#Sleep In Splendor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whosashan · 6 months ago

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PINKY PROMISES AND BUTTERFLY KISSES

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader

SYNOPSIS: Cute, random scenarios with him.

A/N: Hope you enjoy!

Xavier

The night stretched infinitely above you, a canvas of midnight blue dusted with constellations. The stars shimmered like tiny beacons, their glow casting faint silver reflections onto the quiet city streets below. A soft breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the distant hum of life still moving beneath you.

Seated atop the roof of your apartment complex, you let your gaze drift over the endless sky, momentarily lost in its quiet splendor. The chaos of the city, the ever-rushing currents of people, deadlines, and responsibilities—it all faded in moments like these. Up here, time seemed to slow, offering a rare pocket of stillness. And beside you, sprawled out without a care in the world, was Xavier.

His head rested lazily against his arm, strands of pale hair catching the glow of his Evol—the soft, luminous energy forming a delicate rabbit that playfully bounced along his chest. His blue eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, held a rare warmth as he watched the small creature flicker and jump.

"You haven’t touched your food," you pointed out, nudging the untouched slice of cake beside him. A mission was successful, and tonight was supposed to be a quiet celebration—just the two of you, away from prying eyes, from duty, from everything except the sound of each other’s voices.

Xavier hummed in acknowledgment, tilting his head slightly before finally taking a small bite. He chewed thoughtfully, and for a moment, the usual cool and composed expression he wore melted into something almost childlike—his brows lifted ever so slightly, as if the sweetness had taken him by surprise.

You couldn’t help but giggle.

"Hey, Xavier," you murmured after a moment, your voice softer, almost wistful. "Do you think the stars are watching us?"

Silence stretched between you for a beat, but when you turned to look at him, you found he was already watching you.

The way he looked at you made your breath hitch—like you were something rare, something treasured. His usual composed expression was softened by the faintest of smiles, his gaze cradling you in something that felt achingly tender.

"I think they do," he finally said, voice hushed yet certain. "They’ve witnessed wars, empires rising and falling, history shaping itself over centuries. But I’d like to believe that this moment, right here, is their favorite."

A quiet rush of warmth spread through you, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his tone. Your lips parted slightly, a blush creeping along your skin, but words failed you.

So instead, you slid closer, shifting to lay beside him. The warmth of his body enveloped you instantly, his scent—clean soap, faint traces of linen and something inherently him—wrapping around you like a second skin. He didn’t hesitate to pull you closer, his arms instinctively finding their place around you, as if you belonged there.

A featherlight kiss brushed against your forehead, lingering just long enough to make your eyes flutter shut.

"Then let’s make it worth watching," you whispered against him, your voice barely above a breath.

And with only the stars as your silent witnesses, love bloomed in the quiet, unhurried space between heartbeats.

Zayne

Mornings like these were the ones you cherished most—waking up in the quiet embrace of your lover, wrapped in each other's warmth, with the rest of the world feeling miles away.

"Good morning, love," Zayne’s voice was low and rough with sleep, a sound reserved only for you, intimate and unguarded.

"Morning, honey," you hummed, a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you shifted slightly to take in the sight of him.

His dark hair was tousled, the soft glow of the morning light filtering through the curtains casting delicate shadows across his features. There was something disarming about seeing him like this—his usually composed demeanor softened by sleep, his sharp eyes still heavy with drowsiness.

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. His gaze, deep and unspoken, was filled with a quiet reverence, as if he were committing every detail of you to memory.

You lay there for a while, talking in hushed tones about your dreams, about how neither of you wanted to leave the comfort of the bed just yet. The outside world could wait—this moment, this stillness, was yours.

Eventually, Zayne exhaled a quiet sigh. "I think it’s time we get up." His voice held the barest hint of reluctance as he made a slow attempt to shift out from under the duvet.

But you weren’t having it. Before he could move an inch, you latched onto him like a koala, wrapping yourself around him, preventing his escape.

"Just five more minutes," you mumbled against the warmth of his neck, your grip tightening around him.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek as he returned the embrace, his arms securing you effortlessly against him.

Five minutes turned into ten. Then twenty. Then thirty.

It was unlike Dr. Zayne to linger in bed for so long, yet he found himself unable to move, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the steady thrum of your heartbeat against him. For once, time didn’t feel like something slipping through his fingers—it simply stood still, cradling the two of you in its quiet grasp.

When you finally pulled yourselves from the warmth of the sheets, the morning unfolded at an unhurried pace.

Zayne moved through the kitchen with effortless ease, making coffee for the both of you while you perched yourself on the counter, still wrapped in his shirt. He stole glances at you every so often, his expression unreadable yet unmistakably fond.

You, however, took every opportunity to tease him—nudging him with your foot as he prepared the coffee, clinging to his side whenever he tried to move, and stealing quick kisses that made the corners of his lips twitch in amusement. His responses were quiet—small, knowing smiles, the occasional shake of his head, and a warmth in his eyes that spoke louder than words.

There was no rush, no obligations pressing against your morning. Just the two of you, utterly consumed by the simplicity of being together.

Later, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, your coffee cups resting half-forgotten on the table. Zayne sat reading one of his many medical books, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. But you had other plans.

Without a word, you nestled yourself between his legs, resting your head against his chest.

He didn’t question it—didn’t hesitate for a second. With a soft exhale, he placed the book aside, his fingers moving instinctively to thread through your hair, slow and soothing.

A long moment passed before he spoke, his voice quieter than usual, as if the words were something fragile. "I love you."

Your heart warmed at the rare softness in his tone. You tilted your head slightly, tracing lazy circles against his chest. "I love you more."

He huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

And in the tranquil hush of the morning, wrapped in each other’s warmth, you knew—this was home.

Rafayel

You sat quietly beside Rafayel, the soft scratch of his pencil against paper filling the tranquil space between you. He was sketching something, fully engrossed in his work, while you absentmindedly occupied yourself, letting the peaceful silence settle around you.

But then, you felt it—his gaze lingering on you, burning softly against your skin.

"You’re staring," you remarked without looking up, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips as a faint warmth dusted your cheeks.

"You’re making it rather difficult not to," he replied effortlessly, his voice smooth, laced with that ever-present confidence.

You turned to face him, catching the slight amusement in his eyes, and let out a small huff. "Well, it’s rude to stare." You made a show of covering your face with your hands, only for him to gently pry them away, his fingers warm against yours.

"Sue me for wanting to admire my favorite piece of art," he murmured, his tone both playful and sincere.

Your blush deepened at his words, and he clearly noticed, judging by the smirk curving his lips.

"What’s up with you and all this teasing today?" you asked, though there was no real protest in your voice—just fond exasperation.

He chuckled, the sound deep and velvety, before reaching over to pinch your cheek. "Can’t help it, cutie. Just speaking the truth."

Rolling your eyes, you ruffled his carefully styled hair in retaliation, giggling when his expression twisted into pure horror.

"I spent thirty minutes on my hair this morning," he gasped, dramatically pouting as if you had personally wounded him.

"Oh no, what a tragedy," you mused, grinning.

"What, you’re going to punch me in the face next?" he quipped, his dramatics only making you laugh harder.

Instead of responding, you grabbed his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks together and playfully mushing them around. "Forgive me, baby," you cooed before pressing a flurry of tiny kisses across his face, earning a quiet intake of breath from him.

His ears turned a subtle shade of pink, but he recovered quickly, clearing his throat. "You’re forgiven. This time," he muttered, though his hands lingered on yours.

And then, before you could react, he snatched a paintbrush from the table and dragged a bold streak of color across your cheek.

"Hey!" you gasped, staring at him in disbelief.

"But payback is still necessary," he smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

The playful back-and-forth between you was effortless, a refreshing break from the routine of daily life. Moments like these—lighthearted, filled with laughter and mischief—made you cherish the presence of your lover even more.

Sylus

The rain drummed steadily against the window, a rhythmic symphony of soft patters and distant rumbles. The glow of the TV flickered across the dimly lit living room as you and Sylus lounged on the couch, wrapped in the kind of warmth that only a quiet night in could bring.

He had insisted—rather arrogantly—that he could rent out an entire cinema for just the two of you. But you had refused, craving something more intimate, more real. And now, curled up against him, your head resting lightly on his shoulder as you animatedly commented on the movie, you knew you had made the right choice.

Then, without warning, everything was swallowed by darkness.

A surprised gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively clutched onto Sylus, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt.

"The thunderstorm must have knocked out the power..." you murmured, a tinge of disappointment creeping into your voice.

You hesitated before untangling yourself from his warmth and standing up. "I'll get some candles," you announced, feeling your way through the shadows toward the drawer where you kept them. The strike of a match flared briefly, casting a soft glow across the room before the candles came to life, their warm flickering light breathing coziness into the space. Shadows danced across the walls, their movements gentle and fluid, creating a contrast between the storm raging outside and the quiet intimacy within.

You turned back to Sylus, watching as the golden light kissed his sharp features. His expression remained unreadable—neither irritated nor amused, just... calculating.

You huffed, crossing your arms as you sank back onto the couch beside him. "So much for wanting to spend alone time with you," you pouted.

He finally reacted, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "The night's still young," he murmured, his voice low, deliberate. His gaze slid to you, a glimmer of mischief in his dark eyes. "You still have those cards you stole from Luke and Kieran, don’t you?"

Your jaw dropped. "I didn't steal them!" you shot back indignantly, though the guilty flicker in your expression betrayed you. He merely raised an eyebrow. Huffing, you got up anyway and retrieved the deck from your room, returning with a dramatic flourish.

"So, what? You actually want to play cards with me?" you asked, skeptical.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took the deck from your hands and started shuffling, his movements smooth, practiced. The cards whispered against one another as they slipped effortlessly between his fingers.

"Let's make it interesting," he proposed, his smirk deepening. "Winner gets to ask one thing from the loser."

Your eyes narrowed at him, the spark of competition igniting in your chest. "Deal."

Several rounds passed, and much to your growing frustration, Sylus won nearly every single one. You glared at him as he leaned back, exuding the smug satisfaction of a man who had predicted this outcome all along.

"I can’t believe you won again!" you groaned, throwing your cards down in defeat.

"A deal’s a deal, sweetie." His voice was smooth, dangerously low as he shifted closer, his gaze never wavering from yours.

Your stomach tightened. He was too close now, the heat of his body radiating against you, his eyes dark and full of something unreadable—something intoxicating.

"..Fine," you relented, exhaling shakily. "What do you want, then?"

He leaned in, his movements slow, deliberate. The air between you crackled with anticipation. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin as he murmured, "A kiss."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. His voice was low, velvet-smooth, laced with the barest hint of amusement—like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You swallowed, the heat rushing to your cheeks almost unbearable. But instead of complying right away, you decided to tease him. Tilting your head slightly, you placed a soft, feather-light kiss on his cheek, then pulled back, feigning innocence.

His brows furrowed, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, without warning, his hand slid to your jaw, fingers firm yet gentle as he tilted your face toward his.

"Don't tease me, kitten," he murmured before capturing your lips with his.

The kiss was intense yet achingly tender, stealing the breath right from your lungs. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate hunger, as if savoring the moment, as if claiming it. A quiet gasp escaped you as warmth pooled deep within you, a sensation so dizzying that your fingers instinctively clutched at his shoulders to steady yourself.

Outside, the storm raged on. But in that moment, all you could feel was him.

Caleb

You arrived at Caleb’s apartment in Skyhaven unannounced, a spontaneous visit fueled by the simple desire to see him. The moment he opened the door, a flicker of surprise crossed his face before it melted into something warmer—something undeniably thrilled.

His apartment felt different now, softer, more lived-in, ever since you had made it your personal mission to bring some warmth into the space. A few well-placed candles, a cozy throw blanket draped over the couch, and the scent of vanilla lingering in the air—it all felt more like home now, a home the two of you had unconsciously built together.

While Caleb busied himself in the kitchen, preparing dinner with the effortless ease he always had, you wandered through the rooms, taking in the familiar yet ever-intriguing details of his space. That’s when your eyes landed on something unexpected.

A pink envelope.

It rested on his nightstand, slightly askew as if placed there with care yet forgotten. A neatly drawn heart was scrawled across the front. Your brow furrowed at the sight. Someone had given him this? Had someone confessed to him?

The rational part of you knew it was foolish to feel the sudden pang of jealousy creeping into your chest, but the idea of someone else professing their feelings for him—it gnawed at you. Caleb was attractive, undeniably so, and people always seemed to gravitate toward him. Still, you had never given much thought to the possibility of an anonymous admirer.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, your fingers closed around the envelope, and you carefully pulled out the letter inside.

You shouldn't have done it. You knew that. But curiosity was an irresistible force, and the need to know was overwhelming.

Your eyes scanned the page, absorbing the elegant strokes of his handwriting.

“[...] I don’t know when it happened—when laughter in treehouses and late-night whispers turned into something deeper.

Maybe it was always there, tucked between our inside jokes and the way you always seemed to understand me without words [...]

Always yours,

Caleb.”

Your breath hitched.

The jealousy that had curled in your stomach only moments ago twisted into something entirely different. It was for you.

A quiet gasp left your lips as the realization dawned. Judging by the wording, it had to be old—perhaps written before he had ever found the courage to tell you how he felt.

Heat flushed through you, guilt creeping in for prying into something so personal, yet another feeling settled in right beside it. A slow, blooming warmth in your chest. He had loved you so deeply, so quietly, even back then.

"You really shouldn't snoop around, pipsqueak."

The low timbre of his voice behind you made you jump, the letter nearly slipping from your fingers. Before you could react, Caleb plucked it from your grasp, his expression unreadable as his eyes flicked over the familiar words.

"Caleb—I'm sorry," you blurted out, words tumbling over each other in your rush to explain. "I didn’t mean to… I just thought that—"

A sudden chuckle cut you off, followed by a gentle pinch to your nose. You blinked up at him, startled.

He was laughing.

"I’m not mad," he said, his smirk deepening as he folded the letter between his fingers. "But I guess now you also owe me a love letter, hm?"

The teasing lilt in his voice made your heart stutter, and you rolled your eyes before giving him a playful punch on the arm.

"Guess you'll have to wait and see."

And wait he did.

One day, much later, a letter arrived for him—deliberately placed where he would find it.

Caleb never said a word about it, but from that night on, he kept it tucked beneath his pillow. A quiet, constant reminder that it wasn’t all a dream.

That you were his.

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rockingbytheseaside · 3 months ago

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✦ The little gifts they give you

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

tw: none, pure fluff

✧ Pierro – Love letters hidden in the house

When you awaken in the hush of dawn, your beloved is nowhere to be seen in the house. He often rises before the world stirs, summoned by his obligations as the Fatui Director during the first rays of dawn. However, even if he has to depart as you sleep soundlessly, it’s never without leaving a small note by his pillow.

A small, beautiful card, meticulously folded and inked in his elegant cursive. A masterful piece full of words that he yearns to speak when he is away at work. You only opened your eyes, yet a smile already graces your lips when you spot the letter on his side of the bed. It reads:

“You sleep like a tender beauty, your thoughts are my constant companion. Even when you rise, the pillows and covers grieve for the absence of your warmth, like the departure of summer, leaving but the coldness of winter. So does my heart miss you when I am away. May you rise like a blooming Leucojum, starting off your morning well, while I think of you every waking second.”

He often did that, leaving you small sonnets around the house while he was away at work. His fancy for poetry and writing had endured since his noble youth in ancient Khaenri’ah, a love untouched by time. This way, even when he’s away, he still manages to bring a smile to your face first thing in the mornings.

You’d find other letters elsewhere. One day, he’d leave it in your study room:

“The pen and paper you write in get graced by your wisdom. The tomes that line your shelves store knowledge for your interest, each page covets your attention. Share your discoveries with me when I am back, my divine.”

Another, he’d hide it by the dresser:

“When you don your attire for the day, the stars and moons would gasp in awe. Yet it is I alone who bear witness to your truest splendor. I count the second until I may once again gather you in my arms, to undo every silken layer-”

Oops, never mind. Best not to read that one aloud. Too intimate for wandering eyes. Either way, throughout the months, you’d collect these little love letters, always keeping them safe as a memo, giddy whenever you reread them, or stashing them happily for safekeeping. For such excellent penmanship, the Jester truly deserves some extra adoration from you.

✧ Il Capitano – Exotic flowers and seeds from all over Teyvat

‘Is a bouquet of flowers too cliche a gift for someone you miss?’ – the Harbinger pondered to himself. He stood by the outskirts of Kannazuka, not far from Yashiori Island, where the solemn sea breeze swept by crimson Dendrobium petals. He heard from locals that these flowers were thought to be instinct, yet returned to where blood was once spilled on Inazuman soil.

You’d appreciate the austere symbolism of such flora, and the Captain knelt before carefully picking it by the stem. He paid respect to each bloom, as any warrior who understands the grievances of a quiet battlefield would. Thus, by the time his mission drew to its quiet end, the 1st of the Fatui Harbinger appeared with a bouquet presented to your arms.

“Hm? You plucked these, Capi?” – You looked at him curiously, the bouquet massive in your arms. “But that means they will wilt soon.”

The Captain’s helmet dipped slightly, his unreadable face betraying a flicker of hesitance. Perhaps this was a bad idea?

“...I apologize, do you dislike them?”

You smiled at him, with meticulous swiftness, you moved with the bouquet, searching for an appropriate vase, and to fill it with water. The Dendrobiums were indeed exquisite, yet what you desired was their preservation, especially if such blossoms bore no seeds to sow. Thus, your beloved watched in fascinated silence as you showed him how to remove extraneous leaves and guard petals. It will help the flowers last longer. Now, the Captain had more ideas.

During his other expeditions, he no longer sought out just any flowers; he would seek intel on horticulture or where to purchase high-quality seeds. If he’d purchased flowers, he’d barter for seeds rather than stems and purchase plants nestled in earthen pots. If only you had witnessed the face of the poor Mondstadtian girl who overlooked the Floral Whisper shop - Flora. She went silent as to why a Harbinger was questioning how to properly maintain Windwheel Aster during transport. In truth, he was so excited to bring his beloved one more exotic plant, he could only think of your expression when you see the petals spin in the breeze.

Thus, you found yourself with a makeshift garden, brought to you proudly by Capitano. Each flower is a fragment of his journeys, a testament of his quiet devotion. He even helped construct a modest greenhouse, sturdy and sun-warmed, to shelter those blooms that craved warmer climates. Now, every time the Harbinger is away and spots a single flower blooming in the wild, his mind wanders back to you; what else might my beloved like?

✧ Il Dottore – Small inventions to make your life easier

To love someone doesn’t equal to lavishing that person with materialistic luxuries. Dottore knows you have little taste for frivolity, acquiring only what necessity demands. Instead, he attends to subtler needs: when you scribble in your notebooks for hours, your fingers get tired from clutching a pen, the side of your palms are smeared with either ink or graphite. Hence, one evening, he returns with a set of gloves.

“Here, give me your hand,” – he said busily, already cradling your palms as he carefully put on two-finger writing gloves, securing your skin in comfort against the soft material. “I ensured the design is versatile when you’re writing something, without tiring or smudging your hand. Tell me if it feels better.”

You never even noticed or complained about the ache. At times, the Doctor saw you plop down on the sofa, tired and whining from cleaning around. You were always meticulous with your personal space, but none is immune from the hassle of vacuuming, dusting, or cleaning the floors. Especially if it gave you a night of painful back pain. Hiring attendants would have been the simplest solution, he thought. But he preferred an idea far more personal.

“Take this,” – he casually handed you a circular device. You blinked in confusion but accepted the new state-of-the-art machinery. “An automatic vacuum cleaner. It will map out the layout of the house so it can sweep the floors whenever you’re away. Spare yourself the drudgery.”

And another time, when you were delighted by your purchase of a sweet bubble tea beverage, you wistfully lamented how difficult it was to replicate such indulgences at home. Oh well, you shrugged, but Dottore was sitting nearby, already scheming a blueprint.

A week later, your kitchen bore a marvel: a gleaming coffee and tea machine, capable of brewing, frothing, even carbonating any beverage you wished. You just have to throw in the ingredients of your choice. Be it coffees, matchas, smoothies, or bubble teas, not even Fontainian cafes had such appliances.

“Dottore, when did you have the time to wipe out such a machine? That’s massive work!” – you inquired curiously one day, but The Harbinger waved his hand dismissively, stating:

“Hm? Oh, why, this is hardly a strain. I don’t like seeing you toil over menial tasks or seek out solutions that will just burn through your Mora. If you are in want of anything, you can always ask me. You know that, correct?”

Even in matters where you never uttered a single complaint, Dottore’s ever observant nature remained unfaltering. He would silently bask in the sight of you, committing every small nuance of your life and habits to memory. He’d sit with his chin resting on his palm, silently smiling as you enjoyed his inventions or the little knick-knacks around his lab that brought your sincere smile.

✧ Scaramouche – Learning to cook your favourite dishes

The Ballader never grasped humanity’s fascination with food. Concerning sustenance, survival required little. Animals hunted their prey without fanfare, yet humankind alone had transformed eating into a cult. Fawning over flavors? Creating restaurants? Scaramouche never got it, even when he first lived as an innocent puppet in the rural village of Tataratsuna.

So why was he here, eyebrows furrowed as he looked over the sizzling meat on the stove? Somehow, against all reason, the Harbinger cooked an entire meal exclusively for you!

“Ah, you’re back at last. Come here,” – he beckoned you diligently to sit down, presenting you with a bowl of Gyudon, a beef and rice bowl topped with egg yolk on top. You obeyed, baffled yet in pure awe, while Scaramouche sat opposite you with arms crossed. “Well? Don’t just glare at it. Taste it!”

So you did. “Um, Scara… did you cook this?”

He nodded silently.

“Did you… Add any soy sauce anywhere? Maybe salt or mirin?”

Oh no.

Turns out, cooking is no simple art form. There are careful blends of spices and garnishes that make even the simplest dishes outstanding. And unfortunately for the Ballader, he missed all the steps, underestimating the power of spices that one must add to the beef. He watched you gulp down with a nervous, hesitant smile. You radiated so much encouragement that it ached. Scaramouche said nothing, only sat broodingly still. Nonetheless, he had to remind himself that he was no longer in Tataratsune. The simple folks there often kept rice as a garnish, and many imports of spices never reached the rural islands of Inazuma. He does not have to run barefoot to scavenge for Lavender Melons from wind-worn hills.

He didn’t let that deter him. Little by little, he paid more attention to the spices he had to put in. Never too much, never too little. Noticing your love for rich flavors and blends of textures, The Harbinger challenges the kitchen like an enemy, learning new dishes and methods. When you simply asked him why the sudden hobby, he replied:

“I thought humans liked homecooking. So I hoped one day you’d come… knowing there would be some. Isn’t that where a home is?”

“Oh, Scara,” - your hand found the curve of his back, to which he never leaned away. “I think you’re a quick learner, because you made leaps of progress. And your last dish, the Unagi Chazuke? It was perfect.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, you know?” – he mused whistfully.

“No, I mean it. I think Chazukes are your best. But don’t get discouraged. Inazuman cuisine focuses on subtle blends of saltiness and sweetness, relying on ingredients like rice vinegar, sesame oil, or soy sauce. But Sumeru? Oh, I heard they have all kinds of spices out there!”

You went on and on with unbridled enthusiasm, weaving tales of harra fruits ground into rare, fragrant spices, prized all over Teyvat. Scaramouche listened silently, more in delight at your simple excitement. Perhaps he started to understand why humans focused so much on food. Not out of survival, but as a cultural effort to spend time together, a silent way to stay a little longer. Because whenever he sat down with you over a meal, it felt more than just an indulgence.

Maybe if he ever gets the chance, he should visit Sumeru…?

✧ Pantalone – His coats or clothing after each date

It started by sheer coincidence. One time, the two of you were enjoying a splendid afternoon, when suddenly the wind stirred without warning, bearing the chill of an impending October rain. Caught unprepared without an umbrella, and before the two of you could bid farewell for the day, Pantalone stopped you.

“Wait, honey,” – he deftly unbuttoned his coat, wrapping it around your form from behind and adjusting the fur-lined collar to shield you from the cold. “Here, wear this along the road. If it starts raining, the hood of this coat will keep you spotless.”

You wanted to protest, but when The Harbinger saw you half-swallowed by the voluminous fabric, only your gaze barely peeking through, it demanded every ounce of restraint to maintain his gentlemanly expression. ‘My… my sweetheart! They look utterly precious! Like a bundled burrito!’

Your words of worry slipped past him from one ear to the other – “Ahem. Nonsense, my love. You can keep it for now.”

On another occasion, when he had invited you for a pleasant dinner date at his estate, the atmosphere bloomed with warmth and quiet comfort. The candlelit table was set, as you aided him in arranging the plates and dishes in the dining room. Pantalone, ever at ease in your presence, casually shrugged off his sweater, remaining in a crisp button-up now that the fireplace’s warmth embraced the indoors. However, it wasn’t until you wore his sweater after dinner that he realized he had left it on the sofa, and it piqued your curiosity.

“Ah, if I had a camera on me right now, I would’ve taken a hundred photo shots of you!”

“Sorry, sorry, I can give your sweater back.”

“Not a chance now. Keep it!”

Thus, a habit was formed. Whether by intent or by innocent accident, Pantalone would gladly share with you his wardrobe – be it coats, scarves, his pieces of jewelry, or bigger lounging shirts. You assumed he let you borrow them, like the loving boyfriend that he is. Yet he never asked for them back, even when you suggested taking them off, stating proudly:

“Honey, I have plenty more in my closet. If I were in dire need of taking them back, I could simply purchase tailor-made once more. But I’d rather see you wear them. You look splendid in my clothes.”

It stirred a quiet pride within the Regrator, to be accompanied by his sweetheart in public, and the people recognizing his iconic coat draped over your shoulder. A clear message of who has his heart cupped in their palms, and who he adores beyond reverent adoration.

Yet what truly stole the crown is when you’re together in the comfort of your home, and decide to forgo any garments and simply slip into one of his button-up shirts. He’d find you, re-emerged from the bathroom, looking all cleaned and refreshed, your figure clad in his shirt.

All the blood leaves his head. There is not a single thought in his brain - just the image of you. In bed, his button-up shirt the sole remaining piece covering your figure.

“You know, Pantalone, I must admit - I love the feeling of your clothes. They’re soft and comfortable, yet they carry a whiff of your scent. Thank you for not mind me wearing them. I can give it back if y-... Dear?”

Yep, he’s about to pass out. His beloved is too beautiful.

✧ Tartaglia – Plushies as souvenirs from different regions

The young Harbinger took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and stretched his neck. A recent mission in Liyue lay completed behind him, but did that mean he could rest and take a break? No, alas, the battle has only started. And today’s battle is shopping in the busy markets of Liyue in search of gifts and souvenirs.

He often makes a mental list of what presents to bring home to Snezhnaya. New fishing gear for his father, fine garments for his dear sister Tonia, rare tomes for Anthon, and vibrant Liyue kites for little Teucer. His arms often returned so laden with offerings that his family affectionately dubbed him Ded Moroz, or as Teucer would shout in delight upon his arrival: “Father Christmas is back home!”

Nonetheless, despite the massive ordeal of finding appropriate gifts, the task Childe found most effortless is finding you all sorts of figurines and plushies from each region.

Maybe this Rex Lapis dragon plushie? No, you already have a five-foot-tall one at home; no need for another. Perhaps this rotund bird plush, fashioned after some grumpy Liyue adeptus? Oh, but there are also beautiful plushies from Fontaine, resembling Blubberbeasts and otters. Even though the sight of otter plushies gave him a dreadful sense of déjà vu. Truly, there were far too many to choose from.

And knowing Tartaglia, his heart would cave in and purchase all of them for you either way. He would return home triumphant, adding to your ever-growing collection, until your bed became a veritable kingdom of pillowy plush creatures, half of them functioning as pillows all over the house. No matter what your cherished brought, you’d smile in delight at his safe return, but laugh when he proudly presented the chunky blubberbeast plush with a boyish grin.

“Oh, by the way, look! I also bought this,” – he suddenly stated and handed you a masterfully crocheted keychain of a little Sumeru creature. Its stitched smile looking silly.

“Ajax, what is that?” - you chuckled, more amused by the Harbinger’s goofy smile.

“The shopkeeper called it an Aranara. There is a legend in Sumeru that these little wood critters roam the jungles, but are only visible to children who retain their innocent childhood imagination.”

You turned the keychain over in your hands, pondering where best to fasten it. It was charming, like every other token Childe so thoughtfully brought you. Yet truth be told, everyone knows your favourite plushy to cuddle was not the entourage of souvenirs, but the Harbinger who bought them. And in Childe’s mind, that alone was the sweetest victory he could claim.

(Some lovelies kindly asked me if I can add the Harbinger missing in my fanfics. I try to keep those specific characters in my stories, but if you ever see me not include Scara or let's say Childe - it's not because I forgot or dislike them, but because sometime in the process of writing I do not want to repeat the same tropes for all the characters depending on the headcanons :< thank you for reading so far)

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rastronomicals · 4 months ago

Audio

6:34 PM EDT April 9, 2025:

Calla - “Sleep In Splendor” From the album Strength In Numbers (February 2007)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: Lo-Fi

–

#Calla #Strength In Numbers #Sleep In Splendor

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daddyhausen · 4 months ago

Note

hello, I love your writing so much!! I wanted to ask you, would you be down to write nosferatu!sleep token? You can do iii or vessel x reader (very possessive, protective, almost stalker-ish, monster style), whichever you want. I just love the new nosferatu movie so much and was curious if would write something like that. Thank you in advance, love you🤍

honestly could not choose between them so you’re getting both xx

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｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡「 OUR AFFLICTION 」｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

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「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 MUSICIAN/BAND MASTERLIST 」 | 「 VESSEL MASTERLIST 」 | 「 III MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISSION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

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「 SUMMARY 」 — a secluded getaway was just what you and your new husband needed. the catch is, the two of you were not completely alone

「 WARNINGS 」 — 18+ 「 MINORS DNI 」, DD: DNE,

「 TAGS 」 — [ nsfw ] [ smut ] [ threesome ] [ cnc ] [ noncon to dubcon ] [ vampires ] [ nosferatu inspired ] [ biting ] [ monsterfucking ] [ blood drinking ] [ blood play ] [ pussy eating ] [ double penetration ] [ double vaginal penetration ] [ blowjob ] [ face fucking ] [ throat fucking ] [ throatpie ] [ hair pulling ] [ degradation ] [ cuckolding ] [ phantom sex ] [ multiple orgasms ] [ sleep paralysis ] [ male + female orgasms ] [ squirting ] [ internal cumshots ] [ vaginal creampie ]

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 7.5k

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x vamp!vessel + vamp!iii

「 GENRE 」 — smut

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「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @mjfass @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @janetreader @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @selena-tyler-564 @nev-danielgarciawife @teenagedramaqueenlisa @miss-whiddlesmort @dykekota @summertimefun1982 @thebettergothgirl @inv3ga-sust3nna

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「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

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the carriage ride is more mundane than you expected, three hours traversing on a horse-drawn carriage over rocky slopes and muddy roads is enough to bore any woman out of her mind especially when your husband rambles on about business, real estate mostly. not that you pay much attention to detail so on and so forth. this is not what you were anticipating for your honeymoon. you were expecting a romantic getaway, someplace where your newfound husband would for once not go on about his business. now you are sitting in a carriage, on your way to spend your honeymoon in some drab castle your husband has listed to sell. you glance outside the carriage window, rolling hills of splendorous greenery for miles to come, the sunset melting into it, a mix of warm oranges and yellows of a traditional sunset, but the clouds hang low, grey, and heavy, brewing with an incoming storm. your view is interrupted by the swish of the driver’s whip, a flash of leather obscuring your vision of the wildflowers.

“awful weather, this time of year isn’t it?” you mention, still keeping your gaze out of the window, the clouds ominous as they loom over the mountains.

your husband’s ears perk up at the comment, almost confused by your sudden will of voice, since you’d been as silent as a field mouse the entire carriage ride.

“that is because it’s the beginning of springtime here, my darling. the weather isn’t as warm as it is back home”

“don’t patronize me, love.” you retort, a hint of amusement on your tongue, shuffling closer to the door of the carriage to gain a better view of the wildflowers, a mixture of rich blues and purples from native lilacs, their powdery scent, reflective of almonds as they seemed to flutter through the breeze, you inhale deeply, reminiscent of your wedding day, your husband had a large bouquet imported from these romanian fields, the scent – although not as crisp as the natives, still conjure up the sweetest of memories, kept locked away in the museum of your mind.

your husband takes your hand, smoothing over the back of your palm with his thumb in ginger circles, a soft smile falling onto his lips. he notices your apprehension, the tired, far-away look your eyes hold, riddled with exhaustion from the gruelling trip.

“not too long now, my love” he reassures.

you give an acknowledging nod, your eyes finally meet the two of your clasped hands. in truth, you had no idea what your husband had mentioned or what place he had acquired for the month. he already had your bags packed for this trip before you had the chance to consummate the marriage.

“i just wish you would consult me before making such decisions.”

he releases your hand, not before placing a chaste kiss on the back of your palm

“what consulting would there need to be? you're my wife now, i don’t want you to worry about such things.”

“this is not exactly how i planned on spending my honeymoon, is all”

“darling, have a little bit of optimism for once. trust me, you’ll love the place”

you chew the inside of your cheek, holding your tongue from spitting any incredulous words in his direction, even if it were to take the remainder of the carriage ride. your husband’s voice fades into the background amongst the scuff of carriage wheels against rock and the whinnies of horses. don’t kid yourself you love your husband, dearly. you wish sometimes he would consider things with you in mind, the wedding venue for example, a lush vineyard in the south of italy, sicily to be exact and while the scenery itself was gorgeous no doubt, you had implored for emilia-romania, finding the cooler climate better suited to your taste, you were never one for dry climates. even then a destination wedding was not the first recommendation on your list, what with elderly grandparents, an ailing father, and an aunt, getting them to the wedding proved more of a chore than anything else.

you let out a sigh, a short bitter one though your teeth. fingers idly twisting loose strands of lace from your dress sleeve, providing some form of distraction to your husbands incessant ramblings, you did admire his…his conviction, yes…how passionate he was about his business, it all he ever talks about it seems, even before the two of you were wed.

he’d buy you a house fit for a queen, yet a queen you did not need to be. luxuries did not mean a thing to you, you’d rather have a simple, modest home, with enough room to house yourself, your husband and a couple of children, maybe a pet – a cat perhaps, not a dog…far too excitable. and you’d rather not hear your thoughts echo off empty walls in a cacophonous mockery.

“stunning isn’t it?” your husband’s voice perked you out of your thoughts.

“hmm?” you blink, humming absentmindedly.

your husband points outside the window, your eyes follow up his arm to where his finger is pointing. beyond the horizon, just peeking out from behind the hillscape, lays a gargantuan castle, standing tall and proud within a mountain slope, a stone bridge connecting the two paths. the sky darkens upon arrival, clouds almost black, and a ravenous grumble of thunder seems to wash over the landscape, despite neither you nor your husband hearing anything.

it is surely a beautiful sight, the basalt and calcite pillars seem rooted into the earth, holding up the monstrosity of dark brick and stone.

“y-yes..it is…” you clear your throat, the castle seems far more imposing now the two of you are sitting in front of it.

you could see the vines of ivy scattered along the pillars, climbing desperately to reach even the faintest bit of sunlight. oddly…you could relate.

your husband thanks the driver, tipping him a handsome sum for his troubles, retrieving your baggage from the back of the carriage, you watch him converse with the doorman so effortlessly, confidence comes naturally to him which you can applaud. you’d surely be burning up in anxiety even at the thought.

taking slow steps outside of the carriage, you peer upward to glance at the towering door before you, sturdy and made of spruce, metal carvings of gargoyles and serpents, encircling a steel door knob. the door itself is held open by the doorman, a warm yet distant smile greeting you, a smile that seems to look past you, not quite fully meeting his eyes.

you offer him a nod in passing, entering the castle. darkness surrounds you, quite literally, the room encased in blackstone and the basalt leaking in from the external walls. ceiling high and revered, candelabra chandeliers hung by rusting chains with unlit and freshly snuffled candles, that creak every time they swing, so ominously as you walk underneath them as if they planned to drop on you any minute. the entrance remains the same for what seems like miles, a repetition of chandelier and pillar, chandelier and pillar with a suit of armour or decorative painting in between said pillars.

there is a stench of dust in the air, one that makes your nose itch and your eyes water. you scrunch your nose to be rid of the sensation.

“well it…” you pause following your husband up the staircase, a hand running over the spiral knob of a dark oak banister, a handprint left in the wake of where the dust used to be. you clear your throat.

“it's surely been lived in,” you mention, lamenting almost, noticing the spiderwebs glistening under sunlight, almost pearlescent in their colour through the windows.

“it is an old castle, you can not expect it to be pristine all of the time” he remarks, almost giddy as he examines the intricate spirals and swirls carved into the banister with such expert craftsmanship, it must have taken the carpenter months to complete.

“but not to worry, darling. i made sure the bedroom is up to your standards”

the bedroom, in truth, is glorious despite how much you want to disagree, the ceilings remain high like the rest of the house, the candelabra chandelier is now lit with warm, glowing wax candles, the bed, a giant thing it is, a bed frame made from mahogany, with the same spiral signature of the unknown carpenter that had done the banisters, splayed with a deep maroon bedspread and black velvet throw cushions with lace trimmings to match. you take a seat at the foot of your bed with a sigh, spreading down the sheets with your palm, more so to check if it too is coated in dust.

“are you tired, darling? perhaps you should rest before dinner”

“i am quite refreshed from the carriage ride, i might have a stroll around the garden if that's all right”

any excuse to stretch your legs i suppose, and to escape from the dust-ridden closet that was this castle, even for a few moments.

you trudge down the stairs, fists full of your skirts to not dirty them on the dusty wood. you kept a vigilant eye, on the watch for any servants that lurked about, offering you directions to the nearest exit. at the foot of the staircase, you spotted one, an elderly woman, skin pallor and hair white as chalk, matted into some sort of bird's nest, unkempt. her attire is tattered, the skirts of her dress filled with holes, chewed through by moths covered in grime and dirt, yet no stench possessed her, if anything, she smelt…clean.

“excuse me?” you ask, flagging her down. “could you perhaps direct me to the garden?”

the servant woman turns to you, pallor skin wrinkled and aged, eyes glassy, cataracts cloud her vision all milky and white, despite this she stares directly at you. she opens her mouth to reveal a toothy grin, a rotten missing-teeth grin to be exact. the sight makes your stomach churn. she hums an unfamiliar tune as she feather dusts a candelabra, revealing the brassy exterior beneath the cloud of dust particles, the candle themselves freshly snuffed, and warm wax melts down the candlestick like cascading rivers, dripping onto her hand, she does not flinch.

“past the dining area to the hall” she points towards the south with a bony, decrepit finger, long witch-like nails all chipped and broken.

“thank you.” you respond quickly with a small bow of your head. not wanting to stay engaged in conversation any longer than you needed to. you pass the elderly woman, her eyes seeming to linger on you for longer than you were comfortable, seering through your skull as if she was sizing you up.

“a pretty thing you are. tell me, have you had children yet? your hips are wide, good for birthing” she taps your hips with the wooden stick of the feather duster.

you are taken aback by the intrusive question, your throat running dry as you are stumped for words.

“uhh…well no. i’ve only just married you see” despite the awkwardness you try to remain as polite as possible, despite the embarrassment burning on your cheeks and the uneasy sway in your step from foot to foot trying to distract yourself. the old woman simply hums with a nod of her head.

“the young masters will be satisfied with you” she murmurs.

you freeze.

“what?”

she turns away ignoring you, walking away with maid’s basket in hand, humming that same unfamiliar tune. you are overcome with a strange sense, possible paranoia perhaps? your husband made no mention of any residents living within the castle besides the servants who barely maintained it and why on god’s green earth would your husband even attempt to sell an occupied residential property? no… like you said before, just paranoia, and a strange old, possibly demented woman who still believes the old residents still roam amongst the halls. still, even as the woman walks away with her back towards you, you can feel those milky white irises piercing through you.

you shake your head to rid yourself of the thought and continue onward to the garden.

through the dining hall she said, an extravagant room it is, mahogany table that of the bed frame stretching as far as the room is wide, matching chairs with high back, velvet red and embroidered with decaying florals, the table has been left set, cutlery rusted, ceramic plates chipped and broken he cracks repaired with liquid gold despite their fragility. goblets encrusted with rubies and sapphires and emeralds galore, seemed rather strenuous to drink from. they still held stains of red wine around the rims.

you did not think the house would feel so occupied yet empty.

a painting caught your attention, plastered above the mantle of the fireplace, it glimmered with an alluring presence, even under drab candlelight. it draws you in, and on bated breath, you admire the two figures within it. both of them are tall, well above six feet. masculine, it was very evident. the taller of the two is lankier and thinner, his body shrouded in a grey suit, seemingly stitched to his body, a bushel of deep purple lilacs held in an inky black hand. just like the lilacs present in the field on the carriage ride over. he stands almost as if observing you, proud and cocky.

the second figure is draped in furs of presumably a wolf, his chest bare, specks of it covered with necklaces of silver and white gold. surely that would be a hindrance in the colder months, but then again you assume this was not their usual attire. his body is more defined than the first, and you could help the blush that spread to your cheeks. good god get a hold of yourself, you're a married woman for christ’s sake. you should not be fawning over a painting of two dead men. you shudder at the thought.

you continue to observe the painting, only to notice that their faces had been painted over with a maroon paint, still fresh as it trickled down the canvas, over their oil painted necks and chest. the paint was very fresh indeed, a metallic stench still lingered in the air as you covered your nose to hopefully mask the smell of it.

you recall the elderly women mentioning something about young masters, perhaps this painting was of them? you could only assume since it was definitely the most regal looking of all the paintings you’d encountered. how odd, why would their faces be painted out if that was the case? maybe they had done something in their lifetime that warranted the expulsion of their identity? god only knows.

the wind flutters against your skin as you step into the garden, it seems like the only well-kept thing on the entire property, wildflowers grow between your toes, and white hydrangeas and peonies line the garden beds for miles, mixed in with once again, those purple lilacs. hedges carved into shapes of angels and devils, separated on either side, in a constant yet stagnant battle, frozen in time. you pursue forward, feeling the lushness of the shrubbery against your fingertips, how green and alive it felt despite the decay and dreariness of the castle.

in the centre stands a statue made of marble, a fountain beneath it spraying out spurts of crystal clear water, and stone benches surrounding its diameter. the statue is of a woman, cloaks obscuring her features, much like the two figures from the painting, her identity erased. she seems more objectified. her stance is powerful, a scythe in her right hand, a reaper she may have been. from her back sprouted wings, defiant of the air around her as they stretched proud and wide. she is utterly beautiful. you sit on the stone bench across from her, simply admiring. had she been a real woman whose image was forever immortalised in the stone? maybe she was a lover of one of the masters? the marble around her feet began to decay as if she had made attempts to walk free from the stand she had been put on and for a brief moment, you connect with that. that yearning for escape despite in your right mind knowing there was nothing for you to escape from. you have a wonderful husband who adores you, a modest amount of wealth, not to mention your health.

there is no need for escape, no need for respite. your life is wondrous, perfect even. still, a sense of dread overcomes you, a coldness that freezes your bones and chills your skin. like ice over a pristine lake. the sensation is eerily similar to the way the woman had made you feel, those eyes boring into your soul, trying to pry the thoughts from your inner psyche. this is…far more intense, those eyes instead burrowing into your mind making a home inside your skull. your skin ripples with goosebumps as your gaze drifts away from the statue, it is not her gaze penetrating you, no. for her eyes are shielded. this gaze was far more sinister, more lustful. your eyebrows knot together trying to decipher whatever this feeling is.

you look around, surely you were alone, no other occupants seem to inhabit the garden, aside from the bumblebees that pollinate the surrounding flowers. gazing past the statue and the shrubbery you still see no one, how strange…maybe a solitary gardener had just finished pruning the hedges? yet that sensation still fills so…so…ominous…

rising to your feet you smooth down the skirts of your dress, taking a deep inhale to calm yourself. it’s nothing…surely nothing at all. your eyes linger on the hedge line for a moment, a shadowy figure silhouetted in the distance, it blurred by the leaves, standing ever so still amongst the greenery, blinking your eyes a couple of times and then fixating on it again, it was gone, just like that. you shook your head to once again rid yourself of the thought, your mind just filtered with exhaustion, paying it no mind as you enter back into the castle, feeling the brew of a storm rising, as the clouds lowered and the wind whistled like a sinister threat.

dinner could not have come soon enough, you were simply famished yet, your stomach had rescinded the offer to eat. a wild spread of pheasant and seasonal vegetables towered on your plate, the table scattered with white grapes, and red cherries so sweet the taste dances on your tongue, or so you’ve been told. you haven't had the stomach to try one just yet. crystal goblets carved with the most intricate of patterns, half full of merlot, not to your standards by any means but the taste allowed you some resolve from the swirl of emptiness in your stomach.

your husband sits across the table from you, so far across the dining hall that you might as well have been eating dinner alone. you watch him shovel food into his mouth, like a man starved, simply unbothered, fixated on it like a wolf on a deer. he paid you no mind in the hours leading up to dinner, he had been busy of course, writing correspondents to back and forth between realtors and clients, a strenuous task. but dear god it’s your honeymoon for christ’s sake, you wished he would pay you a smidge of affection aside from a chaste kiss or a parting waist grab. the silence seems to fill the room, servants wait on hand for the meal to be over and in truth, you did too. you never did cope well with the silence, it allows your mind to fill with things you’d rather forget, like those eyes of the elderly servant, or the invisible ones that preyed on you in the garden earlier, still feeling their coldness burn into your flesh. you shudder in your seat clearing your throat, pushing around the potatoes on your plate with your fork still not eating them.

“darling whatever is the matter, you’ve barely touched your plate” he speaks still with a mouthful of food, a half-eaten bread roll in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other.

“are you feeling unwell?”

you place your fork down, staring down at your full plate. your stomach grumbles with desperation, ravenous with hunger, yet the thought of bringing food to your lips, makes it churn in discomfort. especially with how paranoid you seem to feel right now. every so often your eyes dart up, seeing if you could catch a glimpse of that servant, or if the painting of the two young masters would have miraculously moved.

“i am alright. i just don’t have an appetite this evening” it is the half truth. in reality you did have an appetite for something and it certainly was not food. your mind wanders back to the sensation from the garden, even under the invisible gaze you shied away, cheeks blushed with an incredible heat, you felt…insatiable.

“oh, i'm sorry to hear that my love. whatever is the cause?”

you debate on telling him about the garden, the elderly woman’s words, the painting of the young masters and the way it almost made you melt into a puddle upon inspection. you bit the inside of your cheek, hard enough to break your concentration from such thoughts. you inhale shakily through your nose, an almost silent confirmation to continue.

“does this castle not seem strange to you?” you ask, picking up your fork again to prod now at the carrots in an attempt to distract yourself.

“whatever do you mean?” your husband asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“i met an elderly servant today, she mentioned something about her young masters–the ones in that painting behind you i assume..”

your husband nods his head as if he were listening, confusion is still evident on his features.

“the way she said it made it sound that they were still alive. now i must have misheard it surely” you continue, prodding at the carrot until the fork spears it.

“but when i was in the garden earlier, i felt…i felt like i was being watched. this intense sensation washed over me, i could not see anyone yet i felt their presence…”

your husband nods again, putting down his napkin on his plate after cleaning his mouth.

“darling like i said before it is an old castle, it was most likely a gardener.” he stands up, straightening his waistcoat. he strides over you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder as a form of reassurance.

“you look exhausted, why don't you head up to bed, i’ll be with you shortly” he offers yet another chaste kiss to your cheek. one that seems to dim the spark of your love for him. it was not enough, and your words weren’t exactly heard. maybe he is right, it is just the exhaustion from two days of long travel. the rest is what you need.

“alright…”

he smiles down at you softly. before retreating to the study down the hall, the servants begin hastily clearing the table in silence all before you had even risen from your seat. you stare up at the painting one last time, how their eyes seemed to bore into your soul while being obscured. good god you really needed sleep.

“thoughts still troubling you darling?”

your husband shuffles into bed beside you, fingers stained with ink from his quill as he pulls back the sheets. your body curled up in the blankets trying to retain the warmth of your body heat that seems to be sucked out by the cold brick of the bedroom.

“is is odd isn’t it? i felt someone’s eyes on me…”

“i’m sure it was nothing, just… try and get some sleep.”

he kisses your cheek turning off the oil lamp on his bedside. despite his presence the bed still felt empty. your husband is a busy man, pleasures of the flesh held no time in his schedule.

hours pass and the moon high in the sky. your husband's sound asleep beside you, back pressed against yours only heightened the emotional distance you felt, so much for a honeymoon. you only desire, even for one night on this cursed trip to be ravaged by him, taken apart and put back together again in exquisite pleasure. yet he remains asleep, snoring softly into the pillows.

you try to close your eyes, try to lull yourselves into the depths of sleep. counting backwards in your head, counting bloody sheep yet nothing prevails. the air in the bedroom grew still, a chill present in the air, eerily similar to what it was in the garden. your skin rose in goosebumps, unknowing yet anticipating. your head glued to the pillow, body turned on its side to curl further into the blankets, it would be easier if your husband was not hogging the majority of them.

and then…a rush of warmth floods your loins, and an unparalleled bout of arousal forms in between your thighs. feeling ever so similar to fingers yet, the only man present was your husband and heaven forbid he would even attempt such a thing. your eyes shoot open, an attempt to sit up only makes your thighs weak. the blankets now shuffled at your feet, back pressing against the headboard of your bed, nightgown tossed above your thighs, cunt slick and wet and exposed to the midnight air. yet you did not attempt to touch yourself for the strange phantom ministrations provide all the pleasure you desire.

“a pretty dove isn’t she?” a voice calls out from the corner of the room, your head swings around to meet the sound. in the corner, stands two figures familiar yet unknown. immediately, you go to wake your husband, shaking him in an attempt to alert him. yet he remains sound asleep.

“do not bother, he will not disturb us” the other voice calls out, more delicate in comparison to the other. your body froze, arousal still pooling in your loins as the phantoms of his fingertips ravage your insides. they step out from the shadows, their cloaks billowing in the wind from the open window. your eyes widen….them…oh god god not them….

the two young masters the old woman had told you about. the taller of the two, his stance was more aggressive. white hair was kept short and cropped, still donning that grey suit in the painting. long slender fingers twirl in small circles by his side, and you feel every single movement despite the lack of contact. the other one makes slow strides to the foot of the bed, his muscular frame looming over you, yet he does not attempt to touch you. his face is also masked, yet his mouth is exposed, revealing sharp canines. you gulp thickly shuffling higher against the bed frame, he swiped his tongue against his bottom lip and you swore you could feel the sensation of it running against your clit.

“she craves pleasure, iii”

iii, you assume the taller of the two come closer to inspect. dark eyes admire the slickness of your cunt, watching the way you clench around nothing. iii also does not attempt to touch you, his fingers once again make small motions in the air, and you feel your cunt instantly spread, taking in the phantom of him. you stifle a moan, trying to force the intrusion out.

“she’s desperate”, iii chuckles, the other mirrors this sentiment, stalking around your husband’s side of the bed.

“why don’t you take the lead, vessel? i’ll make sure this one doesn't disturb us”

“what…mmm...what have you done to him…?” you mention to your husband who remains in peaceful, unaware slumber.

“he sleeps. he is unharmed…” vessel motions, taking in your features, admiring every inch of your figure, each crevice and curve hidden beneath the cotton shift obscured behind the almost arachnid-like mask, six eye-shaped creases replacing the natural two. canines prod out past his lips, through the open mouth of his mask, sharp and intimidating as his tongue flicks over them with ravenous intent.

your eyes flicker back to your husband, asleep still, in a trance they seem to have put him under while they ravage you with their eyes and phantom fingertips. they still made no attempt to touch you at least not physically, you could not help but let out a moan as vessel stood back, arousal evident beneath his cloaks, ghosts of his hands groping your breasts, a taut feeling rising in your chest, feeling him squeeze the mounds of flesh between his fingertips. iii now decides to inspect, pale eyes accompanying his stare, adoring the way your cunt pulses, dripping with wetness.

“little bird, you're dripping” although you could not see, his tongue juts out shifting his mask ever so slightly, as he licks his lips, and you could feel this. the small, dainty circles he traces against your clit, the full force as he flattens his tongue against you, drinking you in. you try your hardest to fight back you truly did, even as iii crawled onto the bed, stalking you like a predator would its prey, he keeps his hands to himself, fingertips barely grazing the cotton of your shift tracing over your perky nipples through the fabric. you stifle a breath, mouth going dry.

“don’t try to fight it. give yourself to us” vessel chimes in, his breath fanning against your neck, warm and desperate.

it was too overwhelming, the sensation, the overstimulation. your body betrays itself, possessed and giving into the phantom movements of their combined tongues and fingers and other various appendages. this could not be real, it's only a dream, a hideous, frightful dream. you’ll wake up in the morning, in your husband’s arms, body as untouched as the moment you went to bed.

an intrusion in your throat made itself known, the air rapidly vanishing from your lungs despite the lack of a physical presence piercing the back of your throat with violent thrusts. you could not protest, choking on what could only be described as an invisible battering ram. the intensity rises in your stomach, heightened by their unrelenting persistence, iii swirled his fingers against the bedsheets mirroring the reaction against your clit, vessel hand stroking himself through his cloaks mimicking the ministrations that riddled your throat.

sweetness drips down your shaking thighs, with a mixture of pleasure, uncertainty and regret. although they had not touched you, your body still felt marred by their presence. as your high comes down, they take a step back, eyes stalking, teeth sharp, primed and ready to strike, yet they cease, simply watching you as you drift into peaceful slumber.

their whispers echo throughout your mind.

“your husband is lost to you. dream of us…only us”

the next morning is met with silence, your eyes sunken and hollow from lack of sleep, your appetite still fleeting despite your stomach’s hunger, this time barely taking small nibbles from the strawberry speared on your fork. as much as you tried to disregard the events of the previous evening, thoughts and memories still prevailed in your mind, the way their hands caressed your body despite the physical contact, how their fingers, tongues, teeth and manhood ravaged you in the best of ways. your thighs clench tightly together under the dining table at the thought.

“you were tossing and turning an awful lot last night” your husband’s voice breaks the silence, shaking you from your thoughts. your breath hitches in your chest, skin goes clammy and cold. surely he did not hear, he was asleep like iii said he was, even when you tried to alert him he remained dead to the world. your stomach sinks with regret, no- you should not feel regret, those monsters took advantage of you in your most vulnerable of hours, despite the lack of touch, it made your skin itch and burn with shame.

“just a bad dream is all, do not worry” you respond taking another hesitant bite of the strawberry.

your husband chewed the inside of his cheek, his eyes not holding the same optimism as the day before, maybe he was just overworked, he did come to bed later than expected last night.

“well all right then” he stands up from the dining table.

“oh, by the way, darling, i have been called back into town, something about closing a deal on a mansion in south london, i must leave before noon”

“what?” you are stumped by the sudden revelation. getting up and following him up the staircase as the servants once again began to clean the table with haste.

“and what of our honeymoon-?”

“darling please do not argue with me on this, it is of the utmost importance that i close this deal so that way we can afford that cottage you wanted remember?”

“am i not important to you then? do you just expect me to stay here in this shithole by myself”

“you watch your tone-!” you are taken aback by his sudden outburst, taking a small step back against the bedroom door. his breath heaving in his chest with frustration. “ no darling, you are important to me-”

“then i’m coming with you”

“no, please. i’ll only be a couple of days” he begins to re pack his suitcase, which had conveniently been placed atop of the bed, its weight sinking into the plush velvet bedspread.

“and what do you expect me to do for the time being huh?”

“i don’t know love, find a way to entertain yourself” he places a chaste kiss on your cheek. speeding out the door without a proper goodbye, you're left alone, seated in the silence of the bedroom, lingering thoughts of those two apparitions, monsters of whatever the hell they were in your mind and most definitely in your loins. and their eyes, cold and unloving stare you down, waiting with bated breath in the shadows, marring your skin with lust.

you kept yourself locked in the bedroom for the rest of the day, servants leaving morsels of food left over from lunch and dinner at the foot of the door, plum scented merlot lingers in the air, and your stomach craves it. your body too heavy to lift the covers, to downtrodden in your own anguish to move, even as the moonlight bled through the curtains and their figures appeared through the window left ajar.

their stares as ravenous as ever, vessel’s especially, canines desperate to gnaw on your flesh, consume you from the inside. their cloaks less formal, iii only adorned in a white dress shirt and a simple pair of linen slacks, vessels attire remains more or less the same, less form fitting you'd say.

“you two…” you begin sitting up, feeling the warmth already pool in your loins despite your mind objecting to it in every sense of the word. vessel and iii remain silent, keeping their gaze fixated on you

“i’ve felt the two of you…crawling like serpents in my body…”

iii cocked his head to the side, white locks seems so contract against the black of night. his eyes crinkled into a cocky smirk.

“it is not us” iii begins, taking a step forward towards the bed. “it is your own nature”

“no-! i love my husband-”

“your body says otherwise, little dove” vessel interrupts, pulling the sheets back, your body grows heavy again, locked in place with invisible shackles no matter how much you tried to break yourself free. iii runs his fingers up your exposed thigh, the sensation of him touching one unlike any other, gentle yet dominating. you wonder if vessel felt the same.

“you are villains- monsters!”

iii’s finger traces even higher, drawing shapes into the skin of your upper thigh, so dangerously close to the axis, to your void of warmth. vessel accompanies him, only his fingers mimic iii’s actions down your chest, just at the lace trimmings where your breasts lay beneath.

your breath hitches in your throat, a moan stifled underneath. iii and vessel’s ears perk up eagerly at the sound.

“we are an appetite, nothing more” vessel reminds, fingertips sneaking underneath your shift, gingerly across the valley of your breasts.

“you are deceivers-mmh-!” you moan despite your words of protest due to iii’s fingers finding your clit, taking solace in how swollen the hidden pearl had become under his touch.

“you deceive yourself” iii muses, drawing harsh shapes into your clit. your fingers tightened around the sheets, trying to ground yourself in reality.

this is all a dream it is not real-!

vessel’s hands grope your breasts, palms pressed firmly against your perky nipples. he leans in, tongue whispering against the shell of your ear as he speaks.

“your passion is bound to us” his words are sinful, an unholy choir, his fingers, the conductors of chaos as they work their way around your body.

“you cannot… mhm….you cannot love” your hips roll to the movements of iii’s fingers, now teasing your entrance with slow, intentional strokes.

their cocks throbbing beneath their cloaks, iii grinds against the mattress, desperate for any form of friction. vessel strains in his shrouds, his size almost pressed against your cheek. your breath heightens, the sensation overwhelming as you try to gather your rationale.

“we cannot…” iii mutters his voice slightly sombre. “yet…we cannot be satiated without you, little bird”

vessel’s fingers linger at the straps of your shift, tugging them down with methodical delay. your breasts are now revealed to the midnight air, iii lets out a growl of hunger, ceasing his movements on your clit as he crawls up the bed, inspecting the stiffened buds further. iii begins to untie the ropes of his slacks shuffling them down, his cock slaps against his stomach, warm to the touch, drooling with pre-cum. vessel bares his fangs, canines grazing your skin.

“you are our affliction…” vessel lulls, his tongue jutting out past his lips to lick the skin of your neck.

before you can protest, he bites down hard. blood instantly pools in his mouth and he drinks you in reverently, determined and hungry with lust. a gasp catches in your throat and iii, ever the opportunist decides to silence you with his cock, forcing the lengthy appendage down your throat. your eyes well with tears, from the brutal force of iii’s cock and vessel’s teeth combined. your body retaliated, trying to push back yet the wetness still pools in your loins, iii’s fingers still wet with your slick as he holds your head still, hips pistoning his cock in and out of your throat.

“god…she feels incredible…” iii mentions to vessel who continues to drain your lifeforce, swallowing drop after drop of crimson so much that iii had to remind him to satiate his appetite.

vessel pulls away, licking up the small droplets of blood, trailing like ruby tears down your neck. your vision faded, they were nothing but blurred shapes clouding your senses. you gasp, ii having pulled out of your throat, to allow you some respite while vessel repositions himself between your thighs, your blood still dripping down his chin.

“she tastes divine” vessel shudders with pleasure, swiping his fingers against your cunt, gathering the wetness from between your folds and sampling you. the taste of your essence mixed with your blood was nothing short of incredible, like ambrosia for him. iii only wishes he could indulge in you if it weren’t for the mask obscuring his mouth.

iii’s jealousy spiked at the action, forcing his cock back down your throat, holding his position, adoring the way you gag around him. despite the lack of air, you did not attempt to stop him, the feeling was foreign but oh so wondrous, the air leaving your lungs, dark spots in your vision began to form only to disperse once he started moving again, only faster this time, taking strands of your hair between inky black fingertips, forcing you to take each inch of him.

vessel is more delicate with his actions, his tongue twirling around your clit, drawing shapes and symbols into the swollen nub, gathering your juices on his tongue. your body feels heated, not sure if for the loss of blood, on the venom his fangs poured into you. either way, you felt elated, weightless, pleasure surging through your veins as you allow them to claim you, painting your body with invisible marks of lust, indentations of where their fingers prodded, tongues licked and palms caressed.

“a goddess she is…” vessels words are muffled between your folds, lapping up each drop your body secreted. he kisses your inner thighs offering you some respite from the assault of his tongue.

“i did not think she would take us so easily” iii comments, holding his cock in the back of your throat, almost on the edge of orgasm.

“she is skilled…that bastard is a lucky man indeed”

the two of them continue overworking your body, to the point where your thighs ached, your throat burns with pleasure and your cunt pulses with need. you moan around iii, oddly happy to receive the effort of his labour, pre-cum already mingling with your tastebuds, and you desire more, craved more of him, and of vessel too.

without warning, vessel inserts two fingers inside you, your cunt welcoming the slender digits, his lips curl around your clit, sucking greedily at the sensitive pearl.

“she is close…” vessel remarks, engaged in conversation with iii as if you weren't even there.

“so am i” iii mutters through clenched teeth, his cock throbbing with an unparalleled need for release.

you gush around vessel's fingers, dripping into the sheets below. his eyes darken, shot blood red as he licks your cunt clean. your throat constricting around iii, his cum pumped into the back of your throat, forcing you to swallow every last drop of him.

“fuck..” iii growls, pulling out of your mouth.

your mind so fucked out that you did not even recognise that they were repositioning themselves. a mixture of shapes and colours clouded your vision, sensing iii was now behind you, he tugs you up by the hair, bringing his face to your neck, to where vessel had bitten you, inhaling the sweet scent of your blood deeply, a shuddering breath leaving his lips.

vessel positions himself underneath you, hands groping your waist, juices your dripping cunt down, lower onto his cock.

“let us ravage you, sweetheart. your body craves it”

you could not produce words, syllables falling flat on your tongue as your throat burns from iii’s assault. instead of allowing you to speak, vessel kisses you, and the clash of your lips causes a cacophony of emotions to swirl through your mind. lust, hate, regret, disgust. iii from behind mimics vessel's actions, driving his cock into your already full cunt, your walls tight enough as is having to spread and make room for the both of them. and the pleasure…it is instantaneous, arousal swirling in your stomach, both of their cocks prodding out through your flesh.

vessel breaks the kiss, his movements substantially slower and softer than iii’s. despite his masked features, he gazes into your eyes, drowning you in a sea of emptiness, a void unknown. a hand delicately comes up and cups your cheek, smoothing gentle circles into the skin with his thumb.

“you shall be one with us for all eternity…mmhm…do you swear it?” his voice was like honey in your ears, a far cry from the ravenous, violent grunts of iii behind you.

your mind draws blank, empty and fucked out with pleasure.

“do you swear it, little dove?” vessel repeats.

“i swear it…” you repeat the phrase like a mantra, perhaps in the hopes to actually have it come to fruition. vessel smiles a toothy, vampiric grin, placing another delicate kiss to your lips.

a far cry from the chaste, almost platonic kiss your husband left you with. and it broke your heart to think so. yet as of now, your mind is preoccupied with pleasures of the flesh, the way these hellish creatures worship your body, and crave your presence even for just a moment. the missing piece to their unyielding lust.

iii fills you, unannounced and your body is unprepared for the visceral reaction. his cum leaking out of you like a faucet, dripping down your inner thighs and coating vessel’s hips.

“oh gods…” iii grumbles, his cock softening within you, still keeping you plugged and full of him.

vessel chuckles softly.

“pay him no mind, he just adores you so”

iii hovers over you, nuzzling his face into your sweat-slicked shoulder blades.

“you ours now, pretty bird”

vessel grew closer to release, his cock throbbing inside you warmth. you lean into him, lean into the feeling of him as warmth spreads throughout your body. their cum mingles with yours, filling your womb with their unholy spawn. as vessel softens inside you, the two of them hold your body close, allowing their combined releases to incubate inside of you.

“our angel…” iii begins, breathless pants ravaging his breath.

“you are to remain in this castle, forevermore. your husband is a stranger to you now. the only men who will be able to satisfy your desires will be vessel and i”

vessel smirks into your neck, kissing the place where he had bitten.

“what do you say little dove, care to be ours forever?”

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

#{ my fics : 🤍 }#sleep token x reader #vessel x reader #iii x reader #sleep token smut #vessel smut #iii smut #sleep token #sleep token x nosferatu #sleep token fanfic #sleep token imagine

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cheriecelestial · 3 months ago

Text

You get me closer to God | [1/3]

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Alexander The Great x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. dark themes. yandere content. mentions of injuried animals. alex is highkey manipulative. misogyny. severe historical inaccuracies.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So I don't know what made me do this. I read this one Alexander the great fanfic was my brain starting cooking on its own and came up with this while walking to Programming Class. Told @joekitsu abt it and all of this is cuz of them. Hella inaccurate but we ball cuz this is fiction and I don't really care. Also Y/N is 12-13 and Alexander is 15-16. Comment, Like and Reblog (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

comment to be added to taglist.

[2/3] [3/3]

“You must believe me—I know what I saw!” Alexander insisted, his voice sharp with frustration. His usually bright eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on desperation, as if the weight of his conviction alone could force Hephaestion to see the truth.

The other boy sighed, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to stave off the headache brewing behind his eyes. “My prince,” he began carefully, choosing his words with the patience of a man caught between loyalty and reason, “I do not doubt your judgment. But you must understand—claiming to have seen Lady Aphrodite herself is... extraordinary. Even for you.”

Alexander bristled, his jaw tightening. “You think I would lie about such a thing?”

Hephaestion held up a placating hand. “Not lie. But even the keenest eyes may be tricked by twilight, and sacred groves are ever the domain of visions.”

A tense silence stretched between them before Hephaestion pressed further, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation toward firmer ground. “And, if I may ask—what were you doing near that place at such an hour? The laws of Meiza are clear: no pupil departs temple grounds without leave from kin or tutor. And you, my lord, sought no such permission.”

The prince stiffened, caught off guard. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his struggle to conjure a convincing excuse. After a moment of hesitation, he exhaled sharply and surrendered to the truth. “I saw Cassander slipping beyond the wall that way. I wished to see where he was going.”

Hephaestion groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if beseeching the gods for patience. The son of Antipater was a notorious instigator, a boy who treated rules as mere suggestions rather than boundaries. Like Alexander, he had been raised under the shadow of power—his father, the king’s most trusted general, ensured that consequence rarely touched him. The two were cut from the same defiant cloth, each believing themselves the exception to every rule.

“My prince,” Hephaestion said, his voice edged with reproach, “Cassander is no beacon of conduct. Must you trail after his every folly?”

Alexander’s lip curled. “Folly? I call it vigilance.”

“Vigilance that conjures goddesses from the mist?” Hephaestion countered, his brow arched.

Alexander’s retort died on his lips, replaced by a stubborn silence while thinking back to his encounter.

Sleep had eluded him. The hour was late, the halls of the temple of the nymphs hushed, but his thoughts raced like chariots at the Hippodrome. Resigned, he had risen, slipping into the cool embrace of the night. Above him, Selene reigned in silver splendor, her celestial handmaidens—those distant, twinkling stars—scattered across the heavens like diamonds cast upon obsidian. He knew their names, their myths, their paths—Aristotle had made certain of that. Yet tonight, their brilliance offered no solace.

Seeking refuge, he had settled beneath one of the garden’s pillared gazebos, its stark white columns entwined with ivy, their leaves swaying in the faintest breath of wind. It was a portrait of tranquility—or so it seemed.

Then—movement.

A cloaked figure slipped between the shadows near the temple, footsteps careful and deliberate. An intruder? A thief? Instinct flared hot in Alexander’s veins. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt as he melted into the darkness, trailing the stranger with the precision of a hunter.

Yet something gnawed at him. Something about how this man moved felt familiar, whether it was the rhythm in his step or his posture. Recognition hit Alexander like Zeus' lightning.

The hood slipped, revealing the sharp features of Cassander, scion of the noble house of Iolaos. What madness drove him beyond the walls at this hour? The rules of Meiza were the iron girders of discipline, absolute and ultimate and Cassander, for all his posturing, was no fool. Unless his purpose was worth the risk.

Alexander tensed—he had to follow, demand answers—

“My prince?”

He was about to follow him out but he heard a voice call from behind him.

The voice, low but unmistakable, froze him mid-step. He whirled, blade half-drawn, before his eyes settled on Ptolemy—a close friend and companion.

“What business have you here?” The prince countered, his tone sharper than intended.

Ptolemy’s gaze flickered toward the wall, then back. “I might ask the same.”

By the time Alexander turned again, Cassander had vanished—swallowed by the night. Reluctantly, he allowed Ptolemy to steer him back to the dormitories, but the questions festered like a wound left untended. Why? Where? How often?

Days passed. The mystery festered. Alexander watched, patient as a sage, as Cassander moved through his routines—attending lectures, drilling in the palaestra, laughing with friends. But always, always, there was that gleam in his eye—the look of a man who knew a secret. Then, the pattern emerged. Once every fortnight, Cassander would slip away.

Tonight, Alexander would not be thwarted. With Ptolemy’s aid—ever willing, ever unquestioning—Cassander was lured into a late-night game of kottabos, his attention ensnared by wine and wit.

And Alexander moved.

He retraced Cassander’s path, fingers skimming the rough-hewn stones of the perimeter wall, searching, probing—

There.

Behind a curtain of thick ivy, the mortar had crumbled, the bricks pried loose just enough to form a narrow passage. Alexander exhaled a laugh, triumphant. So this was how the fox slipped its leash. With one last cautious glance behind him to ensure he hadn't been followed, the young prince dropped to his hands and knees and squeezed through the gap. The rough stone scraped against his shoulders, but the thrill of rebellion burned hotter than any discomfort. This forbidden act of slipping beyond the walls sent his pulse racing in a way no training yard spar ever could.

Beyond the wall, the trail revealed itself through flattened grasses and broken twigs— a path worn by frequent use. The corners of Alexander's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he noted the clear signs of Cassander's regular trespasses. The foliage grew denser as he pressed forward, vines and branches snagging at his chiton with increasing persistence. Where a more patient man might have carefully parted the vegetation, Alexander slashed through the greenery with impatient strokes of his dagger, sending leaves and tendrils flying. Answers waited ahead, and he'd be damned if some stubborn plants would delay him.

Just as the thicket seemed impassable, silver light flickered between the leaves ahead. With one final, determined push, Alexander burst through— only to stumble and fall gracelessly onto his hands and knees in the soft earth. The indignity of it burned his cheeks— a prince of Macedon, sprawled in the dirt like a clumsy child. He scrambled up quickly, brushing the soil from his knees with sharp, embarrassed movements while glancing about to confirm his humiliation had no witnesses.

Before him stretched a vision so perfect it seemed ripped from the dreams of poets. A tranquil lake reflected the full moon and star-strewn sky, gentle ripples danced across the water like nymphs at play. The surrounding meadow glowed emerald in the moonlight while fireflies weaved through the air— living sparks from Hestia's eternal flame. Towering over the scene stood a magnolia tree, its pearl-white blossoms luminous against the night, petals drifting down like snowflakes to carpet the ground below. The air hummed with the rhythmic chorus of crickets like delicate lyres strumming in harmony to the wind's gentle melody. And there, beneath the magnolia's boughs, stood the source of the ethereal radiance that illuminated this hidden sanctuary.

Time itself seemed to pause as Alexander's eyes beheld her. Flowing H/C locks cascaded over her shoulders draped in silken fabric of her chiton that appeared woven from morning mist and pearls. Golden bracelets glimmered at her wrists as she cradled a dove with infinite tenderness, her lips murmuring comforts only the divine could impart.

Alexander's pulse thundered in his ears. The air grew thick, time itself pausing in reverence. No mortal woman could possess such unearthly grace, such effortless perfection. The stories, the statues, the temple frescoes - all had failed to capture even a fraction of her beauty. That was when he knew that before him stood none other than Aphrodite herself, goddess of love and beauty.

Driven by a hunger that burned hotter than reason, Alexander stepped forward, his fingers trembling as they reached for her—not in worship, but in desperate, human need. To touch. To prove she was real. But the forest betrayed him. A branch snapped beneath his foot, the sound as sharp as a blade through the sacred silence.

Her head whipped toward him.

And in that instant—reality shattered.

The face that met his was young, terrified. A girl. No older than him, if not younger. Her eyes—wide with panic—locked onto his for a single, breathless moment before she scrambled to her feet, the dove still clutched protectively in her hands. Then she was running, her bare feet kicking up dew as she vanished into the trees.

“Wait!” Alexander's voice tore from his throat, raw with something between command and plea.

Doubt clawed at him. Had he committed sacrilege? Was she a nymph, a spirit, forbidden to mortal eyes? The way she had looked at him—not with divine indifference, but fear—gnawed at his certainty. Yet even as guilt prickled at his conscience, a darker, hungrier thought took root.

She had run from him.

And Alexander of Macedon did not tolerate flight.

His mother’s voice slithered through his mind, seductive as a serpent: “You are blessed by Zeus. The world is yours to claim.”

If this girl was divine, then she belonged among his conquests.

If she was mortal—then she had no right to refuse him.

The days stretched on, each one longer than the last, as Alexander returned again and again to the hidden glade. But the girl—the vision—was nowhere to be found. The magnolia tree stood as silent witness to his frustration, its petals drifting onto the undisturbed surface of the lake. She had vanished like morning mist under the sun.

“As I have told you before, my prince, it is... improbable that she was divine.” Hephaestion's voice was measured, the way one might speak to a restless hound before it snapped. “More likely, she was a girl from the village—perhaps the daughter of some wealthy merchant.”

Alexander scoffed, fingers tightening around the edge of his cup. “You think I do not know the difference between merchant's silk and the raiment of a goddess?” The fabric she had worn had seemed spun from the finest of pearls of Poseidon's waters, the gold at her wrists too pure, too alive, to be the work of mortal hands. “No village girl owns such things. No noble in this city could afford them.”

Hephaestion exhaled, weary. “Then what do you intend to do?”

Alexander's gaze darkened. “Find her.”

Then—a thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.

Cassander.

Had he known her? Had he been sneaking out to meet her all this time?

Cassander was seated in the courtyard, methodically running a whetstone along the edge of his sword when Alexander approached. The son of Antipater glanced up, his usual smirk in place. “My prince,” he greeted, setting his blade aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander forced a smile. “I was hoping you might join me in the library tonight. I mean to study the old texts—perhaps you could lend your insight.”

A flicker of hesitation. Then Cassander sighed, rubbing his temple. “I am honored, but I must beg your pardon. I’ve been feeling unwell—I thought to retire early.”

Liar.

Alexander’s blood burned. Today was the night—the same pattern as before. Cassander knew. He had to. And now he dared refuse his prince’s request, hiding behind false weakness? “I see,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Then may Apollo’s grace restore you swiftly.”

He turned away before Cassander could see the fury in his eyes.

Hephaestion was waiting where Alexander had left him, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet unease.

“You will come with me tonight,” Alexander commanded, his voice low. “To the meadows.”

Hephaestion frowned. “My prince—”

“You will see her,” Alexander interrupted, his eyes alight with something perilous. “And then you will understand.”

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Alexander and Hephaestion slipped through the crumbling gap in the wall. The prince moved with the precision of a seasoned hunter; his every sense attuned to the whispers of the night. Hephaestion followed, his unease growing with each step deeper into the forbidden woods.

“We shouldn't be out here after curfew,” Hephaestion muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Alexander didn't slow. “Then consider this a royal command overriding temple law.” His voice left no room for debate.

The forest grew denser, the path Cassander had taken now illuminated only by the faint glow of fireflies. Alexander's pulse quickened—every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig could mean she was near. Or worse, that Cassander had gotten there first.

Then—her voice.

Sweet and clear as a songbird’s call, it floated through the trees:

“Cassander… is that you?”

Through the tangled foliage, torchlight flickered, painting the trunks in gold and shadow. There. The girl stood just beyond the thicket, her silhouette haloed in firelight.

Hephaestion’s sharp inhale confirmed it—she was real. Not a specter, not a trick of the moonlight. Alexander’s grinned in triumph.

Then, like a predator coiling before the strike, he stepped back—once, twice—before surging forward, bursting into the clearing with the force of a storm.

The girl whirled, her eyes widening in terror. She stumbled back, but Alexander was faster. His hand closed around her wrist, yanking her to a halt.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared.

Up close, she was more breathtaking than he remembered. Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers, warm as sunlight. Her hair—loose and tumbling over her shoulders—gleamed like spun gold. And her eyes… wide, luminous, frightened. Tears welled along her lashes, but she didn’t look away. Alexander’s breath caught. Gods. Even in distress, she was radiant.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”

She twisted in his grip, but Alexander barely registered the struggle. His free hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing a stray lock from her face. Her hair slipped through his fingers like silk, finer than any royal weave. He ached to cradle her cheek, to claim this moment—

“Alexander.”

Hephaestion’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade. The girl seized the distraction, wrenching free with a sob. Before Alexander could react, she darted behind Hephaestion, fists clutching his chiton like a lifeline.

Alexander blinked, disoriented. “Y/N?” Hephaestion murmured, half-turning to shield her.

Cassander burst from the trees then, his face paling as he took in the scene. “Y/N! Wait— Hephaestion? What in Hades—?”

“Cassander!” The girl lunged past Hephaestion, crashing into Cassander’s chest. His arms closed around her instinctively, his glare snapping to Alexander.

The prince’s blood turned to lava.

“Explain,” Alexander snarled. His hand flexed at his side, fingers itching for his sword. The pieces crashed together with brutal clarity. Hephaestion, who’d doubted her existence, now stood as her protector? Cassander, who'd lied to his prince, held her like she was his? Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. Betrayal. Hot and noxious, it coiled in his gut.

The girl flinched at his tone, pressing closer to Cassander.

Hephaestion stepped forward, his voice low. ”Alexander, this isn’t what you think.”

“Then enlighten me,” Alexander bit out. The words dripped venom.

Cassander’s grip tightened on the girl. “It is not what you think my prince. She’s my—”

Alexander took a menacing step forward, the air around him crackling with barely restrained fury. “Your what?” he interrupted, each word a dagger thrust. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than any shout. “Finish that sentence, Cassander. I command you.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath. The rustling leaves stilled. Even the ever-present chorus of crickets fell silent, as if nature itself recoiled from the storm about to break.

Hephaestion, standing rigid between them, finally broke the suffocating silence. “Alexander,” he said carefully, “she's Cassander's sister.”

The words hung suspended in the air, heavy with implication.

For several heartbeats, Alexander simply stared, his mind struggling to reconcile this new reality with the divine vision he'd convinced himself he'd seen. Sister. The word echoed in his skull, unraveling the fantasy thread by thread.

“Then how is it I've never known of her before?” he demanded, though the fire in his voice had dimmed, replaced by something perilously close to relief.

Cassander sighed, his grip on the girl loosening marginally. “My lord, she is the daughter of my father's third wife,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral. Alexander knew Antipater had taken multiple wives—common among nobles—but had paid little attention to any offspring beyond Cassander, the only one deemed worthy of political consideration. Noble daughters, especially young ones, were often kept out of public view until marriageable age, and this girl was clearly not yet of that station.

Hephaestion added quietly, “Our mothers were close in their youth. Cassander and his siblings have always been welcome in our home.” There was an unspoken truth beneath his words: the sons of nobles moved in circles Alexander, as prince, could never fully inhabit. They respected him, yes, even cared for him—but there were lines they would not cross, boundaries he could never breach.

Alexander's fingers uncurled from the hilt of his sword.

But Hephaestion was not finished. He knew Cassander's pride was a brittle thing, especially when it came to his family's honor, and Alexander's actions had skirted dangerously close to insult. “Cassander,” he began, choosing his words with the precision of a diplomat, “you must understand. The prince acted out of concern. He believed Y/N was a common village girl distracting you from your studies at Meiza. His methods were... misguided, but his intent was pure.”

A beat. Then Cassander nodded, though his jaw remained tight. “I understand.”

Behind him, the girl—Y/N—remained half-hidden, her wide eyes darting between them like a hare assessing its predators. Cassander turned to her, murmuring something too low for the others to hear, before stepping forward to clasp Alexander's arm in a gesture of truce.

Hephaestion seized the opportunity to lean down to Y/N. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice the gentle cadence she had come to associate with safety. She nodded, though her fingers still trembled from uncertainty.

When Cassander returned, the tension in his shoulders had eased. “It seems introductions are in order,” he said, with forced lightness. “My prince, may I present my sister, the third daughter of the House of Iolaos— Lady Y/N.”

Y/N dipped into a flawless bow, her eyes demurely lowered.

“And Y/N,” Cassander continued, “this is Alexander, Prince of Macedon.”

Alexander offered her a smile that might have been charming under different circumstances. Then, to the shock of all present, he extended his hand—not in command, but in request.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flicking to Cassander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Swallowing her fear, she placed her hand in Alexander's.

Instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that bordered on theatrical. “Forgive my earlier discourtesy, my lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as honeyed wine. ”I meant you no harm.”

The gesture was one reserved for cherished friends—or equals. A blatant lie, given the fury of moments before, but a necessary performance.

The tension in the clearing eased, but the air still thrummed with unspoken words. Alexander released Y/N's hand, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long—a silent promise that this encounter was not the end, but the beginning.

“We should return before the night deepens,” Hephaestion urged, his voice low but firm. “Before the temple masters notice our absence.” His eyes flickered between Alexander and Cassander, well aware that this peace was as fragile as spun glass.

Cassander gave a curt nod, turning to Y/N. His expression, so often sharp with arrogance, softened as he cupped her face. “Go,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Your nurse will be waiting.” A gentle nudge toward the path where he knew her attendants stood guard—his silent assurance that she would be safe from prying eyes, from him.

But the prince of Macedon wasn't one to be shaken off so easily.

“Y/N.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like honeyed wine, smooth and deliberate. She froze mid-step, the fine linen of her chiton whispering against her skin as she turned just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

Alexander smiled—not the charming grin of a prince, but the slow, deliberate curve of a predator savoring the scent of its prey. “Now that we are properly acquainted,” he said, “I would be honored if you would grace us with your company again. Soon.”

A command disguised as a request.

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she dipped into a flawless curtsey, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “As you wish, my prince.”

As Y/N's retreating footsteps faded into the night, Alexander inhaled slowly, savoring the lingering scent of magnolias that clung stubbornly to the air. The taste of victory was sweet upon his tongue - but incomplete.

The group moved in heavy silence, the crunch of leaves beneath their sandals the only sound. Cassander lingered a few paces behind, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, while Hephaestion walked slightly ahead while, his shoulders tense. Alexander, meanwhile, seemed almost at ease, his hands clasped behind his back as if they had merely enjoyed a moonlit stroll.

Hephaestion’s stomach twisted with unease. He cared deeply for Alexander—had followed him without question through battles and trials—but he knew better than anyone the dangerous fire that burned within the prince. It was the same fire that had burned Troy to the ground, the kind that consumed everything in its path. And now, it had fixated on Y/N. Gods help her, he thought, if she becomes the kindling for that flame.

“Your sister,” Alexander mused suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. “She is timid, yet there is a sweetness to her. So marked, in fact, that I find myself questioning if the two of you share any blood at all.” He chuckled, as if it were nothing more than a jest—a jest that expected laughter in return.

“My sister is merely unaccustomed to strangers, my prince,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “Particularly those who... handle her so callously.” The unspoken accusation hung between them.

Alexander turned, his smile sharp and humorless, never quite reaching his eyes. “Ah, then I shall have to make amends,” he said smoothly. “A proper apology is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” Hephaestion suppressed a grimace. They all knew it was nothing more than an excuse—a thinly veiled ploy to see her again. Yet neither he nor Cassander dared voice the objection aloud.

In the days that followed, a calm settled over them. Alexander played his part flawlessly. He drew closer to Cassander, engaging him in debates, training alongside him, even jesting with him as though the incident in the woods had never occurred. There was no mention of Y/N, no lingering questions—at least, not spoken aloud.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as though Alexander had moved on, his fleeting fascination with Cassander’s sister forgotten as quickly as it had ignited.

But Hephaestion knew better.

It was during one of their evening walks through the olive groves that Alexander finally struck.

“What I still don’t understand,” he began, his tone deceptively light, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather, “is why your sister is not with the rest of your family.”

Cassander stilled, his fingers twitching imperceptibly at his sides. For a moment, it seemed he might not answer. Then, with deliberate calm, he replied, “Her mother has little interest in child-rearing. She prefers her own pursuits to the duties of motherhood.” A flicker of disdain crossed his features. “I despise her for it, amongst other things. But Y/N... she is nothing like her.”

Alexander arched a brow, feigning polite curiosity. “And so she remains here?”

“The great Aristotle resides in Meiza,” Cassander said, his voice softening slightly. “Scholars and thinkers frequent these halls. I convinced my father to let her accompany me so that I might oversee her education.”

“How... noble of you,” he murmured, the words dripping with false admiration. Then, with a calculated shift, he added, “Speaking of nobility—regarding that apology I owe her. I was thinking of compensating your sister for the distress I caused. Silk from Corinth, perhaps? Or gold from Lydia’s mines? Pearls plucked fresh from the Aegean?” His tone was smooth, but the glint in his eyes was anything but benign.

Cassander shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, my prince. Your words that evening were apology enough.”

Alexander waved a dismissive hand, though his gaze never wavered. “Nonsense. I insist.” The air between them grew heavy, the unspoken challenge unmistakable—refuse me again, and see what happens.

Hephaestion, sensing the tension coiling like a viper ready to strike, stepped forward. “With all due respect, my prince,” he interjected smoothly, “Y/N is the daughter of Antipater, the most celebrated general in Macedonia. Silk and gold are hardly rare treasures in their household. Rather words of sincerity are gifts unparalleled.” His voice was light, but his stance was firm—a shield thrown between Alexander’s will and Cassander’s rising temper.

“You are correct. I suppose I shall have to look for another gift then.” Alexander conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

True to his word, Alexander spent the following days in quiet deliberation. He dismissed the obvious offerings—jewels, silks, perfumes from the East—all trinkets that might impress a courtier’s daughter but would mean nothing to a girl who valued thought and effort over finery.

Then, one evening as he walked past the magnolia tree where he had first seen her, inspiration struck.

With meticulous care, he selected a sturdy branch and set to work, his dagger carving delicate strokes into the wood late into the night. The servants whispered about the prince’s strange new obsession, but Alexander paid them no mind. Perfection could not be rushed.

When the next fortnight arrived, Alexander appeared at Cassander’s door unannounced, his smile as polished as his ceremonial armor.

“Walk with me,” he said, and it was not a request.

Cassander knew better than to refuse.

The meadow lay bathed in silver moonlight, just as it had been that fateful evening. And there, beneath the great magnolia, stood Y/N—her silhouette haloed in pale blossoms. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned, her face alight with expectation... until she saw Alexander.

The prince's heart stuttered in his chest like a startled bird.

Discomfort flickered across her features, swift as a shadow over water. It's alright, Alexander told himself, the words a mantra. She'll come to see me. She must.

“Why is His Highness here?” Y/N's voice was small but clear, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her chiton.

Cassander opened his mouth to reply, but Alexander was already stepping forward, his every movement calculated to disarm. “To offer my apologies properly, my lady.” He turned to Cassander, one brow arched in silent request.

With a barely perceptible sigh, Cassander squeezed his sister's hand—be brave—and withdrew to a discreet distance. Close enough to intervene, far enough to grant the illusion of privacy.

Alexander was every inch the royal heir in that moment: his bearing regal, his chiton draped to perfection, the very air around him seeming to hum with latent power. He had inherited his mother's effortless charm and his father's commanding presence—qualities that, when wielded together, could bend wills without raising a sword.

“Greetings, my lady. Are you well?” he began, his voice warm as summer honey.

Y/N's gaze darted to the ground. “I am, my prince. And you needn't—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “Allow me this.” He inclined his head, the very picture of contrition. “I was discourteous to you, and I regret my actions deeply. More than that...” Here, he paused, as if searching for the right words. “I wish to know you, Y/N. Not as a prince to a subject, but as one soul to another.”

From his belt, he produced a small wooden dove, its wings delicately carved, its surface polished to a soft sheen. The scent of magnolia clung to it like a memory.

“I carved this myself,” he admitted, running a thumb over its back. “From a branch of this very tree. The imperfections are many, I fear, but...” He held it out to her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Perhaps that makes it more honest.”

Y/N's breath caught. The dove was exquisite—the wings tapered to near-translucent thinness, the feathers etched with painstaking care. This was no hastily purchased trinket, but something made with time, with attention. Her fingers trembled as she took it, tracing the grooves left by his knife.

“You... made this?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Alexander nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

For the first time, Y/N looked at him—truly looked at him. Not as the terrifying prince who had chased her through the woods, but as the young man before her now: his usually impeccable hair tousled by the night breeze, a smudge of wood dust still clinging to his wrist.

Her smile, when it came, was like dawn breaking over the Aegean—slow, radiant, utterly disarming.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, cradling the dove to her chest. “I will treasure it always.”

And Alexander, a child born to be the conqueror of men, the scion of gods, found himself struck dumb.

In the weeks that followed, Y/N had grown bold enough to insist that Cassander bring both Hephaestion and Alexander along during their fortnightly visits. The prince, of course, was all too eager to oblige. For Y/N, who had spent most of her life sheltered within the confines of noble propriety, these gatherings were a rare taste of companionship beyond her brother’s watchful presence. They would talk, play games, and laugh—just as young people ought to.

But not all was as harmonious as it seemed.

Though Hephaestion occasionally excused himself—whether out of discretion or discomfort, none could say—Alexander never missed a single meeting. His presence, once a novelty, soon became a constant, and Cassander found himself increasingly sidelined. Here, in this meadow that had once been his sanctuary with Y/N, he now felt like an intruder in his own sister’s affections.

Worse still, he could not deny the irony: Alexander, his closest friend, now stole the very moments Cassander cherished most.

And Alexander, for his part, had begun to see Cassander not as a brother-in-arms, but as an obstacle—a necessary nuisance, yes, but a nuisance all the same.

One evening, as silver light filtered through the leaves, Y/N sat weaving a crown of flowers, her fingers deft as they threaded blossoms together. Nearby, Hephaestion and Cassander sparred with wooden swords, their mock battle filled with laughter and good-natured taunts.

Alexander, leaning beside Y/N with his head in her lap, watched her work with quiet fascination.

“My lady,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “May I be so bold as to make a request?”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers still busy with the flowers. “Go right ahead.”

Alexander took a breath. “I’ve noticed how much Cassander values his time with you. As do I.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “But when we’re all together, it feels... crowded. I was thinking—what if we met at different times? Just you and I?”

Y/N’s hands stilled. The flower crown slipped from her fingers.

“What are you implying, my prince?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alexander sat up, turning to face her fully. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s merely practical. Fewer people mean less risk of being caught by the temple masters. And it would give Cassander more time with you as well.”

Y/N bit her lip. “My mother says a young lady shouldn’t be alone with a man unchaperoned.”

“But you wouldn’t be alone,” Alexander countered smoothly. “Your guard and nurse are always stationed nearby, are they not?”

Y/N hesitated. Technically, he was right. Seeing her waver, Alexander leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless... you’re afraid my company will ruin all others for you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Then, with a huff, she did something no one had ever dared—she smacked his arm.

It was a light tap, the kind she often gave Cassander when he teased her too much. But coming from her, directed at him—Alexander gasped in exaggerated offense.

“You dare strike a prince?” he declared, his tone dripping with mock outrage. “ This is treason! Punishable by—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was already running, her laughter ringing through the trees.

“Forgive me, O merciful prince!” she called over her shoulder, her voice bright with amusement.

Alexander gave chase, his long legs closing the distance between them with ease. When he caught her, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spinning embrace. They were both breathless with laughter as he gently placed her onto the soft grass.

“Traitor,” he accused, looming over her with a grin. “By the decree the heir of Macedonia, you shall be punished.”

And then—he tickled her.

Y/N shrieked, her laughter bordering on hysterical as she writhed beneath his relentless fingers. “Stop! Please! I yield!”

Alexander relented, but only slightly. “Only if you say yes to my proposal,” he bargained, his eyes alight with mischief.

Y/N’s laughter faded. She searched his face, her expression turning serious. “And Cassander?”

Alexander’s smile softened. “He’s too overprotective. But you deserve freedom. It can be our secret, yes?”

For a long moment, Y/N was silent. Then, with a slow nod—

“Alright.”

The oil lamps in Alexander’s chambers flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of spiced wine and burning wicks hung heavy in the air, but the tension between the two youths was thicker still.

Hephaestion stood rigid by the doorway, his usually composed features strained with uncharacteristic intensity. “My prince,” he began again, his voice carefully measured, “I must ask—why are you doing this?”

Alexander didn’t look up from his wine cup, his fingers idly tracing its golden rim. The ruby liquid within caught the light, shimmering like spilled blood. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he murmured, his tone deliberately light.

A muscle twitched in Hephaestion’s jaw. “Lady Y/N,” he pressed, refusing to let the prince feign ignorance. “She is Cassander’s sister. Antipater’s daughter. Your... interest in her is more than concerning. If word got out—if rumors spread—it could ruin her reputation. Is that what you want?”

For the first time, Alexander lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually so vibrant with mischief or command, were unnervingly still—like the calm before a storm. “And what if it is?”

The words landed like a blow.

Hephaestion actually took a step back, his breath catching. Had he heard correctly? The prince couldn’t possibly mean—

Alexander smirked, tilting his head like a predator studying wounded prey. “Does my friendship with Lady Y/N truly threaten you so much, philos?” The endearment—friend—was laced with mocking sweetness.

Hephaestion’s hands clenched at his sides. There was nothing he could say—nothing that would sway Alexander once his mind was set. And if he breathed a word of this to Cassander? The consequences would be catastrophic. Cassander’s temper was legendary, and no amount of loyalty would stop him from confronting Alexander directly—a death sentence, whether by the prince’s hand or his father’s.

So Hephaestion did the only thing he could.

He stayed silent.

For the first time in their long friendship, Hephaestion felt genuine fear - not for himself, but for Y/N, for Cassander, for the fragile peace that Alexander seemed determined to shatter.

“You wouldn't.” The words escaped Hephaestion's lips before he could stop them, raw with disbelief. “Not to her. Not to Cassander.”

Alexander finally set down his wine cup with deliberate slowness, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by something far more dangerous - absolute certainty. “I am Alexander of Macedon. I take what I want.”

The casual brutality of the declaration struck Hephaestion like Zeus’ lightning. This wasn't the passionate declaration of a lovestruck youth - it was the cold calculation of a conqueror assessing new territory. The realization made his blood run cold.

“She's not a city to be besieged,” Hephaestion countered, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “She's a living, breathing woman who—”

“Who will be honored beyond measure,” Alexander interrupted, rising from his couch with panther-like grace. “Imagine it - the daughter of Antipater, raised to the future king of Macedon's beloved. Why, I'd be doing their house a favor.” He began pacing, his excitement growing with each step. “Cassander should be thanking me. But he doesn't has to know. Yet. Though a part of me wishes to tell him.”

Hephaestion's stomach twisted violently, as though he'd swallowed poison. “You cannot be serious,” he repeated, his voice low and urgent. “Cassander will not simply see reason—you know him better than that. He would rather throw himself from the cliffs of Mount Olympus than allow you to—”

Alexander cut him off with a flick of his wrist, his rings glinting in the lamplight. “He will rage, he will bluster, and then he will kneel,” he corrected, his voice smooth as polished marble. “They always do.”

Then, with terrifying suddenness, the prince stilled. His gaze—sharp as a dagger's point—locked onto Hephaestion. “Unless,” he mused, tilting his head with feigned curiosity, “you intend to warn him first? Is that your plan? In some pitiful attempt to keep from me what the Fates have already decreed mine?”

The threat coiled between them, serpentine and suffocating. Hephaestion felt the weight of it press against his ribs, stealing his breath. This was no mere test of loyalty—it was a blade held to his throat, waiting to see if he would flinch.

To oppose Alexander now would be exile.

Or death.

“Of course not,” Hephaestion forced out, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I am, as always, your loyal friend.”

Alexander's grin was a flash of white in the dim light, triumphant and terrible. “I knew I could count on you.” His hand came down on Hephaestion's shoulder—a gesture that might have been comradely, had his fingers not dug in like talons. “You should rest,” he advised, his tone deceptively light.

Then, with the casual cruelty of a cat releasing a half-dead mouse: “And I, it seems, have a tryst with a lovely lady under the moonlight.”

Outside, the moon hung full and bright over Meiza, its pale light doing nothing to dispel the darkness gathering in Hephaestion's heart. Somewhere in the night, oblivious to the storm brewing around her Y/N waited for the prince— blissfully unaware.

The tall grasses swayed gently in the cool breeze, their silvered tips whispering secrets to the stars. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their golden lights flickering like distant stars brought down to earth. And there, in the heart of this enchanted clearing, stood Y/N.

In her hands, she cradled the small wooden dove, Alexander’s gift, her fingers tracing its delicate wings absentmindedly. The night was still, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Then—footsteps.

The crunch of dry grass underfoot made her turn, her heart leaping in her chest.

“My prince?” she called out, her voice light but tinged with uncertainty.

From the shadows of the ivy-clad trees, Alexander emerged, his figure cutting a striking silhouette against the moonlit backdrop. He was dressed more casually than usual, his chiton simpler, his hair slightly tousled—as if he had hurried here. Yet even in this state, he carried himself with the effortless grace of royalty.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said, his voice warm, his smile as charming as ever. But then his expression shifted, a playful glint entering his eyes. “Though I must say, the titles ‘my prince’ and ‘your highness’ feel far too formal for such a setting, don’t you think?” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “After all, we are friends, are we not?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly. “I’d say we are...” She nearly added my prince out of habit but caught herself, her brow furrowing in confusion. What was he asking of her?

Alexander didn’t miss her hesitation. “I wish for you to call me by my name,” he said, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “I-I couldn’t,” she stammered. It was common knowledge—addressing royalty by name without honorifics was not just improper, it was forbidden unless given explicit permission. Even Cassander and Hephaestion only did so in private, and even then, it was a privilege earned through years of friendship. For her to do so? It felt like stepping onto sacred ground.

“Consider it an order,” Alexander said, his voice firm but not unkind. “From this moment on, you shall call me by my name.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Then, softly, testing the weight of the word on her tongue—

“Yes... Alexander.”

The moment his name passed her lips, something shifted in the air between them. Alexander’s entire body thrumming with an electric thrill. The way she said it—hesitant yet sweet, like a secret whispered for the first time—sent a rush of heat to his head, dizzying in its intensity. It was unadorned and intimate yet sharp and intoxicating.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice low.

“Alexander,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation, though her tone still carried a note of uncertainty, as if she were speaking a word from a foreign tongue for the first time.

“Again.”

“Alexander.” Louder now. Steadier. As if she were shedding her fear, layer by layer, revealing something new beneath with each utterance.

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “Again.”

A sigh escaped her lips, followed by a small, bemused smile. “Is this a new game you’ve devised, Alexander?” The way she said his name—teasing, almost musical—sent another jolt of pleasure through him. It was nectar to a man starved, and he found himself craving more.

Alexander shook his head, his smile widening. “No game, my lady. Merely... an indulgence.” He stepped even closer, close enough that the scent of her—honey and wildflowers—filled his senses. “Though if you’d like to play one, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, the silver light catching in her dark eyes like stars reflected in still water. “Then what are we doing tonight?” she asked, her voice carrying a new note of confidence now that the barrier of formality had been broken between them.

Alexander's smile was slow, deliberate—the expression of a man who knew exactly what he wanted but was content to savor the anticipation. “Whatever you desire,” he murmured, watching her closely.

A small, knowing smile graced Y/N's lips as she reached into the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “In that case,” she said, producing several tightly rolled scrolls, “I brought some light reading. Do you like to read, my—” She caught herself just in time, her cheeks flushing. “—Alexander?”

The prince's eyebrows shot up, his grin turning wolfish. “‘My Alexander’?” he repeated, his voice rich with amusement. “That sounded far better than I expected. I think I shall allow it.”

Y/N's mouth fell open in protest, her hands fluttering in embarrassed denial. “That—that wasn't—I didn't mean—”

Alexander threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet meadow. “Oh, but you did,” he teased, delighted by her flustered reaction. “And I rather like it.”

Composing himself, he gestured to the scrolls. “To answer your question properly—yes, my lady, I do read. In fact, I'm quite fond of the literary arts. Aristotle would say they are the very foundation of human existence.” His tone was light, but his surprise was genuine. It was uncommon for women to be educated beyond basic household management—a deliberate limitation, his mother had often explained, meant to keep them from grasping true power.

Olympias had taught him that oppression was simply another tool for those strong enough to wield it. “Fill the people's minds only with thoughts of bread and spectacle,” she'd said, “and they will never think to question their chains.” But Alexander didn’t always agree. Knowledge was power, and power should not be hoarded—it should be taken, by those bold enough to seize it.

Y/N, however, was no commoner to be kept ignorant. As the daughter of Antipater, her education would have been carefully curated—though clearly, Cassander had taken matters into his own hands.

“Let's take a look,” Alexander said, reaching for the scrolls.

The moonlight, while beautiful, was too faint for reading. Y/N produced a small oil lamp from her bag, and as she struck flint to steel, the warm glow illuminated the delicate planes of her face. Alexander watched, mesmerized, as she unfurled the first scroll and began to read aloud.

Her voice was melodic, each word shaped with care, and for a long moment, Alexander was too lost in the sound to register the content. Then, abruptly, he stiffened.

“This—” he interrupted, leaning forward. “This is taught in the temple!”

Y/N paused, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes,” she admitted. “Cassander gives me his old scrolls and teaches me what he learns within those walls. It's the only way he trusts the quality of my education—especially after my last tutor.”

There was a story there, Alexander could tell—one laced with bitterness. But for now, he was too intrigued by the revelation before him.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration, “you've been studying in secret.”

Y/N's smile was small but unmistakably proud, her fingers tracing the edge of the scroll with quiet reverence. “Not so secret anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised him.

Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s an admirable trait, this hunger for knowledge. Your brother clearly intends to raise you as more than just another noblewoman draped in silk and jewels. He wants you to be a woman of intellect—of substance.” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his features. “But tell me, my dove—what crimes did this former tutor commit to earn such exile from your education?”

Y/N blinked. ”Dove?” The endearment had caught her off guard, derailing her thoughts entirely.

Alexander’s lips quirked. “Yes. You remind me of one.” His gaze lingered on the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hands fluttered nervously when surprised—graceful, fragile, yet somehow enduring. “Gentle. Quick to startle. Beautiful in flight.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she exhaled, her expression darkening as she returned to the question at hand.

“My previous tutor was hired by my mother,” she began, her voice carefully neutral, though Alexander didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the scroll. “A woman who did everything except impart actual knowledge—though, in truth, I’m not certain she possessed any to begin with.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “She insisted a woman’s place wasn’t in literature or philosophy, but in perfecting the art of being a nobleman’s wife. She policed my appearance—how much I ate, how long I stayed in the sun lest it ‘mar my complexion’ and ruin my prospects. ”

Alexander’s brows drew together. “And your mother allowed this?”

“Encouraged it, actually,” Y/N said flatly. “Mother reminded me often that I was but three, perhaps four winters from marriageable age, and that I should focus on ‘womanly skills’ rather than—” She gestured to the scrolls with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “—all of this.”

“Nonsense!” The word burst from Alexander with unexpected vehemence, his hand slamming against the tree trunk beside him. “You’re a child. Marriage? That’s outrageous.”

Even as he said it, he knew the hypocrisy of his words. Girls were routinely married at fourteen, sixteen at the latest, often to men twice their age. He had attended enough political unions to know how the game was played. But the thought of Y/N—her quick mind, her bright laughter, her spirit still unbroken by the world—being handed over to some aging lordling like a prize mare made his blood boil.

Never, he thought, the possessiveness startling even him. Never will something of this sort happen to her. Ever.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal fury, continued. “That’s why Cassander brought me here. He was livid when he discovered what passed for my ‘education.’” A fond smile tugged at her lips as she recalled her brother’s outrage. “He fought with Father for months—said he wouldn’t let me be sold off like some broodmare or a pleasure sleeve, though I'm not sure what either of those words actually mean— I’ve heard Cassander say it in one of his arguments. Regardless, he won. Meiza was the compromise.”

She laughed then, the sound bright and clear in the night air. “He ranted for days about how he wouldn’t let some ‘old pervert’ lay a finger on me. Swore he’d only approve a match if the man proved himself worthy.”

Alexander’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Worthy, hm?” He leaned forward, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across his face. “And what, pray tell, does your brother consider ‘worthy’?”

Y/N shrugged, unaware of the trap in the question. “Someone of status, power and valor. Someone who sees me as more than a pretty accessory, I suppose. Someone who has the intelligence to respect my mind as much as my face.”

Alexander hummed, his gaze never leaving hers. “A high standard indeed.”

And one, he thought, that I fully intend to meet.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

#yandere male #male yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #alexander the great #yandere history #yandere historical characters #alexander the great x reader #yandere alexander the great #yandere alexander the great x reader #yandere historical characters x reader

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crowsofdarkness · 3 months ago

Text

Bucky wakes you up on your birthday with a little surprise.

18+ CW’s below the cut(oral with female recieving. She’s asleep at first but fully awake once she realizes what Bucky is doing).

a/n: since it’s my birthday I decided to write a little self indulgent birthday smut blurb.

“Angel.”

A soft murmur of a voice brushed along the inside of my neck as I stirred in my sleep. Tender caresses ghosted over the chilled skin of my breasts, down my stomach towards the valley between my legs. Fingers danced over my clit and I arched up towards the touch, sleep still weighing heavy on my bones.

I could feel the bright morning rays lingering over the bed, basking us in a glow so pure it made me stretch locked limbs to have it warm up my skin.

“Y/N, my love.” The voice rasped again, lips brushing along my collar bone and a finger slipping inside of my cunt.

“Hmm,” I hummed as my eyes began to flutter open.

Gazing down, I saw almond eyes staring up at me from between my legs; dark as the night sky that we found ourselves falling to last night.

“Fuck,” I groaned while grasping at the sheets of our bed.

“Already so wet,” Bucky mused before flicking his tongue against my clit and slipping in another finger, spreading them wide inside of me.

“Bucky,” I panted and grasped his hair with such force, I heard a hiss fall from his mouth.

“Happy birthday, angel.”

A tender kiss inside of my thigh was the only warning I received before he began devouring me. He sucked and hummed against my clit while his fingers continued to pump in and out of me in quick succession. It was all a blur, sleep still clinging to me as I let my body react to Bucky's touch. I whined when his fingers slipped out of me, leaving me empty and desperate for more, only then for his tongue to spear inside of me. His moans of pleasure were drowned out as I gripped his hair and pushed him farther into my center. The euphoric burn was all consuming, every bit of my soul becoming one with Bucky as he refused to let up.

“Bucky,” I panted, my orgasm teetering on the edge of explosion.

His fingers gripped my thighs, nails leaving half crescent shaped moons in the tender flesh. I rode against his tongue, basking in the splendor that Bucky was the only one to ever provide me. With a muffled shout behind my hand, I let go of the grip on my orgasm and allowed it to haul me into the void of white haziness, stars dancing in the corners of my vision.

“Fuck,” he groaned after pulling himself away from my legs, my arousal soaking his chin.

He made no move to wipe it away.

I let my erratic heartbeat calm as I let out a deep breath, body falling limp against the bed just as Bucky snuggled back up next to me.

“Now that is a wonderful way to wake up. Especially on my birthday,” I giggled while tracing my fingers on his arm as it lay across my stomach.

Bucky pressed a kiss to my shoulder. “Happy birthday, angel.”

We lay there for a moment, enjoying the comfortable peace that always fell between us and I glanced over towards the patio doors of our bedroom, smiling at the sun and clear skies.

“Should be a good day today,” I noted with a faint smile.

#bucky barnes #crow calls #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan #bucky barnes and reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #james barnes #the winter soldier #Bucky Barnes smut #Bucky Barnes blurb

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 7 months ago

Text

academic rivals part 2! viktor x fem!reader

(part 1)

author’s note: this is my humble, poorly proof-read new year’s present. banter, smutty smut and all that. what is this with me and semi-public vehicle (train) sex scenes. anyways. this was highly requested so i delivered. enjoy!

word count: 5,3k~

—

His mouth arcs into a sardonic smirk under your thumb, front teeth nipping ever so sternly—all fucked-out glimpses of insolence gnawing at your composure. So much for paying homage to the proper aftermath. It’s his penchant for prideful gestures that always gets in the way—a ticklish kiss that’s more self-pleased than it’ll ever be tender, lingering below your ear in a slick little trace and basking in the rigid sequence of breaths. Sinewy hands curl around your thighs and slide a ticklish trail home—a finishing touch to your undoing by his hands. A stunt he’s allowed to pull only when you sit astride him.

“Fuck.” It comes out in a rasp—a trembling, gulping thing that you spit above his clavicle, fingers tearing at his shirt in the very same fashion he’d disposed of yours mere minutes prior. Gaze down and stubborn, even in its bleariness. “Lose the grin. I can’t stand it.”

“Am I not allowed to indulge in some self... acclaim?” Viktor holds a breath and lurches forward with a sloppy bob of his head, catching hold of your wrist just in time to brush your knuckles with the corner of his smiling lips.

“You and your redundant swank. You might as well write it on your forehead. ‘Look, I made a woman cum for once!’”

That scores you an incredulous chuckle. And it’s a sweet taunt when he leans backward, watching you crawl out of his lap through weak-kneed splendor. Dizzy and struggling to find your shirt, but neither of you mind a little voyeurism—Viktor almost looks upset when you finally swing the thing on your shoulders, popping the buttons closed—so watchfully sluggish. Dragging it out until the side of your breast is finally out of his reach. The opposite of a striptease.

“For once?” He chides with a huff.

His lean on the desk is heavy when he gets up—has you frowning as he groans, straightening his back, and your shaky, helpful hands rush to put his cane back into his palm. You definitely ought to consider doing it on softer surfaces.

And there goes your taciturn gratitude. Intermittent tenderness at its best—wrapping around his shoulders and kissing him on the mouth, swirling inside your chest in that one terrifying, anything-but-casual tingle.

Too bad you’d rather drink his promised periodic table-flavored coffee than confirm your affection verbally, though.

“Maybe twice,” you concede, but that little mercy doesn’t please him. It’s a prickly antic when he trades the lovely squeeze of your hip for a warning pinch, and you have no choice but to sigh, clinging off his frame with a defeated, “Fine. Thrice at best.”

“Try quadrupling that,” Viktor bites back, earning himself a scoff. “Although, I’m sure the received sum will noticeably deviate from the accurate amount.”

“That’s not plausible. We’re not fucking nearly long enough for you to even dream of that.”

“Ah, but you do admit that ‘thrice at best’ doesn’t do my accomplishments enough justice.”

“God, you’re so flippant. Remind me why I’m sleeping with you again?”

Truly, though, why do you keep doing it? Your rivalry is not exactly a fugitive—it was still there, jagged and swollen inside your gut, piercing through your temples whenever he dared to challenge you. And his contempt has never left, either—all tense veins threatening to snap out of his neck every time he towered above you with a new complaint. An ouroboros of aching vocal cords and heated profanities—mostly on your part. Mostly during those tedious hours of assembling the exoskeleton.

Oh, but what a twist it gained.

A titillating, filthy thing that both of you couldn’t get enough of. Shamefully lucrative, too—both for the Inventor’s Competition and for your sanities—biting, bruising, binding your limbs together in whatever hate-fucking fashion he did it to you the first time. And the second one. And the third. You couldn’t exactly make out when it got diluted into something palpably softer, though.

When the need to pound you senseless just to make the cooperation bearable was replaced with a mere ‘Would you like a distraction?’ When his name—once urging you to wash your mouth with soap for every shameful time you had to call out for him—became your favorite disyllabic moan, sultry and choked up beneath or atop him (and invariably followed by a sweetly sadistic tug on his tousled hair). When there isn't a single logical reason left for you to keep it up—because the prototype finally lies before you, complete and stunning, outstripping the deadline by two days, and the presentation is already approved by your mentors. Not without a plethora of mutual insults, but that part could never be avoided. And the job was done. Flawlessly so. That’s the only thing that matters.

Except it isn’t.

Your temporary partnership was over. Sure, there’s still the main event waiting to be dealt with, but that affair is of a strictly professional nature. No twisted, romantic business allowed. Maybe you could still arrange a few superfluous recitings—more so to come up with another excuse to undress him and gently pull the device over that prominent spine, then to hastily get him out of it when one of you inevitably starts questioning the other’s intelligence (or decency). A maniacal urge to find something—anything to claim one more chaotic evening before it’s over. Before you lose every preposterous explanation for lusting after him.

How very counterproductive of you.

Even tonight. Barely any science talk, yet so much redundant touching. Nonsensical anecdotes. Laughter. Insult-framed, jagged heart-to-hearts. Anything but a decent, last-adjustments-related workshop. And there was definitely no reason to finish as late as you did.

And yet, it’s quarter to midnight when you’re finally packing up. His hand keeps slipping off the handle when he holds the door for you. And he stands there so tellingly disheveled, with his hair a mess like a screaming proof of your entanglement: he could never fight the allegation if someone were to walk in on you one of these nights. Certainly not looking like that.

Knowing, astute eyes followed your languorous tease of a walk. He failed to swallow a scoff when you attempted to run out of the lab (the audacity of you to even consider leaving without kissing him goodbye!), and that stunt cost you a graceful penalty.

Viktor’s scrawny frame found support in a quick recline on the wall. Had you squealing when something hard tugged on your waist. His cane, you realized, turning to address the bastard. But he exceeded. Weaved his arm around you and pressed your chest flush with his, grinning down when your fingers reached for his corduroy vest. And that smile—gummy and ostentatious—almost tore his mouth when you gave him a nasty glare from beneath tired lids. An oblivious passer-by would definitely mistake this for a lovely embrace in the doorway—if not for the way you pulled his tie and clashed agape mouths in a harsh nip of a kiss.

“Asshole,” you grumble, going in for another toothy collision. His laugh bounces off your tongue and rolls down your throat in a vibrating little shake—and you giggle back, awkwardly waltzing him out of that dim room, face still clinging to his in a vile attempt to distract while he fumbles with the key.

“Mmm,” Viktor hums, watching your tangled legs trip over his cane. “You should amend this obsolete dirty talk. Your semantics have become tolerably pleasant.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to endure them anymore.”

He drops the keys with an awkward clang.

And it’s a first for you—to face the taciturn side of him, smug face unscathed with usual complacency as he watches you bend over to pick up the dangling bunch—sharp shoulders hunching when he reaches to take it from your hands, praying that you miss the subtle shake of his fingers.

“Anymore?” He clarifies. His voice echoes through the hall, so oddly strained—and for a moment you simply stare, unsure of how to pussyfoot your way out of this calamity.

You shudder through it, sharply gnawing at your cuticle. Looking up at him with eyes full of puzzled radiance. Come what may.

How does one confess to holding a sentiment? To a semi-former rival, no less? Is he even fond of you? He has to be. His sweet, yearning-ridden eyes tell you that much—so glassy under those shabby chestnut strands. So astutely askance. Surely, you can soften them. You just have to word it right. I want to keep doing this. You can make my eyes roll. Both in bed and because you’re so awfully irritating. Well, not in bed. In… chair. On the desk. The floor, too. In fact, why don’t we move this to our bedrooms? You’ve been promoted. I’d like to date you. Are you available to discuss the details? Right this instant?

“Yes. We finished the prototype, did we not? There’s no need for us to keep working nor sleeping together.” What the fuck. No! Shove that concise shit back into your throat and choke on it. Kiss him senseless. Redeem yourself while you still can—

But Viktor nods. Swipes his tongue over his freshly wounded bottom lip (thank you very much), and averts his eyes to ponder his shoes. So that’s how it is.

“I thought…” He struggles to pronounce it. Stumbles over a digraph and hisses it in a most foreign way—and you’re sorry to have reduced him to shitty pronunciation, watching a hard gulp slowly bob down his throat. Why, just why did you have to blurt that out?

Viktor retaliates, though. Scratches his nape. Shuffles from foot to foot and coughs. A nervous tic you bear witness to for the first time, and, in a way, you gobble up his vulnerability—quiet and almost sacred, in the ambiance of this dark, long hall.

“I thought…” He tries again but trails off to sigh. “Well…We’d already established that we shouldn’t limit our arrangement to, eh… strictly professional benefits. We may not have a reason to proceed, but wouldn’t ending it altogether be a… sunk cost fallacy?”

Oh fuck. You do not take that well. In fact, it ignites a scoff—arms crossed over your chest and pressing hard enough to bruise your sternum. Heels clacking intimidation as you step closer, raising a brow.

“Ah, so that’s what you’re most concerned about? You simply regret investing time in me, is that it?”

“What?” He huffs. His words—so delectable, you just want to eat them right up, especially when they gain that slightly baffled edge, all his vowels so sweetly round and pushy. “What gave you the impression?” Oh yes. Yell at me some more. Let's fight one last time and maybe I won’t feel bad about prioritizing my pride over keeping you. Bravo. How mature.

“Sunk cost fallacy?” You deride. “Seriously?” So close—almost mouth to mouth again, and you’re sure some of your spit must’ve landed on his cheek with the way you seethed it through gritted teeth—not that he minds, of course. That much was determined a long time ago.

“Oh, since when are you so picky with your phrasings?” Viktor jeers. Pretty eyes already bleary with anger—there’s no turning back, and you know it’s a lost cause when his hand digs into his cane, twisting hard enough to strain a wrist.

Tremendous.

“I thought you wanted to keep doing this because you liked it!” You rant. Let him hover over your head (dejavu), hot breaths compounding. Scorching.

“You’re ridiculous. I never claimed not to like it!” He concedes, hitching an exhale.

“Why won’t you admit it, then?” You pry again—nose bumping against his. There goes your decorum—straight into canines and itching to bite—right at that insufferable tongue of his.

But he doesn’t retreat. Two can play that game.

“Why won’t you admit it? I haven’t heard a single verbal sign of appreciation from you, either.”

“Why would I spell it out for you?”

“Why wouldn’t you spell it out for me?”

“Because the implication is there. I don’t like stating the obvious!”

“So you don’t deem me worthy of your confessions? That’s a shame. Am I to believe I’m not as special as you paint me to be?”

“Oh, you’re special all right! A special prick, that’s what you are!”

You don’t bother with confining that insult. In fact, you hope it lands precisely where you aimed—always his ego, that enormous entity you seek to tame at all cost.

But alas. That strikes a different nerve. Viktor’s teeth gnash when he takes a step back, his nasal, disappointed exhale tickling your face at last. And you don’t get to bask in the triumph. Because seeing him scowl feels anything but good—more so when he turns around, his head wagging in disbelief, eyes rushing to avert like he’ll throw up if they linger on you any longer.

“I tried being patient with you,” he mumbles over his shoulder, “but if you prefer useless insults over admitting your feelings… I shall not waste any more time on your immature antics.”

And when he tops it off with a sad Goodnight, followed by a spiteful hiss of your last name, you don’t mutter anything back.

You let the silent hall consume you, chewing your lip off to the faint thumps of his cane. Foretasting a sleepless night full of awkward agony and an even more insufferable trip to the competition. With Viktor. Side by side. In one tiny compartment.

Come what may, huh? Well, how do you feel about that mindset now?

—

Walks of shame have enough flavours to conduct a small study. You’ve tried every single one in a span of one day—first dragging your feet as you trudged to your dorm with hunched shoulders, the remnants of your vigour replaced with guilt. And then—a more potent one, crumbling you completely on your way to the lab as you mourned the sweet reminiscence in the morning—stumbling upon the things he did to you on those very surfaces, every corner marked lovely with your shared achievements. Reminding you of exactly what you’d fucked up the night before. A slap, but not on the ass.

There’s nothing left for you but to sigh, gently retrieve the prototype and see yourself out. Staying there even a minute longer would have you tumbling head in hands. And you were already almost late for the train. Running to the station with ragged breath and bumbling over your own feet—always a hot mess no matter where you go. Nearly slipping down to the rails when you finally arrive with your skirt all hiked up. Pulling tousled hair out of your face and mouth, hasty and inelegant. Gagging on a strand when someone (Viktor, of course) coughs behind your back and hums a reluctant greeting as you turn around, startled. Stern, ochre eyes meet spooked ones. They darken when you ogle him—a guilty pleasure, really—and you almost curse out loud, noticing his shirt (the shirt!): the thin linen thing he wore the very first night you spite-fucked him. Did he do it on purpose? Smooth enhancer. How dare he.

“You’re late,” Viktor states. Casts a quick eye on his wrist—he’s wearing a watch today, the professional bastard—and gets back to judgmental peeking, scolding you from beneath arched brows. The embodiment of a harsh peer review.

“I’m not late,” you argue, shaky arms wrapping around the exoskeleton almost possessively. “I’m just in time.”

He looks at his watch again. Clicks his tongue—a meticulous, petulant tsk—and shakes his head, hair fluffing all around him as the train approaches with a peevish screech, all windy streams hitting you in the face.

Just in time indeed.

You follow him into the cart, trip over the last stair and all but leap inside, face bumping into his back with a harsh squeal. “Sorry,” you mutter, skittishly holding onto the prototype. Not as fierce today, are we?

“Watch your step,” Viktor warns, denying you his tactful glare. Hell, even his over-the-shoulder one. He simply leads you to the compartment, so painfully casual. And you grudgingly tag along, staring at his nape with a choked up whine—so blatantly obvious in your pining.

Oh to brush your nose against those knotty little hairs. To taste the skin and smirk when he arches into the nip, whispering some indistinct Czech nothing. But you’re not allowed to. Not anymore. You did this to yourself, remember?

He opens the door for you, nodding to your seats. Waits for you to squeeze inside (the invention is a bit chunky, after all), leaning on his cane with a tranquil grunt. He must’ve gotten to the station by foot—you can tell by the way he’s stretching out his leg, sitting down.

You wonder if this morning would’ve turned out any different had you decided not to be a cunt last night—had you told him how you really feel, no filthy words involved (except for those he likes to drag out of you, if he felt like indulging in that to celebrate).

Would you go to his dorm or yours? Would you fight over what to have for breakfast? Would you catch a cab here together?

But the conductor helpfully ruins your bitter daydream. You awkwardly fumble inside your pocket, searching for the ticket, eyes still set on Viktor and his polite little exchanges. Good morning. Yes, of course. Here you go. Have a nice day.

But when you finally hand that lovely lady your crumpled ticket—she drops the smile and offers you a dry thank you. The hypocrisy.

The conductor retaliates, leaving you alone with Viktor’s ambiguous silence. So captivating when he sits in front of you, staring out the window, piney shadows running over his face in all kinds of prickly shapes. You join in on the pondering, but the remorse doesn’t let you admire the woods. The view simply blurs into vertigo-like heaps of green.

“Ahem.” Great. Resorting to fake coughs now. So much for getting him to talk to you. Watching the glide of his tongue behind a hollow cheek and resenting that cruel show-off. Sure, you do deserve a punishment, but the drollery is hardly necessary. Some heavy artillery is in order.

Your shoe invades his pants. Just the toe, but it’s a tight fit nonetheless—forcing its way inside the leg opening and pressing hard. Scratching him precisely above the sock and gobbling up the huff he draws out, angry pupils flaring at your audacity.

His fingers flinch down and wrap around your ankle. So belligerently erotic. More so when he forces your foot out of his pants and yanks it in its place. All gritted teeth and confused pouts. Seething intimidation and something you can’t quite make out. Has your heart dropping straight into your underwear. So the spark is still there, you note. Good to know.

“Don’t,” he alerts. “I don’t feel like indulging in another quarrel.”

“That’s not what I’m after.”

“I don’t care what you’re after. I’m fed up with your aggravating drivel.”

“It’s a good thing I’m offering you an apology, then.”

That grounds him. Tempts him treacherously enough to fail at hiding his commotion, curious mouth dropping open. But you interrupt that speechlessness. Leaning closer and prying his fist lax, hands twining firm through sweaty reluctance. Thumbs circling each other skittishly.

“I’m sorry.” You mean it. He knows you do—harsh decorum tumbling right that instant, no matter how convincingly he’s shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” you proceed, “for being so arrogant. I always expect vulnerability from you. But it goes both ways. Well, it should. At least I know that much. I should’ve never adhered to… whatever that was. It’s just that… I get so tongue-tied when feelings are on my agenda.”

Viktor smiles, albeit still curtly. “That outburst didn’t seem tongue-tied to me at all.”

“May I please finish before you start with all the nitpicking?” You frown, shooting him a tumultuous stare. He chortles. So insufferable. But you love him for it, don’t you?

“Back to my apology, though.” You solemnly clear your throat. “Where was I? Oh yes, vulnerability. Well, perhaps it’s already too late to address it, but I do respect you. And I do like you. In every capacity. I’m sorry for insulting you when you were clearly expecting sweetness. And if you want nothing… unprofessional to do with me after I treated you the way I did—I totally understand it. Just no more of this stonewalling bullshit, please. I want to win that damned competition and maintain a decent relationship with you afterwards. No… how did you put it? Aggravating…?”

“Drivel.”

“Right. Aggravating drivel.”

You both nod. So it’s settled, then? A flimsy truce? Just a quick, respectful split (too quick, even)—and you almost feel underwhelmed when he slowly slips away from your touch, bashfully averting his eyes at last. It’s over, you think. Or is it?

And then—a change of heart, so sudden and so demanding—crawling back into your palm and prying shaky fingers loose, pushing himself right back where he’d just left you empty. Ignoring your incredulous Oh? and staring at you from the altitude of his seat, thin mouth quivering into an arc. Still so insistent on running his tongue over the very wound your teeth had sliced into his bottom lip. You allege to kiss him gently henceforth. If only he returns you the perk, that is.

“Do you truly seek a decent relationship with me? Nothing more, nothing less?” He asks carefully.

“It’s not about what I seek, Viktor. It’s about what you’re willing to give me. The decision is yours.”

“No.” He winces. “Quit it. You’re an atrocious liar. Where’s that volatile stubbornness I admire about you?”

You grin. Admire. What a revelation.

And you can show him stubborn if that’s what he wants—hands already swiftly sliding up his thighs and shackling them to the seat.

Tenacious it is, then. Hovering over his lap and tacitly asking permission to slide in. Savouring the best of answers when he pulls you towards him, long fingers curling low on your hips. Shaking just from having you on top of him again. It’s where you belong, after all.

“Is that stubborn enough for you?” You chide. He smiles up at you in the very way that always makes you weep for him. Well, not you, per se. Just the needy thing between your ribs. And between your legs. But you’re not sure if the ambiance is appropriate for those kinds of tears yet. You do have a relationship to establish, after all.

“You can do better than that,” Viktor whispers. Avid lips curl against your shoulder and fumble up, puckering a sparsely chaste kiss into your cheek. A tender overture ante-inevitable.

“Do you want me to do better?” You hitch, slurring the question. Fingers already lost in fistfuls of his hair and struggling not to pull—so unvirtuous when it comes to patience. But you’re willing to wait for him. Especially when he’s staring at you this closely, all clenched jaw and tense shoulders.

“I do,” Viktor concedes. “Of course I do. And I owe you an apology, too. I should’ve never accused you of childishness when I was hardly sophisticated myself. If anything, I should’ve told you how I feel first.”

“Mmm, are we competing in confessions now? What is this with you always trying to outstrip me?”

“Lose the prefix. I only want to strip you. But that’s beside the point. I regret my hesitation. I simply wish I’d told you sooner. All competition aside.”

Oh well.

If the man has spoken, all while looking at you so devotedly—surely you can give him what he wants? It’s not like you don’t want to hear it, either. It’s a dream come true, to have Viktor half a beat from spilling his heart out into your hands. Figuratively, literally and however else he prefers.

You finally indulge in a sneaky pull on his hair. Keeping his head thrown back when you drawl a raspy, “Lucky for you, I feel very charitable today.” But the cheekiness vanishes when you bashfully add, “You can tell me now. If the offer still stands.” Handing him the stubborn baton through a kiss so soft that he shudders beneath you, treacherous tachycardia tangible in his very temples. But it’s a necessary risk. Conversation is a relay sport, after all.

Viktor peers at the door. Suddenly, you’re reminded of your predicament, rocking sideways and adding to the delight of your giddiness—the compartment (whose tininess you had to thank for pushing you back into his vicinity) was providing you barely any flimsy privacy.

Come to think of it, the lovely conductor may barge in to offer you tea any time soon. And god, the thought of her turning rouge to the sight of you gnawing at him shouldn’t excite you this much. It shouldn’t excite you, period.

And yet it does. Heartbeat rolling back into your underwear and all that. You can see Viktor's pulse follow suit. You could even cup it through his pants—if you felt like it. Both of you have half a mind to get into it right that perverse instant, but, thankfully, his share of decorum proves bigger. And so he reaches behind your back, sliding the lock shut. Sharp eyes return to your lips, seeking resumption.

You lick into him with the vigour of a farewell kiss. And a farewell it is—to whatever undefined mess you’d started in that lab two weeks ago. You’re changed people now. A tad clumsy with your gentle tongues colliding and tickling each-other’s palates unskillfully. But nothing is unmanageable to Viktor. He quickly gets the hang of it, figuring out a way around your mouth. Grinning against your tongue like a fool. And you humm, clinging to his hair with trembling fingers. Arching under his own when he crumples your shirt, finding a grabby hold of your waist. So greedy.

It’s hard to fight the force of habit. To put your teeth out of the way. His content moan only riles you up, more so when you suck at his bottom lip, tasting dried iron where he still wears your crimes of passion. You shower those little wounds in guilty kisses, smiling. He pulls away, panting through a wheezy chuckle. Tributing the next moment to an enthralled staring contest before forcing your mouth open again, one hand besetting your neck, mindful not to choke, another daring to slip under your shirt and follow a shivering path to the underside of your breast. Nimble fingers outlining an aureole while his tongue traces your lip. Beautiful contingency.

“I adore you,” he rasps. Licks up the thick saliva string connecting your mouths and marvels at you, contorted with horny desperation. Bedroom eyes glimmering under dark lashes. Bedroom. You really ought to take him there. Eventually. For now, he lovingly wrecks you on a train, bodies moulded together in a tiny seat. You laugh, pushing his tousled hair back.

“Do you?”

“I do.” He nods. Kisses your temple and presses his thumb into your nipple, fondling it hard. “You and your superfluous, unwavering pride. The nasty things you call me with such genuine fervour.”

“But you’re into that.”

“Oh yes. To a concerning extent, I might add.” And he places your hand on his crotch, knowing that you prefer physical evidence.

“Back to my adoration, though,” he proceeds. Gently nudges you off his lap, using your puzzled reverence to his advantage—legs bending as he slides to the floor, lurking between your thighs. Hunching over them to steal one more peck—it’s hard to resist, really—and pushing your knees apart, hardly even insistent.

His cunning, unmerciful fingers engulf bashful shivers when he reaches beneath your skirt and hooks his thumbs into your underwear, swiftly gliding the soaked thing down. You wish you’d chosen a fancier pair, but alas: one doesn’t exactly plan ahead to have make-up sex on a train.

“Viktor,” you whine a choked up warning. But he doesn’t just leave the lacey garment to dangle off your ankles. He folds it into his pocket with a grin so wide that it might just rip his mouth. Back to his bastard roots. No amount of gentleness could ever cure a perpetual asshole.

“What?” He huffs. Feigned innocence slumping when you push your legs further apart, arching into the seat. Filthily inviting him to have a taste. He settles on having a look for now, hitching a whistling breath as his eyes roam—every inch of you swollen and ready just for him. More so when his lips brush your skin, leaving a wet kiss above your knee. Moving up, up, up and faltering when you grab him by the nape, shoving his face where you need him most.

But he doesn’t oblige. Simply smiles at you and snakes a cruel finger between your folds, teasing the slit sloppy.

“You—ah, stole my underwear,” you moan, nails sharply stinging Viktor’s neck. His finger curls inside you, trembling when you clench at the contact, every nerve taut and ready to snap. Especially when the heel of his palm flattens your clit, dull pressure like a sweet tingle making your legs feel numb. His free hand grabs your calf and pushes it in the air, and the stretch stings so deliciously that you have to bite your fist to muffle a moan. Oh the detriments of fucking in public.

“I did,” Viktor concurs, bottoming out inside you. His thrusts are languid, as if intending to feel every crevice, that smart-mouth of his smiling wider with every dirty, sticky sound. You look away just in time to hide your embarrassment.

“Will you give it back to me?” You ask, teeth almost slicing your cheek when he bends to steal a careful taste of your clit, tongue poking you almost too gently.

“No,” he hums against you, staring up. Eyes hazy with awe at just how wet and pliant you are for him.

At how his fingers are always welcome inside you, no matter mouth or cunt. Perhaps other… orifices, too, but you’re yet to explore that. For now, he can only think of the needy task at hand.

“You expect me to attend the competition with no underwear?” You mumble, clenching your jaw, but it’s hard to be mad at him when his tongue feels so good. More so when he does that little thing you like, tending to your clit in a circling lick, all while pumping his finger deep to the knuckle. Has you tilting your head back with your hand thrown over your damp forehead, mouth stretching in an O that could’ve been so debauched if not for your reticent calamity. What a loss.

“Precisely,” he answers when you almost forget about the question, his voice a raspy vibration against your skin. “I’d like to see you deal with that inconvenience.”

“It’s rude to speak with your mouth full,” you hiss, grabbing him by the collar. And being womanhandled suits him well—he meets your eyes with playful compliance, chin proudly tilted up.

“I never claimed to be polite.” He shrugs. Smartass.

“Right. Is that why you’re putting me in that predicament or are you just a pervert?”

“Both, really. But if you want me to elaborate—“ he sighs, leaning back to admire your face, “I want to be the reason for your predicaments and undoings. I want to have you as my partner—in life, science, crime, bed or this very compartment. I want to make your eyes roll, both when you cum for me and when I say something you find ridiculous—which, I must admit, is objectively implausible because I’m hardly ever wrong, but we’ll have enough time to fight over that later.”

“Viktor—” You blush, letting go of his collar, heart stammering out of your ribs when he pulls away, promptly fixing his tie.

“For now, though,” he interrupts you, stealing a quick glance at his watch, “I’d simply like to go down on you before we have to get off this train. So if you’re still feeling scandalous,” he teases, letting you kiss your own sour taste off the corner of his mouth, “relaxing and letting me take the lead would be most helpful.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane season 2 #arcane #viktor smut #no beta we die #thats it #happy new year #i hope i made yall happier with this piece even though i dont really like it

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