a used pair of your underwear. Hooking a finger into the band, he holds it up to inspect the garment in the column of light coming in from the hallway. Cotton with soft lace details, two little faux buttons on the front to give it a girlish charm. They were certainly cute. And he couldn’t wait to defile them, to destroy that laughable guise of innocence they represented. 

Giving his wrist a quick flick, he gathers the panties in his palm and balls them up, shoving them down into the pocket of his slacks. He takes a moment to ensure the laundry hamper looked untouched just as it did when he’d first entered before taking his leave. The bedroom door is carefully nudged halfway shut again, then he’s making his way back towards the kitchen.

He can’t quite stop himself from slowing to a stop in front of the bathroom on his way out though, bending his head close to the crack in the woodwork to listen. You’re singing some radio tune or another very softly, likely so as not to have it bleed through the walls and disturb your neighbor, but he finds it’s a lovely sound regardless. If they’d known back then that you would grow up to have such a pleasing voice perhaps the Ravenlock’s would not have been quite so eager to toss you aside. It was certainly unfortunate for you, yes, but undeniably fortuitous for him. 

Because what should have been nothing more than a passing interest for a sister he’d never known in his search for revenge had already morphed into something much more akin to twisted fascination. He couldn’t have pinpointed the exact moment even if he’d wanted to, but Hugo knew it had happened somewhat recently. Maybe it was the first time he’d snuck into your apartment, telling himself he just wanted to better know you and the life you’ve lived as an outcast, not unlike his own existence in a way. Or maybe it was when he’d taken the first pair of panties in an impulsive rush that had left him running so damn hot and throbbing that he’d barely made it back to his own studio apartment on the other side of town before succumbing to it. The aftermath of that incident had only seemed to solidify his almost fanatically growing fixation with you, turning it into something tangible and real. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d shot off so hard as to leave him feeling lightheaded and dizzy with relief, as if the sick reality of what he’d done had only made it all the more gratifying. 

The when and the how didn’t really matter though, he supposed. He was already in this deep and you were still ignorant of his schemes. You’d been perplexed by your missing underwear, no doubt about that, but you still don’t suspect a thing given the window you continued to leave unlocked even now. Of course you wouldn’t automatically jump to the conclusion that someone was stalking you but did you suspect? Did you wonder? And to think that someone was your own half brother … 

It’s devious in its cruelty, this petty attack on your person, but he isn’t going to stop. He can’t. Not anymore, not when the line had already been crossed and there was no going back from it at this point. 

Reluctantly, he forces himself back into motion and quickly exits the way he came in, through the window in the kitchen. Back down the fire escape and across the street, he lets muscle memory steer him through the city along a number of roads that he hardly even recognizes when his mind is reeling with the potent rush of dopamine straight to his brain. All of New Eridu seems to pass him in a blur while he winds his way home, eagerly twitching in his pants the whole time with your stolen panties sitting bunched in his pocket like a weighty reminder. He’s even only distantly aware of fishing his keys out to unlock the front door of his studio some forty five minutes later, panting softly under his breath in his excitement. 

Taking off his hat and shrugging out of his coat, he quickly tosses them aside over a chair in the foyer before digging down into his slacks to retrieve his prize. At the same time he meanders deeper into the spacious apartment — much roomier and nicer than yours, of course — as if he were in a trance. In fact, Hugo is certain he must be. It was the only thing that could conceivably explain this behavior or this driving urge to destroy you so completely. 

Groaning a soft, threadbare little sound, he brings his hand up with the pilfered treasure resting in his palm and shoves his face into it. A deep, faltering inhale has the lingering scent of your pussy swarming his olfactory system in a potent rush. His cock, which had persistently remained half hard despite his attempts to will it away during the trek home, now roars to life with keen intensity, springing up to shove at the inner placket of his pants. His self control was usually better than this but he can’t quite seem to rein it in when you smelled so good, tasted so damn good, and he stiffly nudges his opposite hand around to press down on that seeking, demanding tent. 

He practically smothers himself with your underwear while he savoringly grinds the heel of his hand down on his cock, hips rolling into the motion with a stuttering swivel. His body aches fiercely for you; for all that you represent and all that you are, a trophy for him to lay claim to and destroy at his own leisure. It’s not very polite or genteel of him; no, no, certainly not. But oh, how he craved to tear into you and render you to pieces. Even knowing you were just as much a victim of the Ravenlock’s as he is wasn’t nearly enough to douse his deep seated hatred for you. 

That must be what makes this so damn satisfying, he thinks to himself as he unfurls his tongue from his mouth to take a long, savory swipe down the center line of your underwear. The flavor of you erupts along his tastebuds, eliciting another groan from him while his eyes start to roll back in his head. It’s that sharp, chaotic feeling of pure and utter loathing that seems to be fueling this lust for you. 

To have you and to claim you would be to ruin you; mind, body and soul alike. You would be as good as a pariah shunned for their mere existence and forever tainted as a brother fucker, defiled by your own kin if he had his way. It wouldn’t affect him much in the long run but you, oh, you would never be able to escape that scarlet letter he’ll brand into your skin. 

Hugo’s stomach clenches painfully tight at that thought and his chest hitches, stuttering on a gasp that catches in his throat. He’s cumming before he even realizes how dangerously close he’d been toeing that edge, before he can even fumble his pants open and fist his cock out, but it’s much too late now. All he can do is stiffly shudder with the spasms, seething softly through his teeth at the warm, sticky sensation of his spend coating the inside of his underwear while he clutches himself through his pants. 

He’s positively coated in the clinging mess by the time his cock stops pumping, and he heaves a tortured sound as he lets his arms drop boneless to his sides. Slouching slightly with the languid ease that always comes in the hazy afterglow of orgasm, he shifts back on his heels to look down and regard himself. These pants were going to have to be dry cleaned. Great. 

The only silver lining is that at least this had saved your panties from a similar fate, which meant he wouldn’t have to pilfer another pair quite so soon. Still though … 

Hugo allows his mind to drift back to what had made him bust like that, wandering in the direction of his spacious bathroom to change out of his soiled clothes. A scarlet letter, huh? That was quite the idea. And a rather novel and tempting one, at that. But he didn’t see much appeal in forcing himself on you, reluctant to stoop to such low and uncouth methods even when he was willing to do just about everything else. Where was the fun in it if you didn’t come to him willingly? He was going to have to talk to you sooner rather than later then, if this was truly the route he wanted to take. Give his charm and charisma a real test for once. 

Lucky for you, he had yet to meet anyone who was completely impervious to his bag of tricks. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

His opportunity presents itself with the kind of stark clarity that one usually only finds in the perfect merging of fate and happenstance. The hero’s curse rings true once again. 

The hostess club you worked for was a nondescript cabaret bar tucked off from the main hub of bustling activity in Lumina Square. Down a dark and rather shady looking alley, one would find themselves emerging on the other side into a much smaller but no less busy street that was clearly more geared towards nightlife and entertainment than the shopping center back the way they’d come. The outer facade is clean and relatively sterile, with a tasteful sign over the door that merely reads Club Iris and nothing more to indicate what sort of business it might be. For all intents and purposes it was nearly indistinguishable from the massage parlor near the riverfront or the karaoke place further down the street. 

It’s only real give away was whichever girl happened to be standing out front to greet people with a welcoming smile, inviting anyone who looked gullible enough to come inside. Having been watching you as long as he has, Hugo has seen you standing there on the sidewalk a handful of times before when your lucky number was drawn for curb appeal duty but today seems to be a bit different. You’re wearing a new dress, for starters. 

One that is by all means demure in its style and cut, but so seamlessly fitted to the curves of your body that he’s forced to cross his legs to hide the growing bulge in his pants. It did not leave much to the imagination. In almost any other situation he would’ve been quite delighted by this turn of events — a daughter of the Ravenlock’s fallen into such unfortunate circumstances that she’s forced to use her own body just to make a living? It was poetic justice, in a way. But the unfortunate side effect of that being other men ogling you up and practically fucking you with their eyes … well, he quickly finds that he doesn't like that very much. 

And they do look at you, just like they were meant to. He can see them turning their heads in rapt attention to stare at you from his vantage point on the patio of the coffee shop across the street and down a ways. The young, the old, the married and the singularly lonely. All of them men who would have given anything just to be in your presence, to be on the receiving end of one of those flirty little smiles you were so adept at. As far as self advertising went, you were doing a spectacular job of drawing the covetous glances of all who passed by. 

It disgusts him. Makes him feel sick and nauseous with a jealousy that was not entirely foreign to him. He knew the feeling well even if he didn’t like it. And he also knows that he’s not going to be able to sit idly by while anyone else was raking their eyes over your body in that form fitted little number. He’d have to act quickly if he didn’t want anyone else to pay for the privilege of your time though, which didn’t leave him with much of a chance to think up a plan. 

It was just going to have to be now or never. 

Unfolding himself from the patio chair, Hugo inconspicuously shifts to redistribute the weight of his cock in his pants and better hide the bulge of a half hard erection. Even now he’s surprised at how lacking in self control he was becoming whenever you were involved but like with everything else he doesn’t stop long enough to really question or evaluate it. Creatures of the night had no need for self reflection, after all, and he finds a certain comfort in his blind obsession even as he digs a hand into his pocket to discreetly tug himself more to the side. 

Withdrawing his wallet in the same, smooth motion, he tosses down a handful of dennies for a tip before stepping off of the patio into the street. He was just going to have to play this by ear, and his long legs make quick work of the short distance down to the cabaret bar despite his unhurried pace until he soon finds himself stepping directly into your line of sight. His heart stutters an eager rhythm with the knowledge that this would be the first time you ever laid eyes on him only for it to stop beating altogether when you do just that, glancing up at his considerable height. 

A split second pause in which he feigns ignorance of you, the establishment behind you, the blood ties you shared, and then your mouth pops open in his peripheral vision. Just like he’d known it would. Between his expensive clothes and the innocuous yet important looking briefcase in his hand, he’d known the bait would be too good for you to resist.

“Hey, Mister.”

Still pretending to be oblivious, Hugo turns his head this way and that as if looking around for the person you were speaking to. Then, putting on his best imitation of an innocent facade when he finds no one else on the street with him, he stops to glance back at you. 

As if only just now realizing you were indeed calling out to him, he allows his mouth to settle into a polite smile. “Hey to you, too. Sorry, I’m not used to being called that so I didn’t think it was for me at first. I hope I don’t look that old yet.” 

You seem to find his usual charms funny, which was also well within his expectations, and his loins curl painfully tight under the glowing grin you flash at him. 

“Don’t worry, you don’t look a day over twenty. I was just trying to be polite. Would it have been better if I’d called you handsome instead?”

He can’t help scoffing a quick laugh. “Well, that certainly would have caught my attention a bit quicker, I’ll give you that. It’s not everyday I get catcalled by someone as beautiful as you. And, really? Twenty? Maybe you should have called me a sucker.”

Your eyes flash at that, clearly latching onto his wit and sharp tongue just like he’d known you would. Growing up in the real world rather than the carefully manufactured bubble of the Ravenlock family’s money and prestige had done you a world of good. A wilting wallflower you were not. 

All of those fake polite niceties they’d once tried to drill into him are not present here, and you unhesitatingly drop your eyes to take in his pressed slacks and his briefcase, his luxury brand dress shoes and the decidedly bespoke coat hanging from his shoulders. You don’t even attempt to hide it as you quite clearly size him up. 

“Are you a businessman?” You finally ask, dragging your attention back around to his face. Direct and straight to the point. Oh yes, he liked that very much. 

“‘Maybe. Depends who’s asking.”

“Ooh, mysterious are we?

His smile grows slightly at that, flashing a tiny peak of fang. “Only when it amuses me. I’m an art dealer so hardly a paper pusher, if that’s what you wanted to know. The names Hugo Vlad, by the way. It’s very nice to meet you.” 

He holds his free hand out to you in offering and you don’t hesitate to act now either, confidently reaching over to take it. You tell him your name, oblivious to the possibility that he might already know it, as you give him a surprisingly firm shake. You’d be a formidable little thing in a boardroom. 

“Trust me, darling. The pleasure is all mine.” Quickly flipping your hand over before you can protest or pull away, he bends over your outstretched arm to plant a lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles. Just that brief contact, the brief taste of you that comes in with the breath he takes, is enough to have his cock twitching in his pants again. Oh, but you were positively delectable. 

Slowly straightening, Hugo finds you pinning him with a playful if not rueful little grin. Cheeky, right down to the letter. 

“You’re a charmer, I’ll give you that. Most guys forget how to be smooth and suave when they realize what I’m selling.”

“Well, I can assure you I’m not ‘most guys’.” He says with a pointed quirk of his brow, making something in your eyes shift towards hazy. “And what exactly is it you’re trying to sell me, beautiful? I might be interested.” 

You draw a slow breath that makes your chest expand, pushing up against the gossamer silk of your dress. When he briefly drops his attention at the motion he finds your nipples growing stiff and puckered, poking out in what could only be invitation. And Hugo has to subtly bite down on his tongue to stop himself from groaning at the sight of them, of you standing there like that while your body subconsciously reacts to his presence. Oh, but little darling, he was going to tear you to shreds. 

“I’m an entertainer. A hostess.” You say, speaking softly now as you halfheartedly motion back at the building. Clearly distracted. “Would you like to come in for a drink and chat some more?” 

Once again feigning innocence, Hugo glances up at the nondescript sign behind you as if it never even occurred to him what sort of establishment this might be. “Oh. I see now. Isn’t that how places like this always trap you though? You invite me inside under the pretense of getting to know each other better and then by the end of it you’ll have taken my entire life savings. Besides … it’s the middle of the day, lovely girl. What would people think if they saw me entering such a shady business?” 

Rather than getting defensive, you merely shrug at him. “Whatever it is, they're probably already thinking it since you’ve been standing here talking to me for so long. Most would have kept walking if they weren’t at least a bit interested, but definitely if they were embarrassed about being seen with someone like me.” 

Someone like you? Yes, someone like a disgraced Ravenlock who has no idea what sort of monster she’s inviting in. 

Genuine amusement tugs at his mouth, curling Hugo’s lips into a sly smirk. “Touché. You make a convincing argument, I’ll give you that. Alright, I’ll come inside with you but only under one condition.” 

You shift your weight from one heel to the other and pointedly cock your hip out. “Which is?” 

“I’d prefer to be alone with you, that’s all. Do you have any private rooms to rent out in this place?” 

Real surprise registers in your expression. “Are you sure? Can you really afford that?” 

“Oh, trust me, sweetness. You needn’t worry about my finances.” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It’s not a very big room that you take him to but, glancing up at the reflective surface of mirrors on the ceiling, he quickly decides that it will do. 

After following you down a starkly lit, carpeted hallway with an inconspicuous row of doors on either side, you’d finally stopped to open the last room on the left. Not a soul had come or gone in the trek from one end of the building to the other, and it’s almost eerily still and silent as he casually moves to take in the room after setting down his briefcase. A white leather couch that would have looked gauche in almost any other setting were it not for the glitzy, overly dramatic glass chandelier hanging above it. To the left sits a steel lined mini bar of dark charcoal with perfectly polished glasses sitting neatly along the top of it. He can see a small sound system tucked just to the side, which is where you head now to turn on some music and give the room a bit of ambiance. To the right and partially hidden behind an exaggeratedly large plant with reaching fonds is a standalone hot tub that looked like it could comfortably seat six. This was probably a VIP lounge meant for groups of businessmen looking to unwind. And to think, it was just you and little old him. 

He could almost wretch at the thought of anyone else bringing you back to this room. 

Hugo knew well what this game was and how to play it though. You weren’t a prostitute in the strictest sense, particularly not when it was technically illegal in New Eridu, but as always there was a loophole in place to sidestep the law. There was always a workaround for everything. 

The club owners were likely happy to look the other way on whatever their girls were doing as long as it kept paying customers happy and coming back for more. The women who worked here were indeed entertainers on paper but behind closed doors, well … that was more up to individual discretion. 

He’d extensively researched this place right at the onset and he knew for a fact that some of the employees did exchange sexual favors for dennies. It wasn’t a requirement to work here but the most successful hostesses usually put out, and the cheap little apartment you had over in the less savory part of the city was likely a very good indication of where you stood on the matter. There were plenty of bathhouses and massage parlors that operated on similar terms scattered around for anyone desperate enough to seek them out, though this club seemed to cater to a wealthier clientele. And as long as they didn’t get caught, the owners were likely fine with their employees charming the wallets out of however many men they wanted and by whatever means necessary. 

He had to give you credit if you really thought you were skilled enough to pull something like that over on him though. It was cute. 

The quiet sound of your heels coming up behind him brings Hugo back to reality and he realizes that a soft, crooning melody is now playing over the tucked away speakers. Something thin and sultry. His pulse gives a dull thud and, slow with anticipation and thrumming hunger, Hugo turns to greet you with a pointed smile.  

“If I didn’t know any better I might think you were trying to rob me blind back here.” 

You give a low laugh at that as you step right up to him, hand lifting to press delicate fingers into the bend of his elbow. “And you might be right if I was one of the other girls but I don’t like to stoop to that level. Your dennies are safe with me, Mister Vlad.”

“Just Hugo is fine. No need for formalities.” The corner of his mouth hitches slightly in wry humor. “Are you trying to tell me that you really brought me here just to chat? I’m not quite sure I believe that.” 

“You misunderstand me, Hugo. I didn’t say I was a virgin pure with lofty standards. It’s just that I’ve found my clients are usually happy to keep coming back all on their own so I don’t feel the need to drain them in one go with crafty traps.” 

His heart stutters a beat inside his chest. Now that sounded interesting. 

“Well, I’d be lying if I said you haven’t piqued my curiosity when you put it like that. Something tells me I wouldn’t mind being entrapped by you though.” 

“Oh? Would you like a demonstration then?” 

“Gladly.” 

A glint of mischief flashes in your eyes as you slide the hand on his arm higher up to press lightly on his shoulder. You’re half his size as most people are when Hugo was so tall and leanly svelte so he doesn’t have to bend to your will but he chooses to do it anyway. 

Taking a shuffling step back and then another, he lets you guide him towards the waiting couch where you give him an unexpectedly firm shove. He allows himself to be moved and he plops down on the cushions, too curious and delighted to consider fighting it as he stares up at you in transfixed silence. His long legs fold underneath him with the motion but they stretch out now in a wide spread of invitation when you step into his space to stand over him. He couldn’t wait to see what you would do even if it meant handing over all of his control. 

Smiling at him like the cat that had its sights set on a particularly appetizing canary, you reach out to brush your fingers over the mockingbird pin on his lapel. 

“This is cute. Did you make it?” 

“I’m afraid I’m only an appreciator of art, not a creator.” 

Humming a soft sound of consideration, you trace your manicured finger over the delicate chain across his chest until you reach the clasp that connects to his jacket. You bend close to fiddle with it, gracing him with a tantalizing glimpse down the front of your dress that has him suddenly struggling just to breathe. It’s as if every drop of blood in his body has shot straight down to his groin in a sudden rush, and he tightly fists his gloved hand against the armrest in an attempt to keep his cool. Not only was the fleshy swell of your tits right in his face, perfectly offered to him and all his for the taking, but the smell of you … 

Hugo feels like he’s drowning in it. It’s the same smell from your bedroom except it’s ten times stronger when he’s close to you like this, a hundred times more potent, and his cock violently springs up to shove at the front of his pants with such intensity it makes his vision blur at the edges. All at once he’s bombarded by the spectral memory of how you’d tasted on his tongue and how the lingering flavor of your pussy had sent him into a pulse pounding frenzy. 

And that had only been the residual leftovers on your used panties, too. But now he had the chance to drink right from the source, to put his mouth on the most intimate parts of your body … all while covetously hiding the truth of his relation to you. 

He thinks he might actually bust right then and there, the twisted, sick delight he feels curling in his stomach almost as intoxicating as the arousal itself. You really had no idea who he was. Not even an inkling of suspicion that he might be the Ravelock family’s rightful heir and personal boogeyman. 

Otherwise you wouldn’t be touching him like this. 

As soon as the little brooch is unclasped from the jacket, you let it fall loose from his shoulder with a brief rattle of metal. The burnished sun insignia falls to his lap while you slip a hand under his thin tie to give it a solid tug. Your eyes read of sly intent when he looks into them with his own blown wide and hungry for more than just the pleasures of the flesh you were offering him. He could fight this too, if he truly wanted to, but he doesn’t even put up a facsimile of struggle when you use his tie to pull him closer, making it cinch around his throat. 

He’s sure you’re going to kiss him and seal your own fate right then and there, yet you stop just short of pressing your mouth into his. Only a scant few millimeters, if that, remains between his lips and yours, and Hugo has to force his lungs to expand on a clipped inhale. What were you … 

“Just a few ground rules first, handsome. Keep your hands to yourself unless I tell you otherwise and I’ll make sure you leave here with a skip in your step. But if you say or do anything that I interpret as disrespect I’ll send you off to take care of yourself. Understood?” 

“… perfectly.”

You cock a brow at that, clearly nudging him to come up with a better response, and he swallows his excitement down with a small gulp. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. The second rule is that you let me set the pace. I don’t want to hear any complaints from you and you’d better not try to rush me either. If you can’t behave and take what I give you then …” 

Hugo’s mouth stretches into a slow, toothy grin. “You’ll send me on my way to jerk off alone like a pathetic loser. Is that right, ma’am?” 

“Mm, a bit of a brat, are we? Well, that’s just fine with me too.” Giving his tie one last, taunting pull, you slide your hand up to sedately curl it over his shoulder and slide his jacket off. He shifts with the motion, giving you enough room to tug it out from behind him so you can toss it aside on the other end of the couch. 

Pausing there, you take a moment to gently tuck some of the long forelocks back behind his ear to get it out of his face. The simple brush of your fingertips against Hugo’s skin is enough to have him trembling faintly in anticipation, so eager to have you and to claim you, to destroy you from the inside out, that he can hardly contain himself. But he forces himself to remain still and pliant as you guide your hand back down to wrap it around his tie again. 

The sudden yank you give it is hard and fast, and he jerks upright with a muted little gasp of eager excitement. He lets you drag him forward to the edge of the cushions, forced to fold himself at the waist under the guiding pressure of your hand. Bent up like that, there’s not much he can do to protect himself when you bring one high heeled foot up and press it into the center of his pants. The presence of his erection is unmistakable as you press down on it with a grinding motion, making him groan a faltering sound at the indelicate pressure you apply. 

“You’re already this hard? I guess you wanted this more than your mysterious cool guy act let on … or maybe you just really like me?”

“Definitely the latter.” He grits out, wincing when your shoe mercilessly digs into the sensitive flesh of his cock. Even through the layers of his clothes it’s a painful sensation but Hugo had never been one to shy away from a little bit of discomfort. It’s not enough to scare him off, at least, though he is admittedly quite taken aback by the dominant display and how easily you’d slipped into it. 

If this was how you handled all of your clients then that would certainly explain why everyone seemed to be so hush hush about their time spent with you. 

As if realizing that his mind was wandering off to other things, you give his tie another good pull that has it tightening around his throat and starting to cut off the airflow. Letting his eyes slip shut, Hugo sighs a quiet, faltering breath into the still room. He already felt like he was dangerously close to another wildly premature orgasm … 

Dammit, he wasn’t even going to have a chance to fully enjoy this. 

“How interesting. Are you always this much of a masochist, Hugo?” 

Only when it was his little sister doling out the punishment. 

He can't say that though, not yet, so he settles on a wheezy laugh. “With the right incentive, sure.”

You giggle a mischievous sound at that, flipping your hand to wind his tie around your knuckles and give yourself a better grip on it. “Then let’s make sure you stay incentivized, hm? Be a good boy and unbuckle my shoe for me, will you?” 

That task is far easier said than done, especially when you refuse to let up your hold on the impromptu leash around his neck, leaving him with no choice but to fumble blindly with it in his lap. Your skin is so soft even on your foot that it takes all of his self control not to flip the tables and claim you for himself like some crazed, half starved beast. And he’s well aware of how pathetic he probably looks while he struggles to unclasp the little eyelet hook around your ankle without being able to see what he’s doing, bent in half as he is on the couch. But you’re a demanding little thing and oh, how his scorching blood just sings with satisfaction. 

Finally he gets the heel unfastened and he reverently lifts your leg with one hand so he can slip the shoe off with the other. Letting it fall to the floor next to him, Hugo hunches further over you to press his lips against your toes which he notices are painted a tantalizing shade of red. The perfect color for you, in his opinion, and he quickly opens his mouth to suck on the first toe before you can protest or dissuade him. 

“Oh,” You breathe out, sounding pleased if not a bit surprised. “What a good pet you are. Be careful though. I didn’t give you permission to do that, now did I?” 

Coming up off your foot with a dull pop, he tips his head to peer at you from under the slightly mussed fall of his bangs. “No ma’am, you didn’t. But I do hope you’ll forgive me for my impertinence. Your skin is so beautiful, it just makes me … want to sink my teeth into it.” 

“Well, don’t get carried away.” You murmur, the faintest falter in your voice belying your true thoughts on the matter. “I’ll take this tie and wrap it around your wrists if I have to. I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

He gives his head a mute shake. The needy look on his face must be enough to sufficiently placate you, because you hum a brief sound of approval as you slip your foot free of his hold to stand fully on the carpet again before lifting the other to his lap. 

“Take this one off too.”

Licking his lips, Hugo complies with a bit more surety than the first time, quickly getting this shoe unbuckled as well. It soon joins its counterpart on the floor and he gives the arch of your foot a brief squeeze that makes the toes curl in response, a silent promise of what he could do for you if given the word. 

You draw a stilted inhale though, apparently determined to keep that razor thin boundary in place as you direct your foot back down to his pants again. Finding his straining erection easily enough when it was practically ripping right through his slacks, you rather carelessly nudge at it to make him hiss a wounded sound. His cock flexes as if with a mind of its own, bobbing heavily underneath the expensive material while it pulses almost violently in warning. He really was going to cum like this and you hadn’t even touched him yet … 

Hell, you might not even touch him at all at this rate. 

“You look like you’re getting close, Hugo. I wasn’t expecting you to be this sensitive.” 

“Mmnghn … please …”

Your foot briefly stills while you seem to think about it, clearly weighing the situation and your own arousal against his. He can tell you’re getting excited too but whether or not you’d give him another inch was the real gamble. It was in his nature to push though, and in many ways that was what he was best at. 

Suggestively, he rolls his hips forward to grind himself on your foot with a slow motion thrust that drags the galvanized length of him across the arch. It’s intentional and deliberate to ensure you feel every inch of him, how big he is and how heavy. He was usually more adept at the game of seduction than this but between his own pulse pounding need and the overwhelm that comes with having you standing over him like this, it’s the best he can come up with. 

And to his surprise it seems to work, because you give him one last, pointed nudge before taking a step back from the couch. His tie slips free with the movement and he’s able to straighten up a little bit from his uncomfortable hunch, following after you with a hazy puppy dog look. 

“Keep your eyes on me, handsome.” You murmur, pinning him with a salacious grin as you reach up to coyly slip the straps of your dress over your shoulders. 

He’s so riveted to you that Hugo isn’t quite sure what he expected so it comes as a bit of a shock to his system when you fold the front of the garment down under your breasts. Even now you show neither hesitance or bashful uncertainty, and his lungs catch on a sharp gasp as you bare your naked tits at him. 

The size and the shape of them, the perfect nipples standing up in attention seeking little points.  They’re perfect. So much better than anything he could have ever imagined them to be, and his narrow hips give a stiff jerk in response to the sight of you. Exposing yourself to him, getting naked for him. Your own brother. 

Hugo only realizes he’s cumming when he feels the first rush of sticky spend shoot off into his underwear, and he grits his teeth as he lurches in place there on the couch. It’s too much. His cock never stood a chance against you, not like this, and all he can do is wheeze his way through the abrupt spasms with a deeply tortured groan. 

It’s over almost as quickly as it started though, and he heaves a frustrated sound as he falls back against the cushions. His hand comes up to cup his face, not exactly embarrassed that he’d just cum completely untouched, but annoyed that he couldn’t have held it back a little longer. And things were just starting to get good too …

“Oh, Hugo.” You coo at him, bringing his attention back up when you sound neither disappointed nor displeased with him. His fingers jerk away from his face and he peers up at you, feeling another low twist in his gut when he finds you smirking down at him. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to be ashamed about. On the contrary, I’m actually quite flattered. I thought a guy like you was going to make me really work for it but …” 

Looking like you wanted to eat him alive, a sentiment he was sure must be reflected back at you in his own face, you drop your arms to your sides and allow the sagging dress to slide further down your body. A quick shimmy of your hips has it slithering down your legs with a soft whisper of silk brushing against skin, and suddenly you’re standing there in only your underwear. 

Feeling like he was about to shoot off again, Hugo brings his gloved hand down to gingerly cup himself through his damp pants. His cock was still terribly sensitive post orgasm but it readily springs up again, pushing at his palm as if in search of freedom, and he seethes a pained moan into the static charged air. 

Goodness, your stomach, your thighs … he was quickly reaching the point of true overload, feeling drunk and borderline delirious. 

“How much?” He blurts before he can think any better of it. 

You tip your head at him in question, making him wince when he realizes what he’d just said. 

“My apologies. I was wondering how much it would take to convince you to sleep with me. I’m not hard up for dennies or anything, and I’d be willing to give you the shirt off my back at this point but — I understand how that probably sounds. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re right, that doesn’t sound great. But there’s nothing to apologize for. I can tell what kind of shape you’re in so I can’t exactly expect you to be thinking straight, can I?” 

He sends you a slow look, further caught off guard by the serene way you stare back at him. Unexpected, given he would’ve thought that would be more than enough to get him booted out onto the street. How curious. 

“Don’t worry about it, Hugo. Luckily I like you so I’m willing to keep playing. And it looks like you are too.” Giving his lap a knowing grin, you step forward to come back up to the edge of the couch where you lean down to move his hand out of the way. Your naked breasts shift with the motion and he has to screw his eyes shut, unable to look at you while you work to get his belt undone. “You’re already so hard for me again. Most men are ready to go home after one round, especially if I’ve made them cum in their pants like this, but you seem to have plenty of stamina left. How am I supposed to send you away, hm?” 

Panting at the head rush of dopamine and endorphins, he tips his chin down to watch you unwind the belt from around his waist and set it off to the side before going back in for the hidden button on his slacks. The delicate zipper quickly follows with a quiet zrrrt, and then you’re tugging at the material to get it pulled down his thighs. 

He sees the very obvious mess bleeding through his underwear at the same time you do, bringing a hand up to impatiently shove some of the hair back from his sweaty face while you coo at him again. You really don’t seem at all bothered by it though as you curl your fingers around him through the thin, sodden fabric, giving his restless cock a slow motion tug to make him seethe. Taking a long moment to just play with him like that, ensuring he’s fully recovered from his first orgasm and hard again, you outright laugh when he starts to beg you for it. 

“Still so needy. Are you sure you aren’t always like this?” 

“Positive.” He croaks, grimacing at the sensation of his cooling spend dragging over his length. “Believe it or not I … ooohn, I usually have much more pride than this. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m sure I probably look like a clueless virgin right now, huh? Gods … I’d give anything to have you. Anything at all. Just say the word and it’s yours.” 

“You don’t have to buy me, Hugo. I already want you.”

A bitter, ironic laugh slips out of him. He’s certain you’d be singing a much different tune if you knew who he really was. What he really was. 

This isn’t the time to reveal all of his cards just yet though, so he keeps those thoughts to himself when you finally deem him ready; carefully slipping your fingers into the band around his hips so you can tug his boxer briefs down. Biting his lower lip, Hugo watches his cock spring up from his pelvis, glistening faintly with the lingering remnants of his release and flushed a dark shade of pink. He looks raw and overspent even to his own eyes, and he can’t help groaning a tortured sound when you climb up to straddle him. 

With your thighs bracketing his legs, you make careful work of lining yourself up with his cock before lowering your weight to pin it between your body’s. Your panties remain an ever present barrier separating him from you, but it does very little to stop him from feeling the pudge of your pussy lips pressing down on him or the meaty slit that runs down your center. It makes him positively shake and he tips his head back to plaintively hiss up at the ceiling. He couldn’t cum again. Not so soon. It would kill him. 

“What did I tell you, Hugo?” You croon ever so sweetly as you nudge your pelvis forward to drag your cunt over the length of him. “Keep your eyes on me. Don’t look away. I want you to watch what I’m doing to you. If you’re so intent on giving me something then give me your attention.” 

Forcing himself to blink through the hazy delirium, he brings his head back down to glance at the spot where your body meets his. Your underwear, already so thin and sparse to accommodate that sinfully form fitted dress, is moulded to the shape of your cunt, giving him a perfect view of how the slit spreads open around his aching girth. It looks like you’re gripping him, so soft and pliant, and unbearably hot, and he almost can’t stand it. He was either going to bust again in record time or he was going to faint dead away from trying to hold it back. 

“Damn! That’s … nnghn! You’re a darling little menace, aren’t you? Please just let me touch you. Please. I want to feel you. Need to … oohhn, need to hold you. Something. Anything. Ahnn …” 

Clearly pleased as punch, you lean forward to loosely wrap your arms around his neck while you continue to grind yourself against him. The sensation of your tits pressing into his now wrinkled shirt very nearly sends him careening over the edge, but he desperately squeezes his hands into tight fists at his sides to stop it. Most other men probably would have wrongly taken that as an open invitation for them to put their hands on you, but it was just as he’d told you earlier. Hugo Vlad was not like other men. Even when his head was spinning dizzyingly fast and he had to fight just to keep from cumming again, he still remembered his objective. He’d wanted you to come to him willingly and you were, completely of your own volition. He couldn’t screw that up now with impulse. If he was going to rob you of your peace of mind from now until your dying breath, he had to make sure the decision was entirely yours. 

Unfortunately for him you seem to be utterly content just riding him like this, using his throbbing cock for your own pleasure. It must feel good humping against him like that, because he can see the faraway look in your eyes, hear the way you softly sigh in pleasure. And he wants it to feel good for you, needs it for his hatred of the Ravenlock’s — every Ravenlock to be satiated. Oh, how this will haunt your every step for the rest of your life. He was going to make damn sure of that. 

His own helplessness in the current situation hardly matters on the broader stage of his plans, and he pathetically starts to swivel his hips up to meet you, adding more pressure to the glide of your cunt. Hugo’s breath hitches in his chest with the motion even as he realizes he’s making a grave mistake when his balls draw up uncomfortably tight to the scrotum in warning. 

Too close. He couldn’t keep it at bay much longer. 

But rather than try to save himself, he merely whimpers an overwrought sound into the air, joining the thin moans that slip from your mouth. It feels like he’s moving in quicksand when every stiff thrust of his hips brings a sharp, static charged bolt of pleasure with it, nearly debilitating him and yet he can’t seem to stop. His pelvis just keeps rolling up to meet you as if he’s running on autopilot now even when his thighs start to wildly shake from the effort. 

The tension in him finally snaps when you toss your head back, shoving your chest further into his while you groan his name up at the mirrors on the ceiling. That’s what does him in this time, and his cock violently erupts with another spray of hot spend that jets across his dramatically flexing stomach. And he lurches under you, feeling well and truly sucker punched as he sends a harried glance at the spot between your legs, numbly watching himself shoot rope after rope while you continue to drag your pussy over him. 

He couldn’t believe it. Even when he was watching it happen, feeling it happen, he just couldn’t believe it. 

“Ooh, Hugo … again?” 

Hissing through tightly clenched teeth, he desperately bucks under you for another second or two before the pulsing finally stops, leaving him feeling drained and boneless. He immediately deflates on top of the couch, bringing his hands up to once again shove at the hair around his face while he tries to catch his breath. It’s no use though. Not only was his body being pushed right to the limit, but you weren’t even done with him yet. That much is clear in the way you mockingly coo at him, feigning sympathy even as you continue to grind yourself on him despite his cock’s valiant attempt to flag and soften. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could conceivably take but … 

“I really have to give you credit, handsome. Even though you look like you’re about to cry … you still haven’t complained once yet. Most of my clients are asking for mercy by now. And you even remembered to keep your hands to yourself. You’re being a very good boy for me, I hope you know that. And I for one think good boys deserve to be rewarded.” 

His cock instantly stirs and stands up, hardening to full attention again despite how much it hurts to do so, and he could almost laugh a bitter sound at the ridiculousness of it all. Would have, if he’d had the extra oxygen for it. You were going to be the death of him if you kept this up. 

He’s much too far gone to even question what you’re doing though, and all Hugo can seem to manage is staring in rapt fascination as you go up on your knees and reach down to tug your panties aside. He suddenly has a full shot of your pussy, with neatly trimmed hair framing the fleshy slit and a clear glisten of arousal coating the lips. His arousal skyrockets so hard and so fast that he almost feels sick with it, lurching woundedly underneath you when you lower yourself to once again dock your cunt along his length. 

Then you’re moving again, dragging those petal soft creases and folds over him, and this time he can feel every little drag of flesh against clinging flesh. The intense body heat coming off of you, the sticky slick that smears across him and helps to smooth the glide. It feels so much better than your panties did rubbing against him, his long legs jerking with an oversensitive shudder. 

But the worst of it is how he can feel the entrance of your body passing over him, the suggestion of it, the implication too much for him to bear. Hugo feels like a slathering, mindless creature as he impulsively jerks his hands up to latch them around your waist in a white knuckled, squeezing grip. You freeze in place at the sudden contact but he just leans up towards you, begging with wide blown eyes. 

“Please, darling. Please. Just the tip. That’s all I want and I’ll be happy with it, please just take me into your body. Let me feel you. I won’t ask for anything more than that, I swear on all that I love. I just need you.” 

Silently, you look down into his face for a long moment, the gears clearly turning in your mind before you issue a clipped sigh at length. “Well, I did say I was going to reward you. I don’t typically go this far with customers but … lucky for you I like you. You’d better take me out for dinner after my shift is over though. I’m not giving you a freebie here.”  

Hugo blinks wide blown eyes at that, hardly even daring to believe his own ears. You were serious? “… yes, of course. It would be my pleasure. Anywhere you want. I’ll just need to run home and — clean up a bit first.” 

Grinning a secretive little smile, you lean in to press a briefly fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Good. Because I’ve greatly enjoyed getting to play with you, Hugo. You might not be a masochist by nature but you’ve taken to it like a duck to water if you ask me. So for now your reward will be just the tip … and who knows. Maybe later I’ll let you eat me out and have you show me how good you are with that pretty mouth of yours.” 

A tense shudder works down his spine, making him shake against you, and it’s not only because his raw cock is starting to throb again. The thought of wining and dining you, treating you to fancy restaurants or clothes that you probably weren’t accustomed to having access to, of — courting you sounds undeniably tempting. If not because he does like you too, even though he’d be loath to admit it, then certainly because that would make the big reveal all the more sweeter, wouldn’t it?

If you actually fell in love with him … 

Fingers digging into your hips, Hugo presses down and you oblige with a dreamy, distant sigh. The head of his cock pushes into you and spears through the fleshy embrace of your cunt in painful slow motion, making him grunt at the gradual squeeze around his sensitive glans. You’re so warm, soft and gooey that it almost makes him feel sick with high strung arousal, but even that seems to pale in comparison to the malicious delight he feels swelling in his chest. This was really happening. It was playing out even better than he could have ever anticipated. 

His sister, all alone in the world except for the brother she never knew she had and who she was now seeking comfort from. As man and woman. Lovers. Unbeknownst and oblivious, but siblings all the same. 

It was exquisite.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[airandyeah]

Bastard Prince!Gojo X Foreign Princess!Reader Heavy Is The Crown Pt.3

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

“You mustn’t challenge him.”

Your mother’s voice is sharp as the jeweled comb she twists into your hair. Every word strikes with precise, delicate cruelty—an art she’s mastered over years of court diplomacy.

“Smile when he speaks. Laugh if he tries to joke. Let him believe you admire him.”

Your father stands near the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the snow beyond the glass like it personally offends him.

“This match is vital,” he says without turning. “Their kingdom has the resources we lack. Their people are bred for war. You must—”

“Be obedient,” you finish flatly, cutting the word off before he can.

Your mother’s hand stills in your hair.

There’s a tense pause before she exhales, cool and practiced. “You’re clever, daughter. But cleverness must be worn like perfume—not too thick, or it will sour the air. Today, you are not royalty. You are a gift.”

Your stomach twists.

You are many things. A future queen. A diplomat’s daughter. A woman with fire in her lungs. But never a gift. Never something to be offered and wrapped in silks, your spirit tied down with a bow.

Still—you say nothing. You’ve learned to pick your battles. You’ve learned that sometimes, silence is the sharpest blade of all.

A knock at the chamber door ends the lecture.

A maid pokes her head in with a curtsy. “Prince Gojo’s escort has arrived, Princess.”

You rise, smoothing the fur-lined cloak now draped over your shoulders. The only color you allowed them to pack was woven into your dress beneath it—burnt gold and wine red, like fire licking through the cold.

You meet your mother’s gaze in the mirror as she finishes fixing your hair. “I will be obedient,” you say softly.

Then you smile, slow and bright and blinding.

“But only when it suits me.” You leave them with that final word, the hem of your gown swishing around your ankles like flickering flame as you follow the maid out. The palace halls are hushed this early in the morning, the flicker of torches casting long shadows along ancient stone walls. Every servant you pass dips low in a bow, and still—you feel the weight of their glances. You are foreign. You are a stranger. You are the woman who dared to shiver with bare shoulders at a northern ball. But your spine remains straight, your chin unyielding. When the heavy doors creak open and the morning chill hits your skin, it’s a breath of truth—sharp and biting, but real. The snow has already begun to fall again, soft and endless. A royal escort waits for you—three guards dressed in the icy blue and silver of the North, solemn-faced and silent. One of them steps forward, offering a gloved hand as you descend the steps, careful not to slip. Just beyond the snow-covered courtyard, a sleek black carriage waits, its sides crested with the royal emblem. Two white horses stamp their hooves impatiently, steam curling from their nostrils. And standing beside the open door—casual, like he owns the cold itself—is Prince Gojo. His fur-lined coat is left lazily unfastened, revealing layers of silks and leathers, all in shades of cream and slate. The morning light makes his white hair gleam. His arms are crossed. His smile, of course, is already waiting for you. “Took you long enough,” he calls. “I was starting to think you’d frozen in place.” You arch a brow, stopping at the last step of the carriage, eyes narrowing. “And here I thought northern men were supposed to be patient.” He steps forward and offers his hand—not just as a formality, but like it’s a challenge. You take it anyway. His grip is warm. Steady. A little too smug for this early in the morning. “Shall we?” he says, leading you into the carriage. You sit across from him, lifting your chin in defiance and pride, knowing exactly what’s expected of you today—and already deciding how far you’ll stray from it.

The inside of the carriage is warm, lined with heavy fur and polished wood, but the silence between you and the prince is frostbitten.

He lounges in his seat across from you, legs stretched out just enough to toe the edge of your gown. You sit perfectly straight, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed out the window as snow-laced rooftops blur past.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks eventually, voice smooth but far too rehearsed.

“Well enough,” you reply, just as polite. “And you?”

“Well enough,” he echoes with a slight smirk.

Another silence blooms between you, heavy with everything neither of you says.

You glance his way, catching the flicker of his tongue against his teeth like he’s biting back something far too honest.

So you say it for him.

“We’re both pretending not to know we were lectured within an inch of our lives this morning.”

Gojo huffs a laugh—quiet, surprised. He lifts a brow. “So you got the speech too, huh?”

You hum. “Be sweet. Be soft. Make him like you.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Ah, mine was more: ‘Don’t scare her off. Try not to be yourself too much.’”

That earns a real smile from you, small and sharp.

“Do they think we’re both so difficult?” you ask, cocking your head.

“I think they know we are.”

Another silence. This one lighter. Easier. Shared.

Gojo grins. “So what do you say? Shall we be unbearable together?”

You pretend to consider it, lips twitching.

“Only if I get to pick the colors.”

“Bright ones,” he says, pointing at you. “Wouldn’t dream of dimming your fire.”

And suddenly, the day doesn’t feel quite so long.

~~~ The carriage slows, the wheels crunching over packed snow as the market comes into view—a vibrant stretch of stone streets and brightly colored stalls nestled between towering, frost-covered buildings.

You can already hear the low hum of chatter, the clink of coins, the bark of vendors selling woven gloves and carved trinkets, and the scent of spiced cider drifting through the cold air.

Inside the carriage, Gojo’s shoulders shake from laughter—genuine and unrestrained.

“No, no—wait,” he says between wheezes. “You’re telling me your cousin actually set his ceremonial robes on fire trying to impress a suitor?”

You’re laughing too now, warm and open, a hand braced over your stomach. “It took six guards to put it out! And he still didn’t win her favor. I think the smell of smoke followed him for a week.”

Gojo grins, bright and a little wild, like winter sun catching on snow.

The carriage comes to a stop.

The coachman, unaware of the scene inside, opens the door with perfect formality—only to freeze.

Because instead of the expected stiff silence or courtly airs, he finds the two of you laughing.

The prince is leaning forward with easy grace, and his gloved hand reaches for yours like it’s second nature. He doesn't hesitate—just threads your fingers together and steps out onto the snow-packed street, your hand still in his.

You follow with a breathless smile, letting him help you down, your gown swirling at your boots, a golden contrast to the white that surrounds you.

For a beat, the coachman just stares—eyes wide.

A guard at the rear of the carriage clears his throat, clearly just as stunned.

This isn’t what they expected. Not the cold, sharp prince and the fire-blooded princess laughing together. Touching like it meant nothing. Or maybe like it meant everything.

Gojo leans in close, whispering beside your ear, “Think that’s enough to start a scandal?”

You arch a brow, smirking. “We’ll have to try harder.”

And with that, the two of you step forward into the market, fingers still laced, ready to burn your colors into this frozen kingdom.

You barely make it past the first row of stalls before Gojo tugs you off-course.

“Not that way,” he says, weaving you past a vendor shouting about candied nuts. “You’ll thank me.”

“Oh? Are we not here for the local ‘charm’?” you tease.

He throws a grin over his shoulder. “I’ve seen what counts as ‘charm’ in these parts. Trust me—no future queen of mine is wearing a shawl made of half-frozen wool.”

The boutique he leads you to is tucked just off the main street, its stone front carved with ivy patterns and frosted glass windows catching the sunlight like fractured ice. Two fur-clad attendants open the door immediately when they see him, their eyes widening when they notice you at his side.

Inside, it’s warm—luxurious. Golden light spills across polished floors, walls lined with silks, velvets, and furs in every cut and shade imaginable. The scents of lavender and old wood fill the air.

Your eyes widen despite yourself. These weren’t just winter clothes. These were statements.

“Prince Satoru,” the shopkeeper greets with a quick bow. “And… oh.”

You tilt your head as the older woman takes you in, her gaze a careful sweep from your sun-kissed skin to your thin gown and uncovered shoulders.

Gojo steps in smoothly, voice light. “This is the Princess of the Southern Isles.”

She blinks. “Ah. Yes. Of course. Welcome, Your Grace.”

“She’ll need proper wear for the cold,” Gojo says, turning slightly toward you. “Something elegant. Regal. And warm, obviously. Fur-lined, but nothing bulky. She still needs to breathe.”

You scoff. “How kind of you.”

He winks. “Only the best for the soon-to-be queen. Can’t have the court mistaking you for a lost summer bird.”

You let him pretend it’s all about image—but the way he watches you as the attendants start pulling fabrics says otherwise. His gaze lingers a little too long. His eyes soften when you run your fingers over deep red velvet or a pale fur the color of starlight.

He watches like he’s not just choosing clothes for you—but choosing how the North will see you.

How he wants them to see you.

Fabrics and furs begin to pile around you—shimmering whites, pale silvers, icy blues. Everything fit for a northern princess, everything cool and quiet, subdued.

You brush your fingers over the corner of a pearl-colored wrap, then lift your chin.

“If I may,” you say, and every head turns.

Gojo watches, amused, as you step toward a rack of velvets and silks in deeper tones—burnt ochres, soft ambers, deep wines, even rich crimsons hiding among the frost-pale options.

“I’d prefer warmer colors,” you say smoothly. “As many as you can find. Golds, reds, saffrons. But not enough to make the wardrobe tacky.”

The shopkeeper blinks, then nods quickly. “Of course, Your Grace. Regal warmth. Elegant flame. Yes.”

Gojo leans a hip against the counter, looking thoroughly entertained. “Demanding already, huh?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I’ll be wearing these, not you. And I refuse to be swallowed up in snow and stone.”

He smirks. “So you’d rather set fire to the court instead?”

You hum, trailing a fingertip over a bolt of cinnamon-colored velvet. “I’d rather remind them that I carry fire wherever I go.”

He watches you for a moment longer, and something thoughtful flickers behind the teasing curl of his lips.

“You’ll make quite the queen,” he murmurs.

The attendants work quickly once you’ve made your preferences known, scurrying around the shop like winter mice, arms full of fabric and furs. One brings over a measuring tape with careful, trembling hands, asking your permission before taking your measurements with practiced precision.

Gojo lounges nearby on a velvet-cushioned bench, legs spread wide, watching like he's at the theater.

“They’re going to think I dragged you up here kicking and screaming,” he comments, tapping his fingers against his chin.

“You did no such thing,” you say, arms lifted slightly as a seamstress measures around your waist. “But I do believe I’m being trussed like a sacrificial offering.”

He snorts, lounging deeper. “You? Sacrificial? Never.”

As the measurements are finalized, the shopkeepers begin assembling a full collection—three fur-lined cloaks, trimmed with fox and snow hare; two heavy winter coats in your chosen reds and golds; boots tall enough to conquer the snow, lined with soft wool and stitched with care; and several dresses, each carefully folded in rich colors that catch the firelight and glint like embers.

One of the assistants lays out a cloak of deep red velvet with fur so pale it’s almost silver.

“This would be stunning against your skin, Princess,” she murmurs.

You run your hand over it slowly, the warmth of the lining immediate even through your gloves.

“Yes,” you say. “That one.”

Gojo rises, finally, brushing nonexistent snow off his sleeves as he approaches. “I’ll have the rest delivered to the palace,” he says to the staff, his tone light but absolute. “Pack everything. Triple wrap the boots. And—” his gaze shifts back to you “—make sure the colors don’t bleed. I don’t want her looking like she’s melting.”

You glance at him, smiling faintly. “Worried about how I’ll look again?”

He lifts a brow. “Worried about the North not knowing what to do with you.”

You meet his eyes. “Let them learn.”

For a second, there’s silence between you—something almost charged. Then he clicks his tongue and gestures to the door. “Shall we go melt some snow, then?”

With the parcels wrapped and the shopkeepers bowing behind you, the two of you step back into the cold. The snowflakes have thickened, twirling down in lazy spirals from the clouds above. It doesn’t seem to bother you as much this time, your new cloak already warming your shoulders.

Gojo doesn’t take you straight back to the carriage.

Instead, he veers off the main path, guiding you with a hand at the small of your back, toward the common stalls that line the edges of the marketplace. The royal guard follows at a respectable distance, clearly under instruction not to interfere.

You raise a brow. “Going rogue, Your Highness?”

“Call it a detour,” he shrugs, glancing over the rows of vendors selling trinkets, sweets, and handmade goods. “Besides, I think the royal protocol for today is suffocating me.”

You smirk. “Only you could rebel against a schedule you made yourself.”

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, he pauses at a stall where a bent old woman sells winter flowers pressed in glass, their fragile petals preserved in frost. He fingers through the small collection until he finds a snow lily—white, delicately star-shaped, frozen in full bloom within a crystal pendant on a thin silver chain.

He holds it up between two fingers. “Ever seen one of these down south?”

You look at it, genuinely surprised. “Never. They wouldn’t survive a minute in our heat.”

Gojo pays without haggling and turns toward you. “Then it’s yours.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, draping the chain into your palm. “Because you didn’t complain once. Even when you were freezing. Even when they looked at you like you didn’t belong.”

He pauses, just long enough for the words to land.

“And because it’s pretty,” he adds. “Like you.”

You laugh, tucking the pendant carefully into your glove. “Careful, Prince. You’re dangerously close to being charming.”

He grins, pleased. “Good. You’ll need something to remember when I inevitably annoy you later.” He quickly pays the woman, more than it was worth, and continues on.

And just like that, he walks on—hands in his pockets, snow in his hair, grin lazy and roguish—like he didn’t just quietly take your breath away. ~~~

The carriage wheels crunch over the palace’s stone path, the ride back punctuated with laughter, easy conversation, and the occasional teasing nudge from Gojo as he retells an exaggerated story of his younger years—one involving a stolen falcon, a runaway sled, and a very angry tutor.

You're still giggling as the carriage comes to a smooth stop just inside the courtyard.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” you say through your smile, brushing snow off your gloves.

He places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Princess, you wound me. I was a gifted child.”

“You were a menace.”

He only grins wider.

The door swings open—and just like that, the private warmth of the carriage is broken by the chill of noble eyes and royal presence. Several high-ranking families are walking through the courtyard, cloaks lined with the finest furs, jewelry catching the light. And near the stairs leading into the palace stand your parents and his father, each masked in regal calm, though you can feel their eyes lock onto you both immediately.

You and Gojo step down together, his hand instinctively finding yours again as he helps you from the carriage—his touch casual, natural.

Laughter still lingers in your breath, but you quickly temper your expression, posture straightening. Gojo doesn’t bother.

He tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow and leans down to whisper, “Ready to disappoint them all by actually getting along?”

You shoot him a sidelong glance. “I was born ready.”

He chuckles lowly, then straightens, guiding you forward with the lazy confidence of someone who knows exactly how to unsettle the court by doing nothing wrong at all.

You both walk through the courtyard—side by side, smiling, clearly comfortable—and that alone seems to rattle the onlookers more than if you'd entered arm in arm with blades drawn.

Your father exchanges a long look with his.

Their faces are unreadable.

But you think, maybe for the first time since your arrival, you’re the one with the upper hand.

Your father is the first to speak, his eyes scanning you with that sharp, disapproving edge you’ve grown so accustomed to. Your mother stands by his side, elegant and composed, though there’s a flicker of something softer in her gaze as she watches you. Gojo’s father, too, remains cool—hands clasped tightly behind his back, gaze fixed firmly on the two of you.

Gojo, unfazed, straightens, his arm still lightly guiding you. He doesn’t flinch, doesn't falter in the slightest.

“Well, that was fun,” he says casually, as if you weren’t just under the watchful eyes of every noble in the kingdom. “I think she’ll be alright in this cold after all. Didn’t even complain once.”

Your father’s lips twitch—though whether in approval or irritation, you can’t tell. He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Did you earn his favor?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.

You give Gojo a sideways glance, and he shrugs innocently. “I think we’re well on our way,” he replies, not a trace of humility in his voice. “She’s quite the firecracker. She didn’t back down once today, even when the cold was trying to bite her.”

Your mother gives a small, approving nod at that, but your father’s gaze doesn’t soften. Instead, he looks between you both, his face unreadable.

“You were instructed to—”

“Father, I was instructed,” you cut him off, stepping forward, a touch too quickly, perhaps, but it makes your father pause. “We’ve spent the day getting to know each other. And I think we’ve made more progress in these few hours than you’re willing to give credit for.”

Gojo glances at you, then back at your father, clearly amused by your directness. It’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely intrigued—like a game he didn’t know he was playing suddenly became more interesting.

“We did, indeed,” Gojo says, his voice smooth. “Your daughter has a fire in her, and I admire that. A little cold’s not going to kill it.”

Your father’s gaze hardens again, but there’s something in Gojo’s eyes—something almost playful—that makes the words that come out of your father’s mouth seem almost redundant.

“We’ll see how long it lasts,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

Before anyone can respond, Gojo breaks the heavy silence with a soft chuckle. “You’ll have to wait a little longer to find out, won’t you?”

Your mother clears her throat lightly, and her gentle smile seems to warm the room, if only slightly. “It’s good to see the two of you getting along so well. Shall we discuss the next steps over dinner?” she suggests, her tone a little softer now.

Gojo looks at you, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What do you think? Shall we take our next step, Princess?”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a knowing smirk. “As long as it’s not another round of cold, I think I’m in for it.”

Your father narrows his eyes, but your mother, sensing the tension rising again, steps forward and gestures for everyone to move inside. “Let’s get out of this chill and into a warm room, where we can all speak freely.”

As you all make your way into the palace, Gojo's presence remains like a fire beside you, and despite your father’s silent displeasure, you can’t help but feel a shift in the air.

Taglist: @megumuro , @pickledsoda , @jinjen Perm Tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine

[tsubaki94]

Sleepless night (colored)

It's the end of @green-with-envy-phandom-event and I'm collecting all the lovely posts where my lineart was colored (and coloring it myself because people are inspiring)

Let's start with @englandamericaitaly who made an alcohol marker version of this with blinds shadows falling over Danny, and did an absolutely amazing save adding details where the markers made a happy little accident and I can't tell where that was. Awsome.

From @nanaarchy we get this version placed in the gore category because of the bruises but that's not the only thing that packs a punch in this one. The text bubbles adds so much to the piece and brings it all together. And I just have to point out the posters in the background and the Stars on the blanket! XD

@fuyuthefoxwriter gave us this version adding a NASA phone case and really showing the bright light in Danny's face from the phone. And you are right "The sleepy insomniac trying to sleepy without a ghost ruining it" it doesn't work, but maybe turning down the light levels on his phone would make it easier. ^^

Continuing with @balshumetsbaragouin submitting this version. My thoughts are just STARS! Yes! The gentle cell-shading gives a softness to this one and the text below is so true. School starts in 3 hours and no sleep.

We have @audaciousanonj giving us this version focusing on the light source of the phone (which was my intention when making the lineart XD)

Finishing off with @jamiethebeeart who made this version that has such calm and softness to it reminding me of the early mornings when the sun is on the face and one rolled over to avoid getting it in the eyes.